The Master of Verona

Suddenly figures were leaping onto the sky-blue gondola from all directions. In an orchestrated move, the four men from the red-gold gondola threw off their cloaks, revealing shining weapons as they scrambled over. Their masks were firmly in place. Two more men vaulted the short stone balustrade of the bridge to land lightly, knives ready. They had donned hard-leather bauta masks as well, thus disguising their features entirely.

The oarsman of the sky-blue gondola dove into the freezing waters to preserve his life. Clearly the accident had been a sham. Whoever his passengers were, someone was out to murder them. This was the kind of ambush that left no survivors, and the oarsman valued his skin.

Back in his boat, the smaller man let out a yelp of surprise as he was forced to lie down by his companion, who rose to his full height. From under the taller man's cloak an arc of steel sliced the air, making the attackers jump and hiss in frustration.

The ambushers fought hard, but their numbers dwindled in the face of the tall man's falchion, a curved sword that ended in a wicked point. Having lost half their number and the element of surprise, one shouted, "The devil with this!" He dove into the water. His remaining companions hesitated, swore, then followed.

The driverless gondola drifted to the next bridge, the blue on its sides now flecked with crimson drops. Four men lay in its bottom. Two were screaming, one was whimpering, and one was entirely still. The final figure stared at the carnage as his upright companion wiped the massive blade clean.

Poles appeared and knocked the craft roughly to a stone and tile jetty. Wounded in calf and wrist, the larger man ignored his injuries as he helped his companion find footing on the stone steps. Some citizens reached for the little man, pulling him along into their ranks and comforting him while eagerly asking what the fracas had been about.

"I have no idea," the little man told them.

Thinking his brave companion might have a better answer, they made to pull him along as well. But as the man sheathed his curved German blade, his wrist became visible between the glove and the sleeve. One Venetian saw the man's skin and recoiled. "A damned blackamoor!"

There were hisses of distaste and disgust. Instantly the tide changed and people began to wonder whose side was in the right, the survivors or the ambushers.

"Call the constable! Take him to the gaol!"

"The devil with that! He killed a Venetian! Let's string him up!"

"Right! The gallows, not the gaol!"

"What about this one?" demanded someone of the littler fellow, who promptly found his hood pulled back until the knot under his chin choked him. The violence subsided when they saw a pale face growing paler by the second.

The mob on the jetty grew, more torches heralding the new arrivals. There was talk of tarring the black man. The little man tried to protest but the crowd paid no attention. Through it all the larger man stood with perfect stillness, his gloved hands in plain view, his breathing eerily steady. Blood continued to trickle down his leg, pooling in his boot.

Rubbing his throat, the little man tried to intervene. "My name is Ignazzio da Palermo. This man is my servant!"

"Man! Monster, more like." Emboldened by the large man's stillness, one fellow stepped out of the crowd and reached up to yank off the concealing hood and scarf. His fingers had just closed on them when he uttered a choked sob and fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The crowd tensed, knives and clubs at the ready, but the large man's hands were still empty. He'd simply struck with his open palm.

But the crowd's eyes were not on his hands. The bold Venetian had dislodged the muffling hood and scarf, revealing skin that was dusky black, not ebony, marking him as Spanish. He was a Moor.

The flickering torchlight light caught the Moor's neck. Someone gasped. Criss-crossing it were lines of white and pink, raised above the level of his natural skin. The bands were linear, created by some man-made implement. Running the entire circle of his neck, a single blistered scar made a horrible kind of collar about the Moor's throat. In some places it was bubbled, in others it was worn. It was a very old burn scar, and it made the man who had survived it even more fearsome.

The aggressive Venetian retreated into the crowd, gasping and sputtering as his eyes streamed, obviously calling for vengeance but unable to make the words come out clear.

The Moor placed a hand on the hilt of his falchion. "We have done no harm. We defended ourselves. Let my master pass." His voice rasped as if the words were scraped by a rusty spoon from somewhere deep within.

The little man called Ignazzio crossed to the Moor's side. "Theodoro and I are stopping in Venice for the night only on our way to Vicenza. We have been the victims of a crime. We demand an audience with the authorities at once. Disperse and bother your wives, not us!"