Memento Vivere

The Parcae — the Fates of ancient Roman lore — were said to wield no influence over mortal actions. Their dominion lay elsewhere: the moment of birth, the inevitability of death, and the measure of pain endured in between. But, dear reader, consider this:

How much anguish can a mortal endure before their spirit fractures? What torment transforms a soul into something monstrous? And what ruin might such a creature unleash upon the world? If the Parcae’s threads of life are spun with such precision, does their weaving not rival even the gods themselves?

Yet this is not ancient Rome, and the Fates are but myths now — stories spun to frighten children or entertain restless minds.

Our tale begins in Nantes, beneath the late skies of autumn. Here, Alix Maria Tradonico — a spirited young woman caught between the independence her late mother cherished and the obligations her estranged father demands — faces the first turn of the thread. With her half-brothers dead, Alix has been summoned unconventionally across the seas to her father’s house, not as his daughter but as a pawn in his ambitions. The promise of wealth, security, and an heir hinges on an arranged marriage — a union she neither desires nor fully understands.

But across the continent, in the canals and shadows of le Serenìsima Repùblica Vèneta, (the Serene Republic of Venezia), the stage is already set for another thread to be woven.

Rinaldo d’Este, a man shaped by duty and shadowed by the complexities of his past, plays a dangerous game within the confines of the Republic. As one of Venezia’s feared state inquisitors, his role is to safeguard the republic through secrets, deception, and judgment. Yet even he cannot escape the tangle of fate, for the threads of his life are bound to Alix’s in ways neither can yet foresee.

Nearing the final days of 1573, the darkness of autumn cloaks more than the cold. The fragile balance between ambition, love, and survival trembles. And as the threads begin to weave, one must wonder — are the Parcae truly gone, or do they still linger, unseen, spinning destinies from the shadows?


It begins in Nantes, Alix sits nearly hidden, bundled up in warm clothes and a cloak in the colours of mourning in the back of a carriage. Her loyal servants, the Leroux couple, are seated unsuspectingly in the front as events are about to unfold, for the winds of fate will soon guide Alix to Venezia.



(My thanks to Playerfiles for his help with editing, including his own story ideas and polishing my original post. )

The early evening sky was veiled with condensing grey clouds that promised rain later into the night. Alix looked up, her long, slender fingers adjusting the hood of her black cloak as another rut in the dirt road made her teeter slightly backwards against the rest of her carriage seat. Weariness caused her a slight drowsiness, but the cool wind from the coastal river of the Loire and a hint of woodsmoke carried in the air from the village of Merlais-sur-Mer kept her awake. She was now heading to her ancestral home, Le Manoir de Bruc, a modest estate, after having attended Sunday mass and having brought alms and some of her late mother's warmer winter clothes to Father Giles and Sister Hélène so that they might distribute each item where it would best serve the needy of their small parish.

Pierre Leroux, her coachman nearing his fifties and one of the men who had agreed to stay on in her service after the death of her mother, Baroness Sophie Jeanne de Bruc of Nantes, gently slowed the pair of grey Percheron horses to a stop with a soft "Whoa, tout doux la." to the pair of mares.

Alix sat straight in the back, trying to see over Anne Leroux's head, who sat at the front near her husband. Anne was ten years younger than her husband, but her eyesight was starting to fail, and Alix did not count on her to observe what might be happening. "What is it?" Anne quietly asked. It was best to be cautious in these times with the tensions between French Roman Catholics and the Huguenots, Protestants, and occasional bandits on such a lonely road.

"A figure lies on the road. They are face down and cloaked," Pierre whispered back. Surely they are injured," Pierre stated as he prepared to hand the horses' reins to his wife.

Alix stood straighter and gazed around, her bright, lavender-blue eyes narrowing with wariness. How far would the animal have bolted if the person had been thrown from their horse? They had not seen or heard anything, though it didn't mean the person could not have come the way of de Bruc Manoir. "Stay with Anne, Pierre; I will see to this," She told him gently as she deftly hopped down from the carriage and landed on the dirt road with a soft thud on the hard, dry ground. She moved forward and did not look back to the older couple. She motioned to her male servant with her left leather black-gloved hand that Pierre should turn the carriage slightly aside and closer to the prone body blocking nearly half the road. She gracefully bent to slip the sheathed dagger out from her high leather boot with her right hand encased in a black glove. Better safe than sorry, she told herself. "Can you hear me? Are you in need of aid?" She called in a firm yet pleasant alto voice, hoping it masked her growing unease as she looked around instead of down at the figure lying in the dirt.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw four caped and hooded figures, two on each side, flank the carriage. She acted nearly without thought and kicked hard at the prone figure on the ground. A deep, angry growl was soon followed by "Strego-puttana! Since when do girls kick dead or injured men!" as the man started to rise, favouring the leg Alix had not just kicked.

Alix got an arm lock on her opponent, as her half-brother Lorenzo had shown her. The man was an inch shorter than herself and not very large. He wasn't a simple local bandit from his insult, though she didn't quite understand the words, and his heavily Italian accent when he spoke French. Her sharp, short blade quickly went to the man's throat. A sudden rage at the man's and his accomplices' trap gave her added strength and sharp-wittedness in a moment that might have left others of her gender trembling with fear as Anne was.

"You are not dead yet, fool." She rebuked him. "Tell your miscreant companions to get far away from my servants, carriage and horses; otherwise, I will be kicking the dead!" She emphasized the point by inserting a slight pressure on the blade at his throat so that a thin cut caused his warm blood to sip down his dirt-covered neck.

Then, a giant of a dark-skinned man dressed in dun-coloured leather revealed himself. He seemed a shade, having materialized from the surrounding air, but the deadly pistol he carried and aimed at Pierre, who was still up on the carriage, seemed very real to her. “Lady Alix Maria Tradonico, yes?” He asked for confirmation of her identity.

There was a tense silence as Alix refused to answer. That these men spoke with an Italian accent and knew her name validated more of her suspicion that these were no simple, random highwaymen.

The cock of the flintlock was heard, and pistol fire rang above Pierre's head. A murder of crows cawed their dismay at the disturbance as they took flight.

Though he wanted to appear brave for his wife and barBaronesshe, the older man flinched and blinked his eyes shut before reopening them. His hands spasmed tightly on the reins to keep the horses from trying to bolt.

"My eldest brother would never stand for this!" Alix protested. Aside from her mother, Lorenzo, her eldest half-brother, had always been her strongest ally when it came to opposing her father's plans for her to be brought to La Serenìsima Repùblica Vèneta because of how it would pain and shame his mother, Patrizia Elena Luisa Tradonico. He would never approve if he knew or came to know about this.

The dark, bearded man paused momentarily and seemed to weigh in before speaking further. "Perhaps," The man said in French with a heavy Ventizian accent, "but he is no longer alive. Patrizio Julius Tradonica paid us a handsome price to return his only remaining heir to him." The man's dark and deadly gaze did not leave Alix's as he waved his hand dismissively towards Pierre and his wife without even looking at them, "But he said nothing about disposing of others, especially…" he emphasized the word. "If you try to cause us grief, girl!"

Alix felt her blood run cold in her veins. Lorenzo, dead? Just three years after their twin brothers Franco and Dario? She had never gotten to know her older twin brothers since they directly looked after their father's affairs abroad and often voyaged by sea. Still, Lorenzo had always spoken of them fondly, describing them as boisterous and good-natured.

She clenched her fists, feeling the steel of her dagger through the glove of her right hand. With her mother having died in the spring, if these men spoke true about her father, then he would indeed be desperate. He would disregard her mother's and half-brother's wishes that she never be brought on Italian soil. It would make him desperately dangerous, and she doubted his wife, now dealing with her grief, would intervene on behalf of her husband's bastard daughter.


Anger and grief quickly ran through her, but she tampered it down. Her life was not in danger, though her freedom was. The odds were not at all in her favour if she tried to fight back, and her father's thugs would not hesitate to kill Anne and Pierre at their leader's command.


