The Ensign's Wife

Pasqualigo took in the triangle of sailcloth that he had raised in the bow of the boat to aid in the journey. They had travelled the Litorale di Pellestrina and were turning into the Porto de Malamocco. Further inland from that port was the Laguna Morta. The lagoons were labelled morta, dead, or viva, living, to denote which lagoons were still and surrounded by silted marshlands and which lagoons were refreshed and renewed by tidal waters. On the Laguna Morta, basins, where salt water and rainwater mingled, created a brackish environment that was a perfect nursery for various mussels, prawns and crabs. The lagoons were criss-crossed with tiny canals that shifted and wandered through the small strips of land that appeared and then sank. These marshes were rich with vegetation: the Chioggian red leafed radicchio, glasswort and sea rocket. It was ironic that these lagoons are labelled dead, thought Pasqualigo, as he looked up and recognized the long trailing legs of the grey heron flying overhead toward the west. The colourful water birds who nested in the reeds, the elegant strutting birds whose delicate, red legs picked through the brush as the long, curved beak sieved small crustaceans from the shallows, and the acrobatic kingfishers swooping and diving, were all familiar to the old fisherman. They had been his companions, markers for good fishing, and watchmen to signal winds or weather. The waters of Laguna Morta were, in fact, teeming with life above and below the surface. The boat tacked hard as the sail came down and Pasqualigo scrambled to retrieve the oars from Lorenzo who had held them steady. They began to travel up the inland canal to the Canale della Giudecca and on to the Isola di S. Giorgio Maggiore, where Lorenzo’s Benedictine would give them lunch. After a rest, Pasqualigo would turn back south to Chioggia. He would have discharged his duty to the priest and to the Famiglia Baseggio. He crossed himself. Lorenzo began to feel the excitement he always felt when he approached Venice. In spite of himself and his mission, Venice made his pulse quicken. Jesuits were never assigned to San Marco, that he had known since his time in seminary. Nevertheless, he had contacts and friends. None who could help Emilia, of course. That he also knew. Still, it was up to Stefano to dictate what path he must travel to try to aid Emilia. He would cross the Bacino di San Marco to the mainland and meet Stefano in the late afternoon. The current was in their favor and they were drawing up to the dock of the island just as the bell from the campanile, La Nona, marked midday. One of the monks had just put down his gardening tools to prepare to enter the church for the midday prayers. He hurried over to help them secure their small boat. “Fra Paolo is expecting you. He is overseeing the construction on the new library and should be heading to the church any moment.” Lorenzo followed the young monk. Pasqualigo hung back and began to pack a pipe to enjoy before he entered the Refectory. He heard the solemn minors of the Gregorian chant coming from the church. It sounded eerie to him, like the cry of a coot that had lost its mate in the marshes. He took a deep swallow from the flask of sweet wine and water that he had shared with the priest on the journey. He wondered what wonderful wine would accompany the lunch served in the Refectory by the brothers who grew and prepared all their foods, wines, honeys and liqueurs from the bounty of the island. He tried to identify the unease he felt, and decided to call it hunger. That night, in the high ceiling room that she shared with her girl cousins, Emilia could hardly sleep thinking of the King, the battle she would see the next day, and Stefano and his new life. He would be living in Venice now, and Emilia wondered if she would see much of him. She knew he would try to help her and to advise her, as he had always done, but she knew the business would keep him away, as it had taken her Poppi away from Chioggia. She missed Stefano already and felt tears roll down the sides of her eyes to the pillow. Why did everything have to keep changing? Was she destined to lose everyone she loved? Early the next morning Andrea pulled Emilia through the crowds clogging the narrow streets of the Dorsoduro district which linked the Ca’ Foscari with the Campo Santa Margherita and the Rio di San Barnaba. Soon they approached Ponte di Pugni, or Bridge of Punches. The area was swarming with people. Even the impoverished religious women who sheltered in the portico of San Nicolo’ dei Mendicoli, were pushed aside to accommodate the crowds surging toward the Campo San Barnaba hoping to find a good vantage point from which to watch the battle, or spettacolo vile. The battle was named guerra de’ canne after the long rattan sticks used as weapons. These were about a meter in length, tapered and sharpened at the business end. The points had been repeatedly immersed in boiling oil to temper them into strong lances. The combatants ranged from butchers and fishermen to shipbuilders and sailors of the city. Various battles were to take place over the day, each one ending in bloodshed, opponents ending up over the bridge in the canals, or being joined by various overzealous and wine soaked spectators. Some clans used the occasion of the guerra de’ canne to settle the scores on long running vendettas. Whole groups of men and boys from one family would flood over the bridge to face and battle another mob. These free for alls often ended in serious injury, which would then be fuel for the continuation of the vendettas to the next year. But overall, the war of sticks was a way for the working classes to offer entertainment and a show of loyalty to the aristocracy of Venice. It was a way of tacitly saying: We are ferocious and we are willing to fight for the honour of our city. Some combatants wore light helmets and carried a light shield. Some even wore a type of chain mail, but this was risky as it could sink you if you were knocked off the bridge into the waters. Andrea pushed Emilia ahead of him and, because she was small, people were willing to allow them to edge to the front. Andrea held her firmly in front of himself to prevent her from being pushed into the canal as they prepared to watch the spectacle. Soon a drum rumbled and a pair of gladiators mounted the bridge from opposite ends. The first battle was fierce and ended with one opponent having a tooth knocked out and the other suffering a glancing blow to the head which caused a good deal of blood to spill into his eyes before he was hefted over the rail into the canal. A great shout rose from one side of the crowd and catcalls and whistles emitted from the group just behind Andrea and Emilia. The next battle went similarly. Both combatants were well armed with shields, sticks and helmets. The fighting seemed to go on and on. The July heat caused a noxious smell to rise from the edges of the canal. Emilia thought it would be awful to be thrown into this oily water. Sludge from all the streets and latrines flowed freely into the canals, as well as old fish water and bits of vegetables from the markets being swept into the waters. She looked down at the water just below her and saw the carcass of a common resident in Venice: il pantegana, a large rat. She felt bile rise to her throat and swayed toward the edge of the water. Just as she was about to ask Andrea to lead her away, a tremendous shout went up from the crowd to their right. Emilia recognized their costumes as that of the sailors in the Venetian navy. On the bridge stepped two men who looked very evenly matched. Both had forgone the helmet and wore only a white kerchief to hold their hair out of their eyes. Their simple white stockings and the low, soft boots were common to the sailors. White shirts flowed over short black pantaloons and these were topped by deep red vests bearing the crest of the service. The battle sta