The footman cleared his throat. He gave Marco a quelling look. “Senor Lopez. It is I, Louis. I have brought a messenger to see you.”
“My apologies. Bring him in, Louis.”
Marco found himself bowed into the presence of a short, slightly built man, who was carefully placing a marker in a book. He too had reddish hair. For a moment Marco found himself wondering why the woman who was considered to be the reigning beauty of Venice should interest herself in this man. Then Eneko Lopez turned and limped toward him and Marco realized what attracted Lucrezia Brunelli to this foreigner.
Power. There were the eyes of an eagle under that solid, heavy single line of dark brow. Even without a word spoken between them, Marco knew this to be a man in whom the fires of spirit burned high. And, by his calm assurance, someone to whom command was almost inborn. “Thank you, Louis. That will be all.” The footman bowed respectfully and left.
“You have come from Mainz, or from the Grand Metropolitan?” The Basque held out his hand to take the scroll.
Marco swallowed, and passed over the scroll. “Neither, sir. My master is here in Venice. He said I must wait and take a reply.”
Lopez sighed. “I had hoped . . . Never mind. All things will come to pass eventually. Sit.”
So Marco sat down. The guest of Brunelli’s occupied a room that filled him with envy. It was full of books, leather-bound volumes on volumes. Marco gazed hungrily at them. In the meantime, Lopez had taken his own seat at a small desk nearby. He cracked the seal and scanned the contents of the scroll.
When he finally spoke his voice was cold. “You may tell your master that I am neither prey for blackmail nor interested in treachery. He misinterprets my work here on the Rio del Ghetto, as he does my messages to Rome.”
Marco rose hastily. Rio del Ghetto. Where the “magicians” sold their charms and wares. Where the Jews were supposed to remain, although in tolerant Venice that practice was widely ignored. Very close to where he and Benito had shared lodgings. Rome . . . well, the Grand Metropolitan was not overly enamored with Venice’s religious health, if Father Del Igilo was to be believed.
But this was no time for debate. “Yes, Signor,” was all he said.
As Marco turned to leave, the Basque rose from the desk and said grimly: “Stop. Since you chose to come here, I will have a few words with you as well.”
Marco froze. “I d-didn’t ‘choose’ anything, sir. My master—”
“How old are you?” demanded Lopez.
“S-sixteen.”
“Old enough not to think like a boy any longer. What is your name?”
The man’s force of personality was too great to resist. “Marco, sir. Uh, Marco—ah—Felluci.”
The Basque snorted. ” ‘Felluci’? I doubt it. But if you chose a false surname—chose, young Marco—then you need to give a thought to all your choices. At sixteen, you can no longer use the excuse of being a ‘boy.’ You are a man, now. And a man chooses his own masters.”
Marco said nothing. Lopez sighed. “Not a man yet, it seems. Very well.” He resumed his seat and turned his face away, studying a document on the desk. “When you do decide to become a man, Marco-who-says-he-is-Felluci, I advise you to find another master. This one walks a path to ruin. If you continue to follow him, you will share his fate.”
The footman was lurking outside the door. He saw Marco off the premises, with no comments but a tight set to his face. Well, thought Marco, at least he was being shown out and didn’t have to deal with Lucrezia Brunelli in a foul mood.
Benito was loitering in the street. “I thought you were going to stay on the roof,” said Marco when Benito joined him.
“Came down to meet you.”
“How did you know . . . ?” Marco sighed. “Never mind. You’ve been peering in windows again, haven’t you? You’d do this side of Caesare’s business much better than I can.”
Benito shuddered. “Believe me, brother. This was one time I was really glad it was you. That’s a scary guy. I’ve seen him before, that time when . . . never mind. Now come on. Let’s climb up there and get moving if you still want to drop in at Barducci’s tonight.”