Alix pushed the man she had been holding at daggerpoint away from her, and he gave her an audible sigh of relief. She would have done the same if the situation had not been so dire, for she was glad to be away from his unpleasant scent.

She made her mind up, then reversed her grip on her dagger and offered it to the gang's darker-skinned leader. She walked over to him with determined steps. He took it and placed what now looked like an insignificant knife in his colossal hand at his belt.

"Let my servants take my carriage with the horses and depart unharmed, and I will go with you." Alix's voice rang out clearly in the darkening sky.

She heard Anne's shock gasp, but Pierre remained silent, unconvincing that these bandits could be trusted. Their leader gave Alix a measured look and nodded. "Let them go; we have the girl. Do as she says, or face me!" He gave the final order as a dire warning to any men refusing his command.

His men backed away from the older servants, not wishing to challenge their giant of a leader's words. Alix stood still as one of the men departed and headed for a grove of trees a ways further away from the road, but none intervened as Pierre helped Anne resettle herself on the carriage's front seat and then himself. His lips were nearly white under his greying beard of rusty brown and thinned into a straight line. He turned the carriage quickly around, heading back to Merlais-sur-Mer, most likely to fetch guards for his BarBaronesstill; when Alix detected the nearby sound of horses being led back to the road by the thug who had gone to fetch them in the grove, she doubted Pierre could lead guards back to aid her.

Some of the more suspicious and narrow-minded in the village of Merlais-sur-Mer said that her mother was a witch who had ensorceled a married foreigner and that the late BBaroness, her lover, and their ill-begotten daughter would be cursed for it. Alix had always told herself that no matter what her mother and father had done, she was still a child of God, as Sister Helene and Father Giles told her…but now…

The giant, dark-skinned man mounted a jet-black stallion and brought the vast beast to stand still next to her. He held out a large and calloused hand out to her. "Do you ride?" He questioned her dubiously.

She took his large, calloused hand into her smaller, gloved one and gracefully climbed up behind him with his assistance despite the tightness of her black dress and corset underneath. "I do, and do you have a name?" She asked imperiously, refusing to show this man any fear, though she was now off the ground on the largest horse she had ever seen about to take off with unknown mercenaries hired by her estranged father.

A deep rumble of a chuckle was heard and felt as she sat near the leader's very broad and muscular back. "Gaspare." He stated, chuckling at the girl's boldness.

She nodded, once decisively, though he could not see her. "Then, take me to my father, Gaspare, for he has much to answer for!"

With that, the leader shouted to his men as he nudged his horse with a surprising gentleness into a gallop. The others mounted and followed after him and the French hellion behind him on his powerful stallion.

As Il Rosso, Rinaldo serves as the chief inquisitor tasked with safeguarding the integrity of Venezia. The position, granted only to the most capable and cunning individuals, wields immense power and influence. It extends beyond legal authority, demanding mastery in the manipulation of information, surveillance, and coercion to maintain the delicate balance of the Republic. Clad in the scarlet robe that symbolizes his title, Rinaldo bears the weighty responsibility of ensuring Venezia remains free from the domination of any single ruler or faction. This mandate involves uncovering conspiracies, neutralizing threats to the Republic, and orchestrating a vast network of informants, including operatives embedded in the Bocche dei Leoni. His reach extends across internal and external spheres, making him a crucial figure in preserving Venezia’s stability.

The position grants Rinaldo significant autonomy, as the Inquisitors operate above the law in many respects. Under his leadership, the office of Il Rosso has gained a reputation for brutal efficiency. Rinaldo excels at rooting out dissent, whether it stems from the political elite or the criminal underworld. His expertise in espionage and counterespionage enables him to uncover plots before they can take shape, leveraging his informants to maintain control over potential upheavals. His tenure has already been marked by significant achievements. Among these was the dismantling of an ambitious conspiracy to install a foreign signore in Venezia… an operation thwarted entirely through his carefully cultivated intelligence network. His calculated and decisive actions have solidified his reputation as a formidable guardian of the Republic, one whose vigilance ensures Venezia’s survival in an era rife with political intrigue and external threats.

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Julius Tradonico’s decision to arrange Alix’s marriage to Signore Rinaldo d’Este of Venezia was a calculated move, many months in the making, and rooted in his desire to secure the Tradonico family’s influence and stability in a precarious political landscape. As the head of a powerful mercantile dynasty spanning both Venezia and Nantes, Julius understood that alliances forged through marriage could serve as unassailable bonds in a world where loyalties often shifted with the tides.

But in the beginning, Sophie, his mistress and Alix's mother, was vehement toward the agreement wanting Alix to stay in Nantes and help Lorenzo… but the gods of fate had other plans… and when her health continued to deteriorate after a bout of unexplained spoiled food poisoning… she regrettably relented, thus agreeing to the arranged marriage. Even in ill-health, she sought to better her daughter’s position by commissioning a portrait of Alix still early spring of 1573. Alix had just turned eighteen and her pale skin was due to spending more time indoors in winter. Perhaps she looked more demure than usual, with her hard-to-tame locks of dark hair still wild around her slim shoulders. But Sophie was proud of her daughter and sent the portrait to Signore d’Este with pride.

But even after Sophie efforts had helped Julius, she would never see her daughter married well, as she passed away later that Spring. Summoned to her Father’s house in Venezia, Alix stubbornly refused to go, not wanting to be a burden or embarrassment to her Baroness Elena, or her then-living brother Lorenzo. Then with Lorenzo's death a few months later, the embittered Julius takes matters into his own hands and forces her to comply as Alix is now the only direct living heir aside from her cousins and an aunt.

The Tradonico family, though wealthy and influential, faced significant challenges. Lorenzo’s untimely and suspicious death had left a void in the family’s leadership and raised questions about their vulnerability. Alix Maria, though not a traditional heir, represented an asset in securing the family’s future. Julius saw an opportunity to leverage her position through a strategic marriage that would strengthen their connections to Venezia’s ruling elite while ensuring her personal safety amidst growing tensions.

Signore Rinaldo d’Este, as the Republic’s Council of Ten Chief Inquisitor, possessed a reputation for both competence and ruthlessness; one Julius could use. The position of Il Rosso made Rinaldo one of the most powerful figures in the city of Canals, if not all of the Empire. With access to intelligence networks and the authority to act against the Republic’s enemies, and by aligning the Tradonicos with Familia d’Este, Julius sought to gain a powerful ally who could shield the family from external threats and internal rivalries. Additionally, such a union would cement the Nantes Tradonicos' standing within Venetian society over his own kin, Giorgio’s own heirs, giving them better leverage in political and mercantile negotiations.

---

Julius approached Rinaldo not only with the allure of Alix’s beauty and grace, validated by the commissioned portrait, but also with promises of mutual benefit. The Tradonicos’ expansive trade network, including access to lucrative routes in Nantes and connections to Breton nobility, complemented Rinaldo’s own ambitions. For Rinaldo, this alliance offered a chance to strengthen his own position by tying himself to one of Nantes’ wealthiest families, gaining resources and influence that could expand his role as Il Rosso. With the deaths of Giorgio as heir to the Venezia Tradonico’s, he knew the young heirs had clout but insufficient to meet his own needs.

Though Rinaldo had no feelings on this arrangement, he presumed minimally Alix’s feelings on the arrangement were likely mixed. While she may have understood the necessity of such a union in a world dictated by power and survival, her personal desires would likely be at odds with the cold pragmatism of her father’s decision. Surely her interactions with him, would have no affect to his own reputation for intrigue and calculated ruthlessness that preceded him, or determine whether their marriage would become a partnership of equals or remain just a link in the web of Venezia’s politics.

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The arrangement, seemingly advantageous, was fraught with complications. Julius’s motivations were not purely protective; he was also acutely aware of the whispers surrounding Lorenzo’s death. By marrying Alix to Rinaldo, he ensured that the inquisitor would have a vested interest in uncovering the truth and safeguarding the Tradonicos from further harm. This calculated move intertwined Rinaldo’s loyalty with the family’s survival, making any threat to them a personal affront to him. At the same time, Julius was aware that the marriage placed Alix in a precarious position. As both a Tradonico and Rinaldo’s wife, she would have to navigate the treacherous waters of Venetian politics, balancing her family’s interests with those of her powerful husband. Her wit, charm, and resilience would be tested as she became a pivotal figure in ensuring the success of her father’s gamble.

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As such, Rinaldo’s investigation into Lorenzo Tradonico’s death stemmed from a mix of personal motives, professional obligations, and political necessity, making his involvement deeply compelling and multifaceted. His ties to the Tradonico family had become pivotal through professional dealings with Julius was driving a genuine desire to uncover the truth. Lorenzo’s death, shrouded in suspicious circumstances, occurred during a critical moment in the family’s operations with Rinaldo… the high-stakes negotiations, suggesting foul play tied to rival families, political enemies, or disgruntled allies, such as the Foscari or Morosini…

In his position of authority as Il Rosso, Rinaldo had access to resources others lacked. His ability to examine port records, trade logs, or interrogate witnesses could unveil details Julius Tradonico was unable to uncover. Furthermore, Lorenzo’s death had the appearances of intersecting with a larger investigation, he was already pursuing, the escalating tensions between Venice and France. This overlap naturally drew him deeper into the mystery.

Beyond personal and professional stakes, solving a low-profile case like Lorenzo’s death could serve Rinaldo’s ambitions with Julius, bolstering his reputation with the man as well as solidify negotiations in his own favor. He could only sustain the rumors surrounding the tragedy hinting at a larger conspiracy involving rival factions, Ottoman traders, or Breton nobles, positioning Lorenzo’s death as the key to unraveling a much larger plot. No, Rin was not beyond that… especially to further his own resources.

And there was the possible avenues for the investigation to include tracing Lorenzo’s final voyage, where conflicting reports might suggest an accident, piracy, or sabotage; uncovering a betrayal within the Tradonico family or their allies, given Lorenzo’s fiery personality and clashes with his father; or exposing a broader power struggle over Venetian trade routes or influence in Nantes. His inquiry could also serve a protective purpose, such as shielding the remaining Tradonicos from further harm as they navigate the fallout… yes, even the free-spirited nature and tomboyish demeanor in the woman, the daughter, now sole heir, Alix.

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Julius’ arrangement set the stage for the union… with Alix, bags and baggage, to be delivered to Ca'Barberini II in Venezia’s Sestieri Dorsoduro on December 28 with an expected January 1st wedding… that could either solidify the Tradonicos' future or expose them to greater risks. It underscored the delicate interplay between personal relationships and political strategy in Venezia, maybe even the Empire, where love, power, and survival were often inseparably intertwined. For Alix and Rinaldo, their marriage would not only define their futures but also the fortunes of the families and Republic they served.

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The warm glow of the Venetian sunset cast long shadows across the gilded chambers of Ca'Barberini II, Rinaldo’s grand palazzo in Sestieri Dorsoduro, where he and Julius Tradonico sat in quiet negotiation. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine and the faint salt of the nearby canals. Julius, ever the seasoned merchant and diplomat, had leaned forward in his chair, his hands resting firmly on the ornately carved armrests. Opposite him, Rinaldo, clad in the understated yet unmistakably authoritative attire befitting Il Rosso, regarded the older man with a calm yet calculating gaze.

The topic at hand was delicate… Alix, Julius’ only daughter, was to be delivered to Rinaldo’s own palazzo, bags and baggage, in preparation for her marriage to him. The arrangement, steeped in both political expediency and personal strategy, required careful choreography to preserve both families' reputations. Rin had listened to Julius as he spoke first regurgitating the written agreement, his voice measured, tinged with the weariness of a man who had sacrificed much for his family. With a sharp mind already turning over the logistics and implications of the impending move. Beneath the polite exchange of words lay a tension born of mutual respect and the unspoken awareness of what was truly at stake… not just the future of Alix, but the balance of power within Venice itself.

The scribe of Rin's employ set the agreement before Julius... "Signore Tradonico, the arrangements you propose are both pragmatic and, I dare say, beneficial to all involved. Alix’s arrival at Ca'Barberini will be handled with the utmost discretion, as befits her station and the respect owed to your family. Yet, let us speak plainly. This is no mere transfer of residence or possessions. Your daughter is more than an asset; she is a symbol of the alliance we forge here tonight.” Seeing Julius did not look at the Agreement, Rin pulled the parchment toward him spinning it so he may look at it…

Looking to his scribe, he beckoned pen and inkwell. “I trust her well-being and dignity will remain priorities, even as we navigate the practicalities of this arrangement. I will see to it that her transition is as seamless as possible, but I must insist on transparency in these matters. And before I set pen to parchment… If there are concerns… be they her wishes, her safety, or the logistics of her departure from your household… now is the time to discuss them. Our shared interests depend on mutual trust and clarity. I will hear your thoughts on how we proceed to ensure that neither of us missteps."

Eve of November 8th, 1573

Perhaps the winds of fate favored Julius Tradonico on this night, for the skies cleared of darkening clouds as the men on horseback and Alix raced towards the coast and stopped near a small, isolated farm. There, everyone dismounted, and Gaspare instructed two men to return the horses to their owner. Alix was told to move to lower ground. The two men took the horse to the stables as well as the colossal stallion, which was more challenging to handle. They gave a filled coin purse to a young, hardy, stable hand and left to catch up to their companions.

Alix was led down a steep sandy incline towards the beach, where a skiff was manned by a crew who waited for the return of the two men who had gone to restore the horses to their rightful owner. Revealed by the light of a nearly full moon, a Barbie Corsair ship with lowered sails was anchored in the mirrored stillness of the Loire River.



Once boarded on the Al-Jarih, the Swift in Arabic, a Barbary Corsair vessel smaller and lighter than traditional merchant ships and designed for speed and maneuverability, Alix was introduced to Captain Khaled al-Raif, a tall and wiry man with sun-darkened skin and sharp features. A thick scar ran from his left eyebrow to his temple, a reminder of his corsair days. He dressed practically, favoring loose shirts, a waist sash, and a cutlass always at his side.

Khaled's piercing amber eyes seemed to assess her. Gaspare was then formally introduced as his First Mate before she was led to Khaled's cabin, where Gaspare promptly used a key Khaled had given him to lock her up, much to Alix's dismay and anger as she kicked and banged on the solid wooden door. The crew were instructed to ignore that a woman was now locked aboard their Captain's quarters.

The crew hosted the sails, and a fair wind blew, permitting the Al-Jarif and her crew to sail down the Loire River from Nantes to the Atlantic Ocean. Strong winds without storms permitted them to skirt the Iberian Peninsula, navigate the Strait of Gibraltar, and enter the Mediterranean Sea.

If the men thought it bad luck to have a woman aboard a ship, they refrained from openly mentioning it. Each agreed to take turns bringing her food and thwarting her attempts at going above deck, even when it was clear that fresh air would do her a world of good since she seemed to eat little and keep even less down.
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Afternoon of December 2, 1573


Before proceeding through the Tyrrhenian and Adriatic Seas, Captain Khaled insisted they dock at the port of Palma, now fortified and known for its decadence. The quartermaster and some men were charged with restocking the ship and finding a few good sailors to add to the crew before they could enjoy Lower Town's many pleasures. Deep in thought, Gaspare left alone to search for a few clean sets of black clothes for Alix.


That night, a weakened Alix, still locked in the Captain's cabin, tossed and turned on the bed as in her dream she saw herself attempting to flee by foolishly throwing herself at the mercy of vast ocean waves, hoping to swim to a nearby island to find shelter and aid. In her fevered state, she did not hear the near-silent struggle of the guard appointed outside her door, more to ensure her physical safety and guarantee of privacy from too-curious crew members than her risk of escape from the Al-Jarih.

As it became harder to breathe and her eyesight blurred in her dream, a vision of Lorenzo floated above her. His corn-flower-colored eyes, so like her own, implored her as he raised his voice, "Awaken, sister. You must awaken!"

Alix did so, startled and damp, covered by her sweat, to smell the smoke from under her door. Low cursing of male voices was heard, as well as continued scuffling as unbeknownst to her, the injured guard continued to wrestle with an unknown assailant who meant to end not only his life but also that of the entire crew as the now shattered lantern and its oil risk spreading to the rest of the ship.

In a moment of growing clarity at the gravity of the situation, Alix took a nearby wooden chair and banged it hard against the locked door, knowing that it was not her guard who had the key but Gaspare or the Captain, who took turns bringing her food and beverage: a light, thinned ale in the morning, somewhat clean water, and strips of fabric for her morning absolutions. She called out a warning of FIRE several times, which alerted the crew members above on lookout duty.

Once crew members with blankets and flour extinguished the fire threat, the Captain let out Alix and gently led her up to the main deck to freely breathe clean sea air. Gaspare apprehended and searched the infiltrated assassin under Captain Khaled's orders. A strange, almost life-like tattoo of a peculiar red sleepless eye was on the assassin's hand. No amount of beating or torture, or even the chopping off of his hand, loosened the assailant's tongue.



The assassin was caged until the ship set sail again, and with arms bound, he was made to walk the plank. The boat was searched, and crew questioned as to exactly how and when the failed assassin had boarded the Al-Jarif, but no further answers were found.

Perhaps feelings of guilt and gratitude towards Alix for having saved herself and the ship on Captain Khaled's part led him to allow Alix more freedom of movement aboard his boat. Donning a cleaner set of black clothes, Alix seemed to take more to life aboard the Al-Jarif. In the days and weeks that followed, she regained a few pounds, and her natural pale olive skin took on a healthy sun-kissed glow as the turning winds tossed her wild mass of mahogany locks.

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The morning of December 28, 1573

The Al-Jarif entered the waters around La Serenìsima Repùblica Vèneta.

The morning of December 28, 1573, dawned gray and cold as the Al-Jarif, a sleek Barbary sloop, glided into the waters surrounding La Serenìsima Repùblica Vèneta, the Laguna just a few leagues away. Its captain, Khaled al-Raif, stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of trouble. His ship, a prize seized from slavers and outfitted for speed over brute strength, was laden with spices, silks, and rumors of greater treasures hidden within her hold, not to mention the likes of Lady Alix Maria Tradonico. The Venetians would not look kindly upon her presence, but Khaled had orders from Julius Tradonico himself to deliver her safely to Venice under the pretense of legitimate trade.

Unbeknownst to Khaled, two ships from the d’Este merchant fleet had been trailing him since he passed through the Strait of Gibraltar… a pair of swift 28-gun sloops, La Cacciatrice and Folgore departed from Genoa and trailed them. Their captains, both hardened men in the service of the Signore d’Este himself, had orders to follow and observe but not to attack unless provoked. Rinaldo had expected a ship carrying Lady Tradonico, but the Barbary sloop was unexpected.

The pursuit began in earnest after Al-Jarif docked briefly in Palermo to take on provisions. Captain Giovanni Reale of La Cacciatrice, a man as calculating as he was ruthless, had ordered his crew to maintain their distance, cloaking their movements in the bustling shipping lanes of the Mediterranean. His counterpart aboard Folgore, Captain Matteo Vivaldi, preferred bolder tactics, urging for a direct confrontation. “She’s fast, Giovanni,” Matteo remarked during a brief exchange over a signal lantern one night. “Faster than either of us alone. We should box her in now, before she reaches Venetian waters.”

Giovanni shook his head, the faint glow of the lantern illuminating his sharp features. “Patience, Matteo. Let her lead us to her purpose. If she is bound for Venice, she may carry something… or someone… valuable enough to justify the risk of pursuit.” Matteo reluctantly agreed, though his frustration simmered.

By the time Al-Jarif entered the Adriatic, the pursuit had grown tenser. Khaled, aware of his shadows, had begun employing evasive maneuvers. His crew, a mix of seasoned sailors and former corsairs, adjusted the sails and trim with precision, squeezing every knot of speed from the ship.

On the morning of December 26, a winter squall swept across the Adriatic, forcing the three ships to navigate treacherous waters. Al-Jarif used the storm to its advantage, cutting close to rocky outcroppings along the Dalmatian coast. Giovanni’s La Cacciatrice nearly lost sight of her quarry in the chaos, while Matteo’s Folgore sustained minor damage from a rogue wave.

When the skies cleared, Khaled allowed himself a brief smile. The d’Este ships were still behind him, but he had gained precious distance. Venezia was close now… close enough to sense the tension in the air, the weight of its great stone towers looming over the lagoon.

On the morning of December 28, as Al-Jarif approached the lagoon, Matteo made his move. Folgore surged ahead, its cannons run out in a show of force. Khaled ’s crew readied their own meager artillery, but he raised a hand to stop them. “Not yet,” he said, his voice calm. “Let them make the first mistake.”

Giovanni’s La Cacciatrice soon joined Folgore, and the two ships flanked Al-Jarif. Matteo hailed the Barbary ship, his voice carrying across the water. “Barbary sloop, you are entering Venetian waters under suspicious circumstances. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

Khaled stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “I carry trade goods under the seal of the Tradonico family. Any interference with my passage will be considered an act against their interests.”

Giovanni narrowed his eyes, noting the boldness in Khaled’s tone. He glanced at the Venetian seal affixed to the ship’s main mast… a symbol that complicated matters. “We will escort you into the lagoon…” Giovanni finally replied. “Any deviation, and we will not hesitate to sink you.”

Khaled nodded curtly, his grip tightening on the ship’s wheel. He had made it this far, but the true test was yet to come. Behind him, the sun broke through the clouds, casting its light upon the waters of Venezia and the three ships now locked in a precarious dance of diplomacy and distrust.

---

The Riva Degli Schiavoni (Shores of the Schiavoni) is a lovely and lively… albeit often overcrowded… promenade along the southern banks of Sestiere Castello that sits on the waterfront at Saint Mark's Basin. It commences outside the Palazzo Ducale and ends near the Arsenale. The promenade takes its name from the Dalmatian (formerly Schiavonia) merchants who use to dock here; and now vessels of all makes and flags find easy berth at the promenade… where passengers and cargo embark and disembark here.

The waterfront facility is constantly teeming with gondolas, sailing boats, and barges and daily entertains a Babel of languages, as traders, dignitaries and sailors arrive from ports around the Mediterranean and beyond. The market stalls that crowd the area are mainly for locals to sell their meat, dried fish, and wares near the wharf. At the easternmost tip, is the almshouse block known as the Ca’di Dio. This large complex achieves its dramatic impact not from learned classicism but from pure form… from the impudent line of outsized chimneys along the rio wing, and from the subtlety of the oblique angle that brings the end of the range into view to the west is the elegant Ponte della Paglia (Bridge of Straw) connecting it to St Mark’s square.

The Al-Jarif glided into the bustling piers of Riva degli Schiavoni, its exotic silhouette drawing stares from dockworkers and passersby. Its dark hull and foreign rigging stood out against the more familiar shapes of Venetian galleys and merchant ships, and whispers of its origin spread quickly through the crowd. Captain Khaled al-Raif stood at the helm, his expression stoic as the ship was secured. He knew the weight of every gaze upon him and his crew.

In the San Marco Basin, La Cacciatrice raised a series of signal flags to alert the Venetian authorities. The message was clear: Summon Il Rosso. Within minutes, a response fluttered back in crimson and gold, signaling acknowledgment. The escort sloops held their position in the basin, their captains observing as figures in soldiers uniforms and one in scarlet robes emerged on the quayside.

Rinaldo d’Este, Il Rosso, the Inquisitor of Venezia, arrived swiftly, accompanied by a retinue of men clad in black and gray cloaks. His presence immediately commanded respect… and fear. The dockworkers averted their eyes as he passed, while his men moved with precision to secure the area.

But Rinaldo and his men had not been the first to meet the Al-Jarif… its crew hesitated as Signore Julius Tradonico approached the gangplank, but Khaled stepped forward, raising a hand in reassurance to his men. "Welcome to Venezia, Captain," Julius said in the language the Pirates understood, his tone cool and measured. "Your arrival has been anticipated."

Khaled bowed slightly and pointed to the two armed escorts anchored in the bay. "I trust the seal of the Tradonico family has been honored?"


Julius’ sharp eyes flicked to the Venetian insignia on the mast. "It has protected you thus far, si? However, I must verify the nature of your cargo and the truth of your mission. For that, I require your cooperation. She is unharmed, si?"

Khaled nodded, gesturing for his first mate to bring forth the ship's manifests. "Everything is in order. I only ask for fair compensation."

Julius gave a faint smile. "Fair compensation is guaranteed, Captain… when I see the valued cargo… "

While the men of the Il Rosso took up positions on the pier adjacent to the sloop, another commotion rippled through the Riva degli Schiavoni as a sleek gondola bearing the emblem of House d’Este docked nearby. Signore Rinaldo d’Este stepped onto the pier, his polished boots clicking against the stones. His arrival was a spectacle of power and refinement; his red and gold robes fluttered in the wind, and his silver-topped cane tapped rhythmically as he approached.

“Signore Tradonico…” Rinaldo greeted him with a subtle bow, though his tone betrayed no warmth. “To what do we owe this honor of your presence upon this Barbery sloop?”

Julius’ lips curled into a practiced smile. “A matter of personal interest, Inquisitor. My ships were tasked with ensuring this vessel’s safe arrival. I wish to inspect its contents myself, to confirm that my well-paid interests are protected.”

Khaled’s expression tightened, though he remained silent. Rinaldo raised an eyebrow, his mind calculating the implications.

“Of course,” Rinaldo said after a moment. “Though I must remind you that the jurisdiction over such matters belongs to the Inquisitor’s Office.”

“And we serve the Republic,” Julius replied smoothly. “As do they, for now.” Julius looked to the Khaled… “My cargo Captaine…”

Rinaldo gave a slight nod, understanding the veiled challenge. He gestured for one of his men to fetch the ship’s manifest. As the manifest was brought forward, the inspection began under the watchful eyes of Rinaldo, Julius, and Khaled. The ship’s cargo appeared legitimate… spices, silks, and other luxuries… but Rinaldo’s men found sealed chests in the hold, their contents unknown…. And those were soon extracted to the main deck.

“What is this, Captain?” Rinaldo asked, his voice cutting through the rising tension.

Khaled hesitated, but Julius spoke first. “Not a mystery nor clandestine marketing, I assure you…”

Rinaldo’s gaze lingered on the chests. “Indeed. Captain, these chests will be taken to the Ducale Palazzo (Doge’s palace) for further examination. You will accompany me.”

Khaled inclined his head, though his jaw tightened. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

Julius stepped forward closer to Rinaldo and spoke…. “I trust you will be pleased with the cargo… its…” in a split moment, a noise from below decks caused him to interrupt his convincing words…

Just then came loud voices of the female gender from the stairs from the gundeck in the direction of the Captain’s quarters… “Lâchez-moi, brutes... je suis capable de me tenir debout et de marcher toute seule” as the young woman kicked and shoved at both ship crewman and Venetian soldiers around her, as she stormed up the stairs to the main deck…

Rinaldo gave a thin smile. “Your interest is noted, Signore Tradonico. What were you saying?” said in an almost humorous manner

The chests were carefully taken to the pier… and Rinaldo’s retinue started to escort Khaled and his first mate off the ship… but the commotion interrupted all proceedings.

Then the lady appeared on the main deck… and all eyes were upon her as she fumed…

The game was far from over.

Alix had had only time to comb her usually wayward hair and to finish dressing in one of the simple black silk gowns with a faded gold lace ribbon in the front as to the dress’ only claim of any frivolity that Gaspare had brought back for her when he had returned on board ship from Palma, where most of the crew suspected the late assassin must have somehow sneaked on board.

Now, strange men in uniforms of soldiers she did not recognize and two members of the Al-Jarif crew tried to vie over the right to escort her onto the main deck. After everything she had been through, her mother’s death, the still unexplained presumed death of her eldest brother, being strong-handed into following her father’s men to La Serenìsima Repùblica Vèneta and then her near death at the hands of a yet unknown assailant was too much.

She had no intention of letting any of these men touch her. She flew into a sudden rage, pushing and kicking anyone who tried to get near her. She couldn’t stand to be confined or surrounded, so she went to the main deck and past the gangplank to the pier. Her pleasantly full and rounded, though not overly large, chest still heaved with her recent bout of anger, and though she was aware of the many eyes upon her, she thought them only her father’s men. She stood proud before them as if she was one of her former Breton ancestors and might have stood defiant before the Romans. She gazed around for her father in the gathered crowd both on board the Al-Jarif and on the docks with what she assumed must be the local market with its stalls and merchants selling their meats and dried fish as well as other tempting aromas that reminded her that she had not eaten a fresh or decent meal, nor had the stomach for it since leaving the shores of Nantes.

It was then that she spied him, The Crimson Lion, with soft waves of deep golden brown hair touched by the sun’s rays piercing through cold, dark clouds, garbed in ornate robes of crimson and gold that surely denoted his high status, no one needed to tell her that he wielded power here. She also felt his gaze on her, and for the briefest of moments, her vivid blue eyes dared to meet the celestial blue of his own. She thought his beauty inhuman and silently questioned him with wonder and fear. What do you want of me?

Her eyes lowered then, and she felt she must appear like an insignificant child. She did not want whatever this was, yet she did not want this man’s anger directed at her. Remembering the manners her mother had tried to instill in her, mostly in vain. She offered The Crimson Lion her most sincere curtsey.

As she gracefully raised herself, it was then that she saw her father. “Père, qu’avez vous fait?” Her voice was laced with an edge of despair; she called out to her father and also spotted a beautiful, elegant woman dressed all in black with thick, raven coils of hair artfully coiffed in the latest fashion, stepping off a gondola with the Tradonico emblem on it, who could only be her father’s wife based on her late half-brother Lorenzo’s description of her.

Despite her age, a steel glare from large and expressive hazel-brown eyes hit Julius Tradonico as his Lady wife maneuvered her slender, slippered feet off the gangplank and walked onto the pier not far from Signore Rinaldo d’Este. Her personal maid Amina, a pretty and petite girl of eighteen soon followed after her and bowed low in such noble company.

Elena graciously bowed before him and paid her respect as she addressed him using his full title, “Consiglieri Ducale, Signore Rinaldo d’Este; Il Rosso, Inquisitor, you honour us with your presence. I trust you have been introduced to your future betrothed, Baroness Alix Maria de Bruc Tradonico of Nantes.” Her cultured voice was filled with sincerity. After all, someone had to salvage this display, which would amount to a terrible mess with significant reprisals if Signore d’Este believed his honour in any way tarnished by what could soon become a public spectacle.

A tiny gasp of shock followed by a feminine French accented query, “Betrothed? Inquisitor?!? He is a Spanaid?”

Baroness Elena had finally discovered the truth about her husband’s schemes earlier that morning from her distraught personal maid Amina, the youngest sister to Gaspare, First Mate aboard the Al-Jarif. Amina had broken down, fearful of the displeasure of her mistress if Lady Elena were to find out that Amina had known of Lady Alix’s arrival and impending marriage to Signore d’Este.

Elena had known of such rumours from her son Lorenzo for a while. Still, she believed her husband wise enough not to reach beyond his station to secure a marriage for his illegitimate, though recognized daughter to such a powerful and well-connected man as Il Rosso.

When she turned and graciously smiled at Alix, the girl showed good god-given sense and humbly bowed before her. Elena thought of her as a pretty thing in the way of her people, though perhaps she was a bit overly tall and too thin. Still, properly cleaned up and with some guidance, there could be hope for the girl and what was left of the Tradonico family if her husband did not blunder everything. She could feel her husband’s eyes on her, wondering what game she was up to, and she flashed him a smile, through her eyes, promised retribution in private.

She turned and politely curtsied before Signore d'Este again, “Lady Alix is most likely not well after such a long and arduous voyage, Signore d’Este and I would suggest that perhaps I could accompany her back to her father’s home, and may I suggest my physician tend to her to make sure, she is well and…whole and then report back to you?” The sous-entente was apparent to those who could read between the lines that the question of whether Alix’s innocence was still intact would be verified if Signore d’Este wished it. “We will, of course, differ to your wishes, Signore d’Este.”

Alix looked up, frowning as she gazed back and forth between Lady Elena and Signore d’Este, wondering why they did not simply ask her how she was. Aside from sea sickness and a failed attempt on her life, she felt fine.

Lady Elena was not at all what she had expected, but at least she had rendered her father silent except for a “Madre di Dio, queste donne saranno la mia morte!”

Rinaldo had been overseeing the departure of the locked chests. A contingent of his trusted agents escorted the cargo through the winding canals toward Ca’Barberini, his personal residence, a towering, austere palazzo infamous for its secrets. He had been meticulous in ensuring that the route was well-guarded; nothing, not even whispers of their contents, could be allowed to escape. Surely those witnessing the locked crates had images lingering on the possibilities… spices? Coin? Artifacts? … or something more?

Still on the pier, Rinaldo stood motionless, his piercing gaze fixed on the ship. He was a man used to control, to calculated steps in the dance of power. But a flicker of curiosity stirred in him; somewhere on this ship was the girl he had seen only in a portrait… Alix Tradonico. The girl meant to play a part in a delicate game of alliances between her father and himself, as well Venezia, for sure.

Returning to the deck via the gangplank, the portrait had not prepared him for her arrival… and he was not a man to be surprised easily. Yet, as she burst onto the deck, fury and defiance etched into her every step, he was momentarily struck upon seeing her.

The girl from the painting had been demure, posed, and distant, a fragile beauty in soft colors. This Alix, however, was alive with emotion, her vivid blue eyes aflame as they locked briefly with his. Her gown, though plain, seemed regal in its simplicity. Her chest heaved with the passion of her outburst, but it was her expression that arrested him… an unspoken question in those stormy eyes. The thought lingered as Rinaldo met her gaze. For the briefest of moments, the iron mask he wore in public softened. A small, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

She was not what he expected, surely. The spirit in her defiance intrigued him, even as it complicated the situation. There was no weakness in her bearing; she carried herself with pride, though he could sense the strain of everything she had endured. The resemblance to her portrait was there, but the girl before him was no passive pawn… a relief in itself. A man of his stature and motivations did not deserve a wallflower, though that would be much easier, but less fulfilling.

Rinaldo did not speak immediately, instead allowing his presence… his crimson and gold robes, the silent acknowledgment of power he wielded… to fill the air. Her courtesy, unexpected and genuine, did not go unnoticed. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, a small act of respect for her composure in the face of such chaos.

When her voice cut through the air… “Père, qu’avez vous fait?”… his gaze shifted to the man she addressed, her father. A pang of pity, rare and fleeting, touched Rinaldo’s heart. The girl had been thrust into the treacherous world of Venetian politics, but her father had failed to shield her.

Rinaldo stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate. He spoke, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of authority. “Madame Tradonico…” speaking in French to aid in her immediate comfort, though his French, to him, seemed course and childish… maybe even harsh, nonetheless he attempted to soften it… for his sake, and hers… “Votre arrivée a suscité de nombreuses vagues dans les eaux de Venise. Pourtant, vous restez ici avec dignité, même face à l’incertitude.” (“Your arrival has stirred many ripples in the waters of Venice. Yet you stand here with dignity, even in the face of uncertainty.”)

He cast a quick glance at the men vying for her attention… her father’s guards, the Al-Jarif crew… and raised a hand, a silent command that sent them stepping back. His power did not require shouting or threats; his presence alone imposed order.

Turning his gaze back to her, he continued, his tone unexpectedly warm, continuing in her native language the best he could… “You have endured much, I see. But rest assured, no harm will come to you under my watch.”

At her question to her father, Rinaldo shifted his posture slightly, drawing her focus back to him. “Your father,” he said, glancing briefly at the man, “… has acted with the intention of securing your future. However… intentions are often tangled in the threads of necessity.”

He took another step closer, though not enough to invade her space. His smile remained faint, almost private. “What I want, Signorina,” he said, answering the question that had lingered unspoken between them, “…is simple. To ensure that you are treated with the respect befitting someone of your station and spirit.”

To the onlookers, Rinaldo’s gestures spoke volumes. His command over the situation was effortless. He raised a hand toward the woman Alix had recognized as her father’s wife, silently signaling for her to remain back. He had no need for another voice to cloud the moment.

To the guards and sailors, he issued quiet instructions: "Step aside. She is under my protection now." His tone brooked no argument.

Finally, to Alix herself, he offered a more than subtle bow before her, a gesture of acknowledgment. “You will find Venezia is not without her challenges, but I believe you will rise to meet them. For now, you are safe. And you have my word as a man, and as Il Rosso, that it will remain so.” In those moments, Rinaldo’s every action underscored his authority… gentle but immovable. He ensured Alix was shielded from further imposition, while making it clear to all present that she was under his care and beyond reproach.

Rinaldo, now standing close to Alix, inclined his head slightly as Baroness Elena addressed him, her words artful and laden with unspoken meaning. His gaze moved between Elena, Alix, and Julius Tradonico with the deliberate weight of a man who commanded both respect and fear. “Baroness…” he replied, his voice low and measured, each word resonating with controlled authority… “Your civility is noted and appreciated. I have indeed had the honor of meeting Lady Alix Maria de Bruc Tradonico for the first time. She carries herself with the spirit of her Breton forebears.” His eyes flicked to Alix for the briefest moment, his eyes seem to flash at her, while acknowledging her earlier courtesy with an uncharacteristic and enigmatic half-smile. Then looking back to the Baroness… “A rare and admirable quality unfounded in the portrait, yet most present in person.”

Turning back to Elena, his tone grew colder, though not unkind. “I am aware of the trials she has endured to reach Venezia. As you have aptly suggested, the comfort and well-being of my future betrothed are of the utmost importance.” He stepped forward, his crimson robes brushing against the pier’s worn wood as he spoke, his words calculated to both assert his power and diffuse any potential chaos. “However, I will not subject her to further indignities. The matter of her health will be addressed by my physician.” He emphasized the possessive subtly but unmistakably. “Her virtue, as you so delicately implied, is unquestioned in my eyes. If there is any doubt among those gathered here, let it be silenced now.” His piercing gaze swept the assembled crowd, daring anyone to contest him.

Rinaldo turned toward Alix, his expression softening slightly as he addressed her directly. “Signorina Alix…” he said, his voice quieter, but still commanding. “I understand this has been a difficult journey for you. You are not a prisoner here, but neither are you alone. You have my protection now, as well as my expectations.” Her earlier query, unspoken but palpable… What do you want of me?... hung between them. His response was both a reassurance and a veiled challenge: “Verily… many may ask what I, or you, may want… What I want is simple… to ensure you are treated with the dignity and respect befitting your station… and mine. What you want, we shall discuss later over dinner if you wish.” His words were deliberately layered, suggesting both care and a reminder of the obligations that came with her new role.

Having taken such an approach to a chaotic scenario, Rinaldo was able to assert his power without humiliating anyone present. And by directly addressing Alix and making small, protective gestures, he began to establish a connection with her while solidifying his dominance in the situation. As far as the Baroness or her Father’s political acumen, they were met with Rinaldo’s unyielding authority, setting the stage for an intricate power dynamic between himself and these formidable figures, thus giving Alix a shield from them and their actions pretending to benefit her.

Now to end this chaos, he gestured to his retainers, who began quickly and quietly dispersing the gathered onlookers. “This is not a spectacle. Return to your duties.” His tone left no room for argument. To avoid further conflict, he extended a hand toward Alix, not forcefully but with an air of finality. “Walk with me, Signorina,” he said, subtly claiming her place at his side. And as they headed toward the gangplank, he inclined his head toward Elena, his words layered with respect and subtle dismissal. “Your offer is generous, Baroness, but unnecessary. Your concern for her welfare is duly noted.” The faintest edge in his tone suggested that while he valued her input, the matter was now firmly in his hands.

Then they pair started walking along the pier, the scents and sounds of the marketplace all about them. Ahead were two guards, as well as behind yet another three… all armed with Venetian swords and armour… all far enough away to permit privacy… all sworn to secrecy as well. “Now, your Baroness desired you to remain with her… your Father desired you to go to my home…” his arm was at his side, bent at the elbow extending before him and parallel to the ground, and her hand was upon his sleeve as they walked, she would be able to gauge his strength of his arm. “But Signorina… the choice is yours… you stay where you wish… I shall have no input to your decisions until we are wed… but you will find even then that may Venetian women have powerful dynamics in married life…” shaking his head… “Not like a decade or so ago… a trend has making headway…” and he smiled… something not often given to others.

After taking a moment to collect herself, Alix noticed the locked chests being taken by men who were not part of the crew of Al-Jarih. She had no idea what those chests might contain, and they were the least of her concerns at the moment.

She noted the regal lion slightly inclined his head towards her before she knew anything about him beyond the sudden awareness that he welded power to respect and was far above her station in Venezia.

This man’s words to her in her native tongue were an unexpected courtesy and a soothing balm. She mutely nodded to him and swallowed, not trusting herself to speak more than the query sent to her father. She blamed him for all this, but if she looked deep within herself, she knew she also carried part of that responsibility. The anger, hurt, and resentment at his refusal to see her for the person she was had hardened her and made her close herself off to any attempts her father had made to reach out to her since her mother’s death. She had burnt every missive her father had sent without even reading them. She would have known about the existence of the formidable man she dubbed Le Lion Cramoisi, who stood before her now and what he wished of her.

As he spoke to her, making sure by his subtle gestures that none dared interfere in what now felt as though all the world receded and they were the only two people locked out of the maelstrom that swept around them, she wondered what he truly knew of her. She was a bastard and not one of high noble birth but a simple bareness, a title she claimed from her late mother and not the Tradonicos, though her father had consistently recognized her as one of his children and given her his last name.

When Alix spotted her father’s legitimate wife, Baroness Elena Luisa Tradonica, shame washed over her, and she doubted she could have any place here in Venezia. Lorenzo had told her as much; at first, she had not understood. She thought back on that disagreement when he had come to visit de Bruc Manor, and her mother had still been alive, though in a fast declining state.

Eleven months ago, February 1573, the de Bruc Manor, Nantes, France...

“I am not too soft, Lorenzo! Come on, try me, and I’ll prove it!” She had challenged him as they continued their dueling lesson in the interior courtyard of de Bruc Manor. She needed to spend the extra energy as she had been cooped up helping Anne Leroux tend to her mother, and none of the known herbal remedies had helped. She hated feeling trapped and useless.



Lorenzo laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t mean soft like that, sister. I don’t doubt your courage, and no one should, but the darker side of Venezia and its… at times deadly politics…” He shook his head of soft, loose, light brown curls with good-natured resignation. His sky-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. His paler beauty was due to some strain of Slavic blood that still ran in the Tradonico line from their father’s side. “Being soft means you have a heart. It is far from a bad thing.”

He relented then, knowing she could not understand and hopefully would never have to find out so long as he and her mother still lived. “Fine, Alix. Let us see if you have practiced and mastered the forms, parries, and attacks I taught you the last time I visited.” He adopted the en-garde line with his dominant foot forward. He lowered his mask over his face and presented his blunted practice rapier towards his half-sister’s knee.

Alix’s glance quickly returned to the present, and she politely bowed to Barness Elena, who was dressed in black as she was. As she looked upon her father’s wife, her mind reeled. Her half-brother, her last and only friend she could have counted on…Lorenzo was truly dead. She tightly shut her eyes, not wanting to spill the tears in front of these foreigners. It made it worse for her when her… stepmother… extended the offer of her home to her.

She heard his voice again, stating that she was under his protection. She stood and moved almost unconsciously closer to his side; her tears held in check for now before the crowd and this formidable man. She gave the slightest dip of her head in acknowledgment of his words to her, not trusting herself to more until she regained some control of her still too-raw emotions.

His word as Il Rosso. The Blood? What did that mean exactly? Her thoughts were in turmoil, and so were her emotions.

As she listened to his words to Baroness Elena, a word stood out and struck at her memory. Portrait? It was for him that her mother had commissioned it and not some distant relation of her mother’s in the British Isles, as Alix had thought her mother meant to try to betroth her, too. Her eyes sought him in question, and her full, usually soft, now chaffed, ruby lips parted in a slight O before she pressed them shut again.

Then, at the mention of her virtue, her slim fists clenched, and she bristled, wanting to go on the offensive, but her Signore d'Este's words and voice kept her silent, a feat few could boast of.

She rose to her full height when he offered her his arm, yet she stood nearly a foot shorter than he, even in her leather boots. She raised a delicate, stubborn chin upwards, and still willful fire ignited in her blue eyes, though her whisper to him was measured and for his ears alone. He had the right to know everything before he became entangled with her; it seemed only just. “Aside from the trials I endured to get here under duress with my servants’ lives threatened near my home at Nantes, an attempt was made on my life by an unknown man. My father’s men punished him severely, to which I bore witness. They have proof you may wish to have.”

Her voice dipped lower as emotions threatened to rise to the surface. “I came with very little, but Gaspare, the First Mate of the Al-Jarih, collected some clothes for me in a bundle. It is in the Captain’s cabin where they gave me my privacy, but Gaspare has a dagger that was one of my half-brother Lorenzo’s last gifts to me. Unbeknownst to them, I still carry its twin, but I would very much like the other, which Gaspare now has, returned to me.”

“I choose to go with you, not because it is my father’s will, but because I wish it.” Her lightly French-accented Italian ran clear as she spoke. There she had said it, pressing her slender fingers on Signore d’Este’s arm, feeling his strength and now unexpectedly grateful for it. Her fate was sealed, but she would do so on her terms. It was enough for now, and though she felt a pang of guilt at refusing Baroness Elena’s Tradonico hospitality and abandoning her father, she had at least respected her late mother’s and Lorenzo’s wishes never to importune Elena with her presence.

Her hand closed with a slightly firmer pressure on her betrothed's arm as she walked by his side. She raised her lips closer to his ear to implore him with a whisper. “Lorenzo, if you know of his fate, please tell me…”

A Day Like Any Other

This day began similar to all the others… a day that began early for Rinaldo, as a pale dawn filtered through the windows of his private study at his home. He rose from a restless sleep, the weight of his responsibilities layered with the anticipation of Lady Alix Tradonico’s arrival… and only five days left. Though his demeanor remained composed, the prospect of meeting his intended bride… a girl plucked from the fringes of noble respectability to be molded into a fitting consort… occupied his thoughts more than he cared to admit.

The morning hours passed in brisk efficiency as Rinaldo attended to state matters. The Serenìsima Republica was never without its intrigues, and the whispers of discontent from the mainland territories required deft management. He exchanged reports with spies embedded in the courts of Tuscany and Naples, analyzed trade balances from the Arsenale, and reviewed correspondence regarding the Republic’s expansion into the Atlantic. His sharp mind found comfort in the precision of governance, a controlled contrast to the uncertainties of matrimony.

As the sun climbed higher, Rinaldo convened with the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. Seated beneath the grandeur of gilded frescoes and carved wooden panels, he spoke with his usual cool authority, navigating political rivalries with the grace of a duelist parrying unseen blades. His colleagues in the council noted his unwavering focus, though few could have guessed the undercurrent of personal matters beneath his polished exterior.

By midday, he allowed himself a brief reprieve, retreating to a quiet alcove in the palace gardens, oft quarantined from the public’s eye. The stillness of the moment brought the image of Lady Alix to his mind… a faceless figure cloaked in expectation. Removing the small locket from his pocket, he would gaze at the copied portrait of her and he would smile. Would she falter beneath the weight of her new station, or rise to meet his exacting standards? He dismissed the thought as indulgent; there would be time enough to assess her once she arrived.

The afternoon drew him back into the labyrinthine halls of diplomacy. A terse meeting with the Inquisition occupied much of his attention, for even the faintest rumors of heresy could not be ignored. Yet, as the hours crept by, his thoughts inevitably returned to the ship cutting through the waters of the Middle Sea and eventually the Adriatic, carrying the girl who was to become his bride. The ship’s approach would have marked the culmination of careful planning, a union intended to secure alliances and fortify his already formidable position within Venetian society. But the ship was not due for another five days… plans had not been established for an early arrival… Nonetheless, he had known of the two escort vessels not far behind a pirate ship in the Mediterranean, but oddly enough it had a Tradonico emblem on its mast. An odd situation regardless.

Aware of the pending arrival of the pirate ship, it was no surprise when the summons to the pier came at last… a quiet word from a palace servant informing him that the Tradonico ship had docked… Rinaldo rose without hesitation. He donned his crimson coat embroidered with gold, a deliberate choice to project authority… and wealth. As he descended the steps of the Ducale Palace and the short brisk walk that would take him from San Marco Square to the pier, his expression betrayed nothing of the day’s turmoil. To all who saw him, he was the consummate Venetian statesman, unyielding and inscrutable, prepared to greet any future with the same unwavering control that defined every aspect of his life. About his person on the walk toward the pier, were his guards… those brave men who bore covenant to protect him, not as a job, but as desire. A dire difference being the man responsible for the security of the Republic.

---

The Preparation

Meanwhile, at the sprawling Ca' Barberini, perched on the edge of the Grand Canal, radiated an air of restrained opulence. Its high, arched windows caught the fading Venetian light, the marble facade shimmering like polished bone. Inside, preparations were underway for Lady Alix Tradonico with the precision and fervor befitting a bride-to-be of such elevated importance. Servants moved briskly through the halls, their soft-soled steps echoing faintly against the mosaic-tiled floors.

Even with five days left in the schedule, in the piano nobile, the grand suites, designated for Signorina Alix, had been transformed into a sanctuary of understated luxury. The bedchamber, dominated by an intricately carved canopy bed draped with cream silk and embroidered with scarlet accents, was framed by tall candelabras that cast a warm, inviting glow. Nearby, an ornate vanity, its surface cluttered with crystal bottles of rose water, jasmine oil, and delicate Venetian perfumes, awaited her use. Beside it, a silver tray carried a carefully folded gown of deep wine-red velvet, accented with threads of gold… a gift from Rinaldo himself, chosen to complement her complexion and assert her place in Venetian society.

In an adjoining room, the stanza di ricevimento (reception room), a small gathering of seamstresses and attendants conferred over last-minute adjustments to the garments Alix would wear for her formal introduction at the d'Este household. Their whispers wove through the room as they debated the placement of pearls on a delicate silk overskirt and the merits of a jeweled girdle imported from Florence.

A pair of maids, overseen by a stern-faced housekeeper, prepared a bath of scented water infused with crushed lavender and bergamot. The steam rose in soft curls, filling the chamber with an air of tranquility. “It must be perfect,” the housekeeper reminded them, her voice sharp yet low, “Consigliere d’Este does not tolerate mediocrity.”

Elsewhere in the palazzo, Rinaldo’s personal physician readied his instruments in a discreet, shadowed alcove. Though the Inquisitor had assured those at the pier that Alix’s virtue was unquestioned, Venetian society would demand confirmation… a reality neither Rinaldo nor his staff could ignore. The physician’s face remained impassive as he prepared a small vial of clove oil and laid out fresh linens. His orders to the physician was vehement… the lady would endure no discomfort or the perpetrator would reside in the Pozzi with no release date. (Pozzi (wells), the underground prison cells in the Ducale Palazzo)

Before departing that early morning for work, Rinaldo himself moved through the Ca' Barberini with quiet authority, pausing occasionally to inspect the preparations. He lingered briefly in the bridal suite, his gaze resting on the gown before nodding in approval. Turning to a steward at his side, he murmured, “I pray everything is on schedule… and remember when she arrives, see that she is received with dignity. And remind the household… she will be under my protection.”

As the final light of day faded and the palazzo’s grand chandeliers were lit, the air hummed with anticipation. Five more days, and Lady Alix Tradonico’s arrival at the Ca' Barberini would mark not only the beginning of her new life but also a union poised to strengthen Rinaldo’s influence in both the Serenissima and beyond.

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The Unexpected Change in Schedule

Rinaldo’s initial reaction to the chaos of the situation was veiled beneath his stoic, unyielding demeanor. The sight of the Tradonico crest fluttering above a pirate ship had sent ripples of unease through him, though outwardly he betrayed none of it. Now, as Lady Alix Tradonico stood before him, unexpectedly fierce and resolute despite the trials she had endured, he found himself reassessing the woman he had thought to be merely a pawn in Venice’s intricate game of power.

Her revelations came in measured tones, yet they carried the weight of her ordeal. The mention of an assassination attempt, the brutal retribution she witnessed, and the artifacts tied to her past all painted a portrait of a young woman far more acquainted with adversity than he had anticipated. Rinaldo did not interrupt as she spoke, his dark gaze fixed on hers, absorbing every word with the precision of a man who had spent his life mastering the art of reading others.

When she declared her choice to come to him of her own will, not simply out of duty to her father, Rinaldo felt a flicker of something he could not quite place. Respect, perhaps, or an appreciation for her candor. Her slender fingers pressed against his arm, grounding him in the moment. She was willful, certainly, but there was a vulnerability beneath that will… a vulnerability she did not yet realize had the power to strengthen her position, if wielded carefully.

As she leaned closer, her whispered question about Lorenzo caused his expression to tighten ever so slightly. Lorenzo Tradonico… a name that carried implications Rinaldo had not yet fully unraveled. He did not answer immediately, letting the weight of her words hang between them as they walked. Instead, his mind turned to the broader implications of her unexpected arrival and the dangers that had shadowed her journey.

At last, his voice, smooth and deliberate, broke the silence. “You have endured much, Signorina, far more than anyone should have to before setting foot in Venezia. I will see to it that the dagger is returned to you and that all evidence your father’s men possess is brought to my attention. Your safety is my responsibility now, and I do not take it lightly.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for doubt.

All he had to do was look at his lead guard… one might consider him a sergeant… Rinaldo regarded him as a right hand. The guard would move to the ship Captain, and repeat what had been relayed to Rinaldo, thus beginning a chain react to obtain the dagger Signorina had spoke if.

And then the pair departed the ship, leaving all others on the sequestered vessel, he paused for a moment, lowering his head slightly as they walked, his voice softening just enough to show he had heard her plea. “As for Lorenzo, we will speak of him when you are rested. There is much to untangle, and though it may take a while, Signorina, you will have the truth, as it becomes known to me…”

Rinaldo straightened, his hand briefly covering hers where it rested on his arm… a calculated gesture of reassurance and control. “For now, you will come to Ca’Barberini. We will ensure you have what you need, and I will send word to Baroness Elena to smooth over any offense. Venezia’s eyes are upon us, Signorina Alix. We must show them strength and unity. Tomorrow, you will begin anew.”

His words were both a promise and a command, leaving no question of his intent to protect her and shape her into the ally he needed her to be. Yet, beneath the calculated diplomacy of his words, there was a faint glimmer of admiration for her courage. Alix was not what he had expected, and for the first time in years, Rinaldo found himself intrigued by a complication rather than irritated by it.

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The Journey Home

As the sun dipped lower in the Venetian sky, painting the canals in hues of amber and gold, Rinaldo summoned his personal gondola to the Riva degli Schiavoni, