Il Ballotino (The Ballot Boy)

by Tom Rynard

He was a little old man. “'Diminutive,' that would be the word to describe him,” Giacomo thought. Small and old but there was strength in his forearms and grip, a strength that came from kneading bread day in and day out for almost fifty years. The bakery in Campo di San Stefano had been in the family for almost the same amount of time before the baker began to work there in his teens along with his father and his uncle. For twenty-three years, the Baker of San Stefano as he was known, had been the sole owner and worker in the shop. His son had sought a different life away from Venice on the terra firma , the mainland of northern Italy . His daughters both married, lived in Venice but neither of their husbands had a calling to the bakery.

Giacomo picked up one of the round loaves that sat in a bin at the front of the shop and broke off a piece, stuffing it in his mouth. “Not bad,” he thought. He put the loaf back in the bin and picked up another, placing it under his arm as he prepared to leave the shop. Pain shot through his arm as he did so.

“I should have taken account of the strength in his arms,” Giacomo thought. He had not, though, and when the man struck out at him and resisted Giacomo, Giacomo had been surprised. In his surprise, he had gone too far. “I was defending myself,” Giacomo said aloud, although there was no longer anyone in the shop capable of hearing his words.

The Baker of San Stefano lay dead, his body prostrate on the floor, the head bloody and bludgeoned. Giacomo's assignment had been to scare the man, to threaten to break his hands if he refused to go along with what Giacomo's employer was asking. “I should not have underestimated his strength,” Giacomo thought again. “I should have anticipated his resistance.”

Giacomo stepped towards the door of the shop. His body lurched and he fell hard against the door frame, his face slamming against the wood casing above his right eye. He pushed himself away but his knees buckled and he fell to the ground landing hard on his knees. If anyone had been about in the campo in that early hour before dawn, they would have seen the look of fear and confusion, more than pain, that crossed Giacomo's face at this point. He had never believed he would fear death when it came but now that it was here, the reality was different. The fear lasted only a split second, though. The momentum of his body falling to its knees was not arrested when the knees touched the ground. His upper body continued forward towards the ground and his face slammed into the campo. Giacomo did not feel the impact, however. He had died in the briefest of moments between the impact of this knees and the impact of his face on the stones of the campo.

The loaf of bread fell from his under his arm and his body came to rest against the ground. The rounded loaf rolled on its edge for about twenty feet and then, as its wobbling became more pronounced, it also came to rest flat on the stones of the campo.

* * *

Giacomo's body had been carried inside the shop and was laying front down next to the bin with the loaves of bread, his face turned away from the bin. The loaf of bread that had fallen from his arm as he died had disappeared from the campo.

“Meet Giacomo the Brute,” Ambrogio Laroni, capo of the Cinque alla Pace of the Sestiere di San Marco, stood beside the opening to the counter that separated the front of the shop from the baker's work area and ovens. The morning had arrived bright and sunny to Venice and with the windows to the shop now open, the interior was well-lit.

“'The Brute' ?” Reginaldo Morosini asked. He stood in the doorway and looked down to the body on the floor.

“That's what he was called on the calli and canals of the city,” Ambrogio answered. “He roughed people up for a living. Broken noses, fingers, occasionally an arm or leg, those were his specialties. Never knew him to kill anyone, though, and I have known him since he was a young street urchin in this sestiere.” Ambrogio stepped aside and pointed to the body of the baker behind him.

Reginaldo was trained as a medical doctor, in addition to owning and operating an academy for Venetian youth. Occasionally, he also served as consultore speciale to the Council of Ten on criminal matters, usually murders, that were of interest to the Council. He immediately recognized from the odd angle of the baker's head that his neck was broken.

Reginaldo stepped past Ambrogio and knelt beside the body of the baker. “Any other wounds ? Injuries ?” he asked Ambrogio. From what Reginaldo could see there were none except for some bruising and scratching on both the face and the arms. It was what Reginaldo would have expected to see from someone who had been involved in a brawl.

“Nothing,” Ambrogio answered.

“Then the cause of death was likely the broken neck. Unless an examination shows otherwise,” Reginaldo observed out loud more to himself than to Ambrogio.

The room showed a violent confrontation had taken place. With the absence of an injury beyond the broken neck, the blood spattered about must have come from Giacomo the Brute, Reginaldo concluded. He stood up, squeezed by Ambrogio again, and made his way to the other body in the shop, careful to avoid the splatters of blood on the floor.

“You moved the body to this spot,” Reginaldo said to Ambrogio.

“Yes, we found him just outside the doorway.” Ambrogio had walked to the doorway and pointed out the spot. From where he knelt, Reginaldo could not see where Ambrogio pointed but he had already concluded before entering the building that the body had come to rest outside the doorway. The body might have been removed from prying eyes of passersby in the campo, but the blood stains on the stones had not.

Having seen the baker and now Giacomo the Brute, it seemed evident to Reginaldo that Giacomo had been surprised by the baker. The only way for the baker with his small size to have a chance against Giacomo was to be the aggressor, to have attacked Giacomo without warning.

Reginaldo also looked closely at the knife that had become lodged in the lower rib cage at Giacomo's side. It was buried to the hilt but from the slash marks on the arms, neck, and shirt of Giacomo, the knife's final resting place was not the first wound inflicted by the baker. Reginaldo pointed to the knife but before he could ask his question, Ambrogio told him, “Go ahead and remove it if you don't think it will hurt the autopsy. If they bother to have one,” he added as an afterthought.

Reginaldo carefully removed the knife and looked closely at the blade. It confirmed his belief about the nature of the knife made from studying the hilt. It was a weapon and not the knife one would typically find in a bakery or other any other food shop. Reginaldo checked the body of Giacomo again, patting down his clothes. The knife had not been taken from Giacomo and then used against him. It had belonged to the baker.

“You say he roughed people up for a living ?” Reginaldo asked Ambrogio.

“Mostly worked for Signor Alessandro Mecardo from Canareggio,” was the reply. Ambrogio might have used the polite “Signor” to refer to the man but the tone used in saying the man's name was anything but respectful. “He mostly used Giacomo for his own uses – collecting debts, intimidation – but he would also loan him out to others if there was money in it for him.”

“And this Mecardo, would he have had business with the Baker of San Stefano ?” Reginaldo asked.

“You know him ?” Ambrogio asked as Reginaldo's use of the baker's nickname.

“Of him,” Reginaldo answered. “He has a reputation beyond this neighborhood. A good reputation.”

“He was not one to be doing business with the likes of Alessandro Mecardo. I would have known it if he was.” It was not a boast and Reginaldo did not take it as one.

Ten minutes later, after having examined closely the interior of the shop, and especially the baker's work area, Reginaldo turned to leave. As he walked across the campo away from the building, he repeated the words of Ambrogio, “He was not one to be doing business with the likes of Alessandro Mecardo.” “And yet,” Reginaldo added, he knew that the man's enforcer was coming.”

* * *

Reginaldo had avoided any mention of the Council of Ten while at the bakery on Campo di San Stefano. He was not interested in the death of the Baker of San Stefano at the urging of the Council.

Reginaldo had entered the Palazzo Ducale and began to make his way to the upper level chambers where the Pregadi (or Senate) met. Before reaching there, though, a slim doorway in the wall of the hallway opened and Reginaldo was directed to follow the person standing ehind the door, a personal servant, up the narrow staircase. Reginaldo was soon led into the apartment of the doge, Andrea Gritti.

As soon as the servant excused himself and exited through the door behind Reginaldo, another door at the side of the room opened. The doge entered. Even in his own apartment, the doge observed the formalities of his office, wearing his horn shaped bareta of deep, dark red and gold brocade, called the cornaro , along with his gold-colored togata.

Reginaldo also observed the formalities of the man's office, even though he had known the man well before his elevation to the position of doge.

“Your Excellence,” Reginaldo said. Reginaldo held his own black bareta (or beret) in his hands, as only the Procuratori of San Marco were allowed to wear their hats in the presence of the doge. Reginaldo stepped towards the doge, dropping to his right knee on each of three successive steps. When he reached the doge, the doge held out his left hand and Reginaldo took it, kissing the ring worn on the fourth finger. As the hand pulled away, Reginaldo noted the symbol on the ring – the doge kneeling before the winged lion representing St. Mark. The doge was aging, his beard and what hair that showed beneath the cornaro turning white from its original blond, although it was not yet the white of snow.

“Ser Morosini. Please, let's sit.” The doge indicated a sofa and two chairs against the wall of the room. The doge sat in one of the chairs. Reginaldo sat in the chair opposite.

“Your Excellency, you have sent for me to be of service,” Reginaldo began as soon as the two were settled.

“Reginaldo, I did.” The doge reverted to a less formal demeanor and Reginaldo similarly relaxed. The doge also got to the point of the meeting. “I have a personal interest in the death of Ludovico Scarpon, the Baker of San Stefano as I believe he is known. I am not speaking to you – not asking you to do this – as the Doge of the People of Venice.”

Reginaldo had surmised as much when the messenger first arrived with his message directing Reginaldo to Campo di San Stefano. The messenger had also added that Reginaldo should come to the Palazzo Ducale once he was finished at the murder scene. The doge wished to visit with Reginaldo, the messenger said.

The meeting in the private apartment of the doge, the absence of his counselors, the Savi , reinforced Reginaldo's assumption that his investigation – if that was what the doge wished – would be outside the official sanction of the Republic of Venice . If the inquisitori conducted after Doge Gritti's death would uncover this investigation, it would undoubtedly lead to fines against the doge's estate for this “abuse” of his position and the insertion of a clause prohibiting this type of conduct in the promissione , or oath of office, required of his successor.

Reginaldo told Doge Gritti what he knew of the baker's death. “There is no mystery to it,” Reginaldo began. “Signor Scarpon's neck was broken and his killer died not far from him, stabbed by Signor Scarpon while the two scuffled.”

“What of the killer ?” Gritti asked.

“He made his living bullying people for an Alessandro Mecardo of the Canareggio sestiere. He was probably not there to kill the baker, only to threaten him.”

“And things got out of hand ?”

“Things got out of hand,” Reginaldo agreed. “There is nothing remaining to be known about the murder.” Reginaldo was hopeful he was finished with the matter of the baker's death and that the doge's interest would end with knowing that the killing had not been intended, even if not accidental, and that the killer had met the same fate as his victim. Reginaldo was never comfortable working outside the authority and sanction of the Council of Ten. This unease was even more pronounced under the present circumstance of working for the doge, no matter what assurances might be given about the personal nature of the doge's request. The simple truth was that Reginaldo would have never gone to Campo di San Stefano in the first instance if someone other than the doge or Council of Ten had asked him.

“I am not interested in who killed Signor Scarpon, especially if, as you say, the killing was not intended,” the doge said, immediately smashing any hopes Reginaldo might have that his work was done. “I am interested in knowing who sent the man to ‘strong-arm,' as you say, the Baker of San Stefano.”

Reginaldo reflected a moment on what the doge asked before acknowledging the request. “Am I just to find out ‘who' or do you want to know ‘why' as well,” Reginaldo asked. Or, Reginaldo thought to himself, perhaps you already know ‘why.'

* * *

It was an almost impossible assignment, Reginaldo complained to Jacopo, one of two instructors at Reginaldo's academy other than Reginaldo, and a frequent assistant to Reginaldo in his investigations for the Council of Ten. The Baker of San Stefano had kept a secret for the doge, a secret that pre-dated Andrea Gritti's election to the position of doge. Beyond that, Gritti would not elaborate. No hint of what the secret could be. No suggestion of how long it had been kept. You don't need to know that, Gritti had told him.

Actually, there had been one other bit of information the doge imparted. There were two others besides Signor Scarpon and the doge who knew the secret. You don't need to know who they are, the doge had added, at least not yet. If it became important during the course of Reginaldo's investigation, the information would be forthcoming.

It must be quite a secret, Jacopo observed. The doge had protested otherwise, Reginaldo answered, claiming that, at most, if the secret were known, it might cause him minor embarrassment, nothing more. Still, Reginaldo explained to Jacopo, the doge had volunteered this information without prompting, to what purpose Reginaldo was unsure. Then why the interest in knowing who sent Giacomo the Brute to the Baker of San Stefano to tell him his secret, Jacopo asked the obvious. Precisely, Reginaldo answered. And why would someone resort to strong-arm tactics over such a trivial matter, Reginaldo added.

“So how do you find the answer the doge seeks ?” Jacopo asked.

“You mean, how do we find the answer,” Reginaldo corrected him. “We have two lines of inquiry as far as I can tell. We can see what, if anything, Giacomo the Brute's employer can tell us and we can delve into the life of our murder victim to see where it might possibly intersect with the life of Doge Gritti.”

* * *

“I do not understand the continued interest. It seems clear how the baker came to die and that his killer met his justice, as well,” Ambrogio Laroni protested to Reginaldo.

“But the crime does not end there,” Reginaldo countered. “Those who had sent Giacomo the Brute to Signor Scarpon to work his persuasion would also have some responsibility for the baker's death. Certainly, it is foreseeable that things might get out of hand and death result.”

It was the following day, late afternoon to be precise, and Reginaldo had come to the capo of the police force for the sestiere to see what further progress had been made in the investigation. Until this point, Reginaldo had been busy devoting his efforts to the education of his students at the academy. That was, after all, his principal vocation and livelihood. There was another reason to wait until late the following day to take up the investigation again. Reginaldo wanted to give the Cinque alla Pace time to investigate on their own and perhaps develop information that would be useful to him.

“I am aware of the criminal law, Ser Morosini. We have investigated. The Avogadori di Comun does not feel further investigation will be fruitful.”

“It is not the Council of Ten that takes an interest in this matter but another, a person with a personal interest that has asked me to look into this,” Reginaldo confessed. It would no longer be possible to maintain a fiction that the Council of Ten had an interest in the case. The Avogadori di Comun , or chief criminal prosecutors for Venice , would not have stated their lack of interest in pursuing the case further if the Council of Ten thought it worthwhile to continue the investigation.

Ambrogio did not respond to Reginaldo's confession and a silent unease settled over the room.

“I am not free to say who has an interest,” Reginaldo broke the silence. He may come to believe that the personal interest is mine, he thought to himself, but said nothing further to dispel such an impression if the capo sought to form it. Reginaldo continued, “But he is not concerned that Giacomo the Brute killed the Baker of San Stefano and he understands that he had probably not been sent there to kill the baker. I have been asked to find out who sent Giacomo the Brute to intimidate the Baker of San Stefano.”

Ambrogio continued to stand silent in response but he was not one to hide his expressions well. He was thinking, Reginaldo could tell, and, if his expression could be believed, he was not having a debate with himself about whether he should reveal anything to Reginaldo or not concerning his investigation.

“We had talked to the family of Signor Scarpon,” it was the first time the vigile had referred to the baker by his name. “That part of the family that remains in the city. We talked to neighbors and customers of his shop. We talked to those who knew him well. He had no money problems in his business. He did not gamble or have other vices that might have caused him to look to our friend, Signor Mecardo, for his services.”

“And did you speak with Alessandro Mecardo,” Reginaldo interrupted Ambrogio's narrative with his question.

“It was only natural that we would do so,” was the reply. “Of course, the man lives within another sestiere . We had to have the officials from that district present during the questioning.”

“And . . . ,” Reginaldo prompted as the capo seemed to hesitate. Reginaldo suspected he knew what the answer would be but he wanted to hear it from Ambrogio anyway.

“He denied everything. He denied that he had sent Giacomo to the bakery in Campo di San Stefano. He denied that Giacomo was his enforcer. He denied that somebody else had paid him to send Giacomo to visit the baker. He denied that he was anything but an honest trader plying his legitimate business in the city. I think that the only thing he did not deny was that Giacomo was his employee, his ‘messenger and accounts manager,' as he called him.”

“Probably wouldn't tell me any more,” Reginaldo observed.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe your black togata will make him open up,” Ambrogio said, a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice. By law, the dress of the nobili , or patrician class of Venice , was the proscribed black togata . The middle class cittadini and the popolari were not so limited in what they could wear, although it was not unusual for cittadini to wear the black togata in public in emulation of the nobili .

Ambrogio regretted his sarcasm as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Signor Mecardo is a criminal. At least he resorts to criminal means in his business,” Ambrogio added. “He has his own code of honor, though. Loyalty to his employees is part of that code. He was visibly upset over the death of Giacomo. It was he who claimed the body from the authorities when the autopsy was completed. He has made the arrangements to lay him to rest. If you talk to him, maybe knowing of this weakness will help you.”

If I talk to him, it will have to be tomorrow, Reginaldo thought to himself as he walked along the calle on the way back to his academy. No, he corrected himself, there really is no ‘if.' I will talk to him tomorrow.

* * *

If Reginaldo had been unable to take time away from his classes at the academy that day, it was due in part to his doing double duty at the academy. While Reginaldo taught both his and Jacopo's classes, Jacopo was out gathering information on the life of Ludovico Scarpon. Reginaldo was not surprised to learn that Jacopo had crossed paths on a number of occasions with the investigators working for Ambrogio Laroni.

Ludovico Scarpon was a baker. His entire life. Nothing more. That was Jacopo's summary of his day's efforts. He was a successful baker and his moniker, the Baker of San Stefano, was simply the product of the high esteem in which he was held as a baker.

There was no clear time when his path would have crossed with that of Andrea Gritti, Jacopo continued. When Andrea Gritti had been furthering Venetian commercial interests in Constantinople at the end of the quattrocento (and also been imprisoned for espionage there), Ludovico Scarpon had been baking bread in Campo di San Stefano. When Gritti had been Provedittoro di Campo for Venetian forces in Treviso during the war with the League of Cambrai and afterwards, Ludovico Scarpon was still baking bread in his campo. Even when Andrea Gritti returned to Venice and was appointed to the Procuratori di San Marco , Ludovico Scarpon continued to bake bread. There were nothing in the books of the Baker of San Stefano to indicate any business dealings between the baker and the future doge. Jacopo had also found no personal or social relationships tying the two together.

“Nothing to go on,” Jacopo concluded.

“Nothing obvious,” Reginaldo agreed, “which means that whatever connection there was, was a fleeting one. Somewhere the paths crossed in a way that meant something to Doge Gritti.”

* * *

Alessandro Mecardo was not what Reginaldo had expected. By his dress, the furnishings of his office, and the contents of his warehouse, there was nothing to suggest he was anything but a legitimate businessman. There was a certain element in the city – an underworld – Reginaldo knew and, at least among the vigili , it was accepted that Mecardo was a part of that group. Yet, there was also a certain intelligence about the man as he combined the legitimate with the illegitimate. It was entirely possible, Reginaldo thought as he sat across from the man, that twenty years in the future the man's business dealings would be entirely aboveboard.

There was something that surprised Reginaldo as he sat talking to the man. He was much more open with Reginaldo about the shady aspects of his business than he had been with Ambrogio Laroni.

“I may use heavy-handed persuasion at times when someone is not living up to the end of the bargain they made with me,” Mecardo explained, a slight chuckle in his voice going along with the twinkle in his eyes as he said this. The jovial tone of his voice immediately became serious as he continued, “ but I do not stoop to blackmail, extortion or anything else of that nature.”

After a few minutes of conversation, Reginaldo had decided that a blunt, straightforward approach would work best. Or, at least, it would not be any worse than trying to trap the man. Mecardo seemed to respond to the directness of Reginaldo's inquiries. Still, Mecardo had already denied that he had business dealings with the Baker of San Stefano. Based on Ambrogio's information, Reginaldo had no reason to doubt the truth of this response. His next question, the one that had elicited the response about blackmail, had been whether Giacomo had gone to visit the baker to persuade him to reveal some secret the baker might know that Mecardo could use to his own profit.

When asked whether Mecardo had sent Giacomo to visit the Baker of San Stefano on someone else's behalf, the answer had not been what Reginaldo had been expecting but it did have a solid ring of truth to it: “Giacomo was not prohibited from working for others. I only asked two things of him. Either those who wanted to use his talents were to come to me to make the arrangements or Giacomo was to clear it with me before agreeing to anything. And secondly, I got to set the price for his services and get to keep a part of what was being paid. Not a lot of it. Not even a third,” Mecardo quickly added.

“So was Giacomo visiting Signor Scarpon on someone else's behalf,” Reginaldo pressed the point.

“Yes,” was the only response.

“Who was it ? Who was Giacomo working for ?”

“I'm not sure if I knew I would tell you,” Mecardo answered, turning the palms of his hands up and slightly shrugging his shoulders. He continued, “As it turns out, I don't know. An intermediary came to us . . . to me. He wouldn't say who he was working for.” After a pause, he added, “and I didn't ask.”

Reginaldo studied Mecardo briefly as he decided whether he believed Mecardo's answer and what question he should ask next.

“But you knew the purpose of Giacomo's visit ? Or was it visits ?”

“He only went there once.” Mecardo had answered the second question and ignored the first.

“Just once ?”

“Only the one time.”

“And the reason ?” Reginaldo asked again.

“He was to deliver a message, a message in writing and don't ask me what it was. It was sealed with wax. Sealed with wax but no wax seal,” Mecardo added to ward off any follow-on question. “Giacomo was to wait for an answer. If it was ‘yes,' Giacomo would leave with the information. If it was, ‘no,' Giacomo would apply persuasion until the man agreed.”

“Would Giacomo had known of the message ?”

“I told you the message was sealed. And Giacomo would not have opened it. Curiosity was not one of his vices.”

“And you knew nothing of either the message or who it was being delivered for ?” A tone of disbelief had crept into Reginaldo's voice, as well as a hint of anger, albeit feigned anger.

“I've already told you. I know neither.” Mecardo's voice similarly took on a hint of anger in response to Reginaldo's tone.

Reginaldo pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Enough, Signor Mecardo. I do not know what to believe of what you have told me but I know what I do not believe. You know the reason Giacomo was sent to see Signor Scarpon.” Reginaldo went to the doorway but stopped and faced Alessandro Mecardo before leaving. “I cannot help you if you will not be truthful with me.”

“Help me ?” Mecardo was confused by Reginaldo's comment.

“You were duped. Set up, Signor. You sent Giacomo to his death. Signor Scarpon knew he was coming, was waiting for him. He was attacked before your employee could even deliver his message.” Reginaldo did not bother waiting for a reply or to see what response his information would bring. He turned and left the room, walking to his gondola moored to the columns near the water door to Mecardo's warehouse.

* * *

Reginaldo had planned on immediately returning to his classes at the academy but his conversation with Alessandro Mecardo had introduced a new wrinkle into the investigation – a written message that was to have been delivered to the Baker of San Stefano. There had been papers in the work area of the bakery and Reginaldo had gone through them. Jacomo had also returned to the store and inspected the man's records. Orders, bills, a couple notes of gratitude, that is all there had been. Nothing that Giacomo the Brute would have delivered. Reginaldo had also not seen anything on the floor. That left two possibilities. No, three possibilities, Reginaldo corrected himself, and maybe even a fourth.

The first was that the sealed message had been dropped and, in the struggle between the baker and Giacomo, had been kicked under something or fell behind something. Reginaldo would check this possibility first. His steps were taking him back to the Campo di San Stefano and the bakery where the deaths had occurred.

More likely, the message had still been on Giacomo's person. Reginaldo thought back to the body that had been moved to the front of the bakery from just outside the doorway. He could remember no bag or pouch on the body and Ambrogio said nothing about one being removed. Still, Reginaldo had inspected Giacomo's clothes after removing the knife from the body but it had not been a thorough search. The message, or even a small pouch containing it, could have been concealed within the clothing. It would have been discovered in the course of the medical examination to determine the true cause of death. Yet, Ambrogio had failed to mention any such discovery in Reginaldo's discussion with him earlier in the day. The examination would have been completed by then.

That left the third possibility. Someone, and it would have to be whoever found the body or a member of the vigili , removed the message to prevent it from being discovered. It would be easy enough to determine the vigili who had been present at the scene. It was also possible, though, that the person who had paid for Giacomo's services had furtively watched the two killings unfold and then had stepped in to remove the message.

The fourth possibility was that Alessandro Mecardo had simply lied about there being a message.

* * *

“We're getting closer to the truth,” Reginaldo told Jacopo later that evening. “There was no message at the bakery and I spoke with Dottor Zapudin who did the examination. He did not find anything on either of the two bodies he examined. The clothes he turned over to the vigile who had accompanied the bodies to his examining room.”

“Ambrogio Laroni ?” Jacopo asked.

“No, someone else, but I tracked him down and he reported that he found nothing on or in the clothing. . . . And I believe him,” Reginaldo added.

“So where does that leave us ?” Jacopo wondered.

“More likely than not, someone with the vigili is involved in this.” In anticipation of Jacopo's next question, Reginaldo added, “I don't believe Signor Mecardo simply lied about there being a message. It doesn't fit with the rest of what he told me. Or I should say, it doesn't fit with his willingness to tell me as much as he did.”

“Maybe he was trying to lead you down the wrong path,” Jacopo suggested.

“N-o-o-o,” Reginaldo drug out the word. “He is much too clever for that. If he was the one looking to get information from Signor Scarpon, the smart thing would be to clam up and admit nothing, the way he did with Ambrogio Laroni. That he was so revealing to me tells me he was instructed to tell me of his involvement. Up to a point, that is. He was paid to talk to me and to report back to the person who hired him in the first place of our discussions.”

“But why ?”

“He – the person who had Giacomo sent to see the Baker of San Stefano – had an idea of who we were working for and he wanted to know that the person was still interested in preserving the secret the baker was keeping.”

“So what now ?” Jacopo asked.

“Hopefully, Signor Mecardo's single streak of decency, his loyalty to his dead employee, will win out and he will guide us to the answer we seek.”

* * *

Ambrogio Laroni's house was a modest one but still one befitting a capo of the sestiere office of the Cinaue alla Pace . He looked in on his two sons who were sleeping soundly in their own room. Satisfied that the two boys were settled for the night, Ambrogio returned to his wife who sat at the table in the kitchen. From where he stood, Ambrogio took in the kitchen and a good part of the front room where much of the family living took place. I have done well for us, he told himself, but I can do better.

“I shouldn't be long,” he told his wife and in a moment of affection for his wife which was not unusual for him, he bent and kissed her on the forehead.

“Should I wait up ?” she asked.

Ambrogio shrugged his shoulders and answered, “That's up to you. It's late and I know you've had a long day.” He didn't say it but he also knew the morning would come early for his wife, as it always did. She would be up before the sun in the morning for a quiet hour of work before the boys awakened.

Ambrogio's position may have allowed him a modest home but it did not allow him the luxury of a gondola. He walked along darkened calli , some wide, some so narrow he could reach out his arms and touch both sides. Ultimately, the calli led him to one of the traghetto stops where a gondola would ferry him across the Canal Guidecca, the expanse of water separating the southern end of the Rialto islands making up the city of Venice with the closest of the other islands of the lagoon.

The stop was lit by a single lantern and Ambrogio saw two men standing at the stop, both dressed in the outfit of the gondoliers who oared the traghettos across the canal. It was only a fleeting thought to Ambrogio that it was unusual for two gondoliers to be present at this time. It was not the normal time for one gondolier to go off duty and another to come on. The gondoliers heard Ambrogio's approach and they both looked intently at him as he passed beneath a lantern hung to light the calle where it intersected with the fondamente . One of the gondoliers said something to the other. The second nodded his head and immediately left, passing Ambrogio at the edge of the fondamente where it met the wooden pier extending into the water.

“Buona sera,” the gondolier greeted Ambrogio. “Are you ready to cross ? We can go if you wish.” The man waved his arm indicating for Ambrogio to board the gondola.

Ambrogio was surprised but not disturbed that the man did not ask for payment. Vigili , like priests and friars, usually did not pay to ride the traghettos, but Ambrogio wore neither his uniform nor any other marking showing him to be a member of one of Venice 's different police forces. He looked closely at the gondolier as he stepped past him to board the gondola but did not recognize him. Perhaps he knows me, Ambrogio thought.

Neither Ambrogio nor the gondolier spoke as the craft pulled away from the pier. Although he was alone in the craft and could have sat in the bottom of the boat, Ambrogio remained standing, as was custom on the traghetto.

As the gondola neared the half-way point in the crossing, Ambrogio could feel the forward motion of the boat lessen perceptively. They were gliding and no longer being propelled by the oar.

“Ahhh, now I understand,” Ambrogio said aloud to himself, referring to the gondolier's failure to ask for a toll on the pier. It was a sad fact of life in Venice but some gondoliers on the traghetto, especially those crossing at night, would extort money from their passengers by refusing to land them and demanding a sum in excess of the fare from them.

“Can you swim, Signor ?” the oarsman asked from behind Ambrogio.

“I am capo of the Cinque alla Pace of the Sestiere di San Marco. Proceed onward and I will say no more of this,” Ambrogio announced. There was enough sway in the craft from side to side that Ambrogio did not feel comfortable turning to face the gondolier, so he spoke over his shoulder, his upper torso slightly turned to his left.

“No, Signor Laroni, I asked simply whether you could swim,” the gondolier replied.

Ambrogio did not notice the man had called him by name. If the gondolier was not extorting money from him, then maybe there was something wrong with boat on the water, was the thought that next crossed through Ambrogio's mind. Why else would the man be concerned with whether Ambrogio could swim or not. Ambrogio had grown up on the Rialto islands – the heart of the city of Venice – and never had occasion to learn to swim. The canals were no place to swim, his father had told him.

“No, Signor. Is there a . . . ,” Ambrogio turned even further at the waist, leaving his feet firmly planted in the direction of the front of the gondola.

“Good,” the gondolier said, interrupting Ambrogio. Ambrogio never heard the comment. The comment was drowned out by the loud crack as the blade of the oar struck Ambrogio's head. The blow was not enough to knock Ambrogio unconscious. His head was much too thick for that. But the blow had come from the right as the boat dipped slightly to the left. Combined, it was enough to topple Ambrogio into the water.

The drowned body of the capo of the of the Cinque alla Pace of the Sestiere di San Marco was found floating in the lagoon two days later.

* * *

“Nothing from Mecardo,” Reginaldo said, the disappointment apparent in his voice.

“Maybe Signor Laroni was wrong about him,” Jacopo suggested.

“Yes . . . , maybe. It's not like I can go back to Signor Mecardo now and confront him about what he told me. I suspect his license to be forthcoming with me has since expired. Still,” Reginaldo hesitated briefly before continuing, “I don't think what Signor Laroni said of his character was wrong. What concerns me is that instead of coming to me, he has acted on what I told him in a manner I did not anticipate.”

“And the vigile Laroni has nothing new for you ?” Jacopo inquired.

“The capo Laroni has not been seen for two days,” Reginaldo answered. It was too soon for Reginaldo to say aloud what he had been thinking. Perhaps his discussion with Mecardo and the disappearance of Ambrogio Laroni were a simple coincidence. But Reginaldo was not able to reject the possibility that they were somehow related. Indeed, he suspected there was a connection but he lacked knowledge of the thread that tied the disparate pieces of the Baker of San Stefano, Giacomo the Brute, Ambrogio Laroni and Doge Andrea Gritti together.

* * *

Reginaldo was just crossing the bridge to enter the gate to the Ghetto when he heard his name called in the tinny voice of a child, undoubtedly a student from his academy since the voice was calling “Dottor Morosini” as loud as he could. Reginaldo turned and picked out the boy as he ran down the calle – ‘Timo Aspanno,' as the other boys in the school called him ‘Timmefeo' to Reginaldo, who preferred to be more formal with his students.

“Dottor Morosini. This came for you after you left.” The boy handed Reginaldo an envelope sealed with a wax seal. Reginaldo inspected the seal. It was that of the doge.

“Thank you Timmefeo. You may return to the school. . . . No, wait,” Reginaldo said. The boy had already turned and started away but he stopped and came back to Reginaldo, looking up at Reginaldo in anticipation.

Reginaldo took two coins from within his togata . “Don't return directly to school,” he corrected his earlier instructions. “See what these will buy at the pastecheria along the way.” He handed the coins to the boy who smiled, expressed his gratitude and then left at a full run away from the Ghetto.

Reginaldo broke the seal and removed the single sheet of paper from the envelope. The doge was requesting his presence, the message said.

Reginaldo stood holding the paper, contemplating what he should do. He was at the Ghetto on the doge's errand. Dottor Abraham Zapudin not only lived in the area mandated for Venice 's Jewish residents, he also had two rooms on the bottom floor of his building where he practiced his medical profession. That practice including performing medical examinations and autopsies for the Republic. On this particular day, he was examining a body that had been found in the lagoon of Venice . It was the body of Ambrogio Laroni.

Reginaldo continued into the Ghetto. Hopefully, the examination was complete and Dottor Zapudin would only take a few minutes to tell Reginaldo what the body had revealed.

“He drowned,” the doctor told Reginaldo as the two stood beside the examination table on which the body of Ambrogio Laroni was laid out. “He had taken a blow to the head but it didn't kill him. It probably wasn't even enough to knock him unconscious.” the doctor reached down and turned the head so Reginaldo could see the mark left from the blow to the head by the oar. Reginaldo bent down to observe.

“But maybe enough to knock him into the water,” Reginaldo observed more than asked.

“Or disoriented him enough so he could be pushed in. The condition of his body is consistent with having been in the water two, possibly three days. The length of time he had gone missing” the doctor continued.

“So he likely drowned on the night he left his wife to go to whatever meeting he was going to.”

“I would think so,” the doctor agreed.

“Murdered ?” Reginaldo asked.

“That would be my opinion,” Dottor Zapudin answered. “The blow to the head suggests that. And, of course, if he had fallen in by accident, that would have been reported by whoever had been ferrying his across the canal.”

Yes, Reginaldo also concluded. He looked around the room. The body on the table was naked. When Reginaldo spied a pile of clothes in the corner his search stopped. “His clothes ?” he asked the doctor. Dottor Zapudin nodded in confirmation and added that he had not gone through them yet.

The clothes were wet, soaked was a better description. Reginaldo went through them. There was nothing on or in the clothes themselves. A pouch had been tied to a ribbon sewn on the inside of the tunic that Ambrogio had been wearing. Reginaldo emptied the contents onto a side table in the room. It contained a few coins, a small medallion bearing the likeness of a saint, and some papers. The papers, like the pouch, were sodden. Reginaldo carefully unfolded one set of papers – notes taken by the capo as he investigated some case or another. The second document was a single folded sheet of a set of instructions, obviously for the meeting Ambrogio was to attend when he met his untimely end.

The third paper, of slightly better quality and still containing yellow wax that had once sealed it shut, was what Reginaldo had hoped, but not really expected, to find among Ambrogio's things. The paper had been taken from the body of Giacomo the Brute as he lay prostrate in the doorway of the bakery in the Campo di San Stefano. Blood had stained one corner of the document. Reginaldo unfolded the wet paper slowly, carefully, until it lay flat on the table beside the other papers he had removed from the body. The ink hade run a little but Reginaldo could still read the contents. It was a single phrase – two words. It said, “ Il Ballotino .” The Ballot Boy.

* * *

Il Ballotino was a mere boy but he was essential to the election of the new doge whenever the previous one passed from office. Could there have been an election without the boy ? Undoubtedly. But would the election be above question without him ? Probably not. Il Ballotino was essential to the selection of a new doge because, as a boy under the age of fifteen and not limited to any particular class, he could be assured to be politically innocent, lacking political ambition for himself and his family and free of any political corruption. Il Ballotino clothed the selection of doge with a legitimacy that might otherwise be lacking. His job was simple. During the many stages that were undertaken in the selection of the doge over the course of many days, he collected and assisted in the counting of ballots. A young boy, an innocent boy, could be trusted to collect and count the ballots without fear of some trickery or deceit in the election process.

The boy was selected by the youngest member of the Quarantia al Criminale , the highest criminal appeals court. First praying for guidance at the altar of the church of San Marco , the Selector would know when it was time to emerge from the west door of the church to find the boy who would be Il Ballotino for the upcoming election of the doge. The boy who would hold the position had only to meet two conditions: he had to be under the age of fifteen and he had to be the first boy seen by the Selector on exiting the church. Having been chosen, the boy was taken inside the Palazzo Ducale, clothed in the formal red togata and pill-box bareta , given the two wooden hands that he would use to remove and count the ballots from the ballot urn, and set to perform his official functions.

There was honor in being Il Ballotino and not just because of the boy's participation in the election of the doge. His duties did not end with the election of the doge. He continued to serve the Grand Council as its ballot counter during the life of the doge and, more importantly, served a ceremonial function, walking in the company of the doge in the numerous formal processions held throughout the year in Venice . It was the presence of Il Ballotino at these functions, the innocent young boy who presided at the election of the doge, which reminded the people of the city that the doge came to his position honestly and fairly.

* * *

Reginaldo stood at the bridge to the Ghetto again, this time on his way out from his visit with Dottor Zapudin. I can keep the doge waiting a little, he decided, opting to revisit with Jacopo over Jacopo's earlier investigation into the business dealings of the Baker of San Stefano. Perhaps the baker and the doge had not dealt directly with one another but there was another possibility that might have presented itself, not for dealing in business but perhaps for creating a chance occasion to encounter each other. It would have been an occasion related to Il Ballotino . Reginaldo could not be certain that Jacopo would have even been looking for the information Reginaldo now sought or that he would have thought it significant enough to remember it even if he saw a reference to it. But luck had been on Reginaldo's shoulder when he found the message that Giacomo the Brute was to deliver to the Baker of San Stefano. It was possible that it was still perched there.

“Yes, I did see something about that,” Jacopo answered. “I didn't think it worth mentioning. The Baker of San Stefano did have one of the bread contracts when Doge Gritti was elected to his present position.”

The electors of the doge were sequestered while the process ran its course. While they were sequestered they were not required to fast and contracts would be entered with local food merchants so the group would have plenty nourishment to sustain them in their civic duty. In light of the “ Il Ballotino ” message, Reginaldo had thought this was a possibility.

“Not Doge Gritti's election but Doge Grimani's election,” Reginaldo explained. Doge Grimani had been elected in the twenty-first year of the cinquecento and served as doge for a mere two years before dying. On Grimani's death, Gritti had been elected to the position.

“Yes, when Gritti would have been Procuratoro ,” Jacopo's voice rose slightly in excitement as he suddenly saw the connection. “Perhaps he had actually been involved in procuring the contract as Procuratoro .”

“Perhaps,” Reginaldo said, “but I do not believe that had anything to do with the incident the doge wishes to remain secret. No, I believe there was something in the selection of Il Ballotino which brought together Doge Gritti, the Baker of San Stefano and the vigile Ambrogio Laroni.”

“But why !?” Jacopo could simply not understand what such an action would be or why it would occur. The selection of the doge was inviolate. “To effect the selection of Ser Grimani as doge?” Jacopo followed up, voicing aloud his confusion and still unable to comprehend what lay behind Gritti's conduct so many years before.

“No,” Reginaldo corrected him. “It had nothing to do with the election of Doge Grimani and everything to do with the selection of a particular boy as Il Ballotino .”

* * *

There has been another death ? Two now ?” the doge asked after Reginaldo had been shown into the doge's apartment.

“Three, counting the man sent to threaten the Baker of San Stefano,” Reginaldo paused momentarily before adding, “but maybe you meant only two that counted.”

“Two that counted ?” The doge may have phrased his comment as a question but he showed no apparent confusion by the meaning of what Reginaldo had said. His question was asked not for his own edification but to find out how much Reginaldo knew. Or such was Reginaldo's assessment of the question asked by the doge.

“Two that kept your secret,” Reginaldo answered. He continued, “Do I know everything about your secret ? No,” he answered himself, but I have pieced together some things. It all centers on the election of Doge Grimani and the selection of Il Ballotino for that election. Is that not correct?”

The doge sat silent. He did not look at Reginaldo as Reginaldo spoke. His head was turned away from Reginaldo, his expression reflecting nothing, not even an acknowledgement of having heard Reginaldo.

“The man who was sent to threaten the Baker of San Stefano, the one known as Giacomo the Brute, carried a sealed message, one containing only the words, “ Il Ballotino ,” Reginaldo went on. “The baker knew something of Il Ballotino , but what ? In your election to doge you could have had no effect on the selection of Il Ballotino . Only the man sent out of San Marco to make the selection – and the Procuratoro who preceded him out the west door of the church – could do that.”

The doge remained impassive as Reginaldo spoke.

“The position is simply an honorary one. Il Ballotino certainly could not change the outcome of the selection of the new doge. That would be impossible. But, still, to be selected as Il Ballotino , that is a distinction that some young boy carried with him throughout his lifetime – his moment in history,” Reginaldo's soliloquy continued. “The mere selection of Il Ballotino has meaning and could lead someone to ignore the strictures of the ritual and pre-ordain who would be bestowed the honor. Someone with the power to affect the selection of Il Ballotino , someone like the procuratoro who oversees the selection, could do this for a variety of reasons: family ties, friendship, perhaps to return a favor, to create a debt of gratitude, bribery.”

At the word “bribery,” the doge turned his head so that he faced Reginaldo, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Are you accusing me of something ?” he asked.

Reginaldo shrugged his shoulders and returned the doge's stare. “I am presenting what I believe to be the truth,” he answered. “You can, if you choose, correct any misunderstanding I might have. There was, I believe, an indiscretion on your part. A minor one, perhaps, and one not prompted by greed or personal gain. But your later selection as doge was not a popular one with the people and your disregard of the people's rituals could have its consequences for your continuation in office.”

“And what is it you think I have done ?” the doge asked.

“You had promised Il Ballotino to someone, the one who was ultimately selected.”

“I promised nothing,” the doge answered. His emphasis on the word “promised” was the first sign of emotion he had shown.

“You promised nothing,” Reginaldo corrected himself, “but you told enough of when the selection would occur that anyone with that knowledge could be almost assured of being at the appointed place and of having his son selected as Il Ballotino .

“The problem is, when you emerged onto the piazza , there was another boy there – not the one you were expecting to find, not the boy you had ordained to be chosen. You ignored that first youth, the one who should have been selected, in favor of the boy that was ultimately selected. Perhaps it all would have been okay but there were four persons who knew what you did – a vigile from the Sestiere di San Marco , Signor Laroni, posted at or near the door where you emerged, the Baker of San Stefano who was delivering his goods to the palace at the time, the boy you passed over, and the father of the boy who was selected as Il Ballotino . Three of those four are dead: Il Ballotino's father, by natural causes, and the two others who were murdered – the baker and the vigile . That leaves just one person who knows the secret.”

“So what are you suggesting ?”

“I am suggesting that you tell me who the fourth person is. Either that person is behind all this or he is the next one to be approached for what he knows.”

The doge got up from his chair and circled the room, opening the doors to the room and those to the closet, checking behind each as he went. He returned to his chair and began speaking in a low voice.

“It did not happen exactly as you have surmised, Reginaldo. There are some important differences between what you imagine occurred and what did occur. The selection of Il Ballotino was not pre-arranged nor had anyone been tipped off about when we would emerge from San Marco to carry out the ritual. But there was another boy present at the appointed hour who rightfully should have served in the position but I had him removed from the area by the vigile , Signor Laroni. He was not suitable to be Il Ballotino . He was a street urchin – unkempt, uncouth, not someone you would want in the position. The boy who was selected for the position and his father knew nothing of what happened.

“It wasn't so much the election of the doge I was concerned with. The boy could have been cleaned up and properly instructed for that. It was all the public rituals he would have been involved in while Doge Grimani held office. It was a question of proper dignity. What I did was the correct thing, but you are right. There are some who would object to my failure to observe the proper formalities of the ritual. And there would be others who question my motives, some who would point to the fact that the family of the boy who became Il Ballotino was known to me, others who would point to my actions as attempting to ensure the selection of a boy from a nobili family over a member of the popolari class.”

“And the first boy, who was he ?” Reginaldo asked.

“I know nothing of him. Not his name. Not what became of him. The vigile came up and hustled the boy away at my request. Afterwards, I sought out the vigile , Signor Laroni, and asked about the boy, what he knew of him. He seemed to know the boy. He told me the boy was not worth the effort, that he only knew trouble in the past and would only know trouble in the future and that nothing could save him from that fate. It was as though the vigile had read my mind when I asked him to remove the boy for he added that Venice was better served by the selection of another. And to soothe my conscience, he added that the boy knew nothing of what it meant to be Il Ballotino or appreciated what had happened when he was removed from the church.”

“The baker ?” In light of what the doge had told Reginaldo, the baker's role was no longer important. Still, it was one of those details, minor as it might be, that would continue to nag at Reginaldo's mind.

“He saw it all. He started to say something but stopped. He slipped into the palace once Il Ballotino had been selected.”

“But the first boy's name, the one that should have been Il Ballotino , you never knew who he was ? Or is ?” Reginaldo wanted to confirm.

“I never learned anything of him.”

“There is no more I can do for you then,” Reginaldo answered. “I can investigate no further.”

* * *

Reginaldo relaxed in the Savaranola chair, a glass of wine in one hand, the other holding a closed book sitting in his lap. His index finger was enclosed in the book, keeping his place. Jacopo had been shown into the room by Josef, Reginaldo's servant, and had moved another chair over to join Reginaldo. Reginaldo told Jacopo of all he had learned and surmised.

“So, is it the man who was the boy who should have been Il Ballotino that is behind the doge's troubles ?” Jacopo asked when Reginaldo finished his narrative of the facts.

“No, that person is dead,” Reginaldo announced, “or so I believe.”

“Dead ? Another death ?”

“No, not another death but one of those we know of. Giacomo the Brute was the boy that Procuratoro Gritti had led away before the the youngest member of the Quarantia al Criminale emerged from San Marco to choose someone for the office of Il Ballotino .”

“If Giacomo was the boy who should have been Il Ballotino , then everyone who knew the secret is dead. Doge Gritti is safe from whoever was trying to discover his secret,” Jacopo concluded. “He suffers nothing from his wrong, minor as it might have been.”

Reginaldo paused before replying, contemplating whether he should continue. Having made up his mind to tell all to Jacopo, he added, “But there was no one trying to uncover the secret. That was all smoke screen. For reasons we will likely never know, Signor Laroni had decided after all his years of silence that it was time to profit from what he knew. His first step was to make it seem that someone else was trying to discover the secret. Once that thought was planted in the doge's mind, the vigile could proceed with his blackmail. It was Laroni who sent Giacomo to see the baker and it was Laroni who told the baker that Giacomo was coming. The end result, the death of both men, was more than he had hoped for, more than he had planned on. His purpose was served if only one, the baker, was killed. Signor Laroni stood in the shadows as the meeting between the baker and Giacomo unfolded, his intent to arrest Giacomo as soon as he emerged from the bakery. As events unfolded, however, that wasn't necessary.”

“But Signor Laroni was also killed,” Jacopo protested.

“True, but that was the one part of his plan that he had no control over – Signor Mecardo's desire to avenge the death of his faithful employee. And I am sure the man had business reasons for doing it as well. In his line of business, it does not do well to be played the fool by another. As for your concern for Doge Gritti, he does not know that everyone who knows his secret is now dead and he will not know it from me, at least. That is his penance – to go on wondering and worrying whether his secret will be revealed, either in his lifetime or afterwards. There must be some penalty for what he has done.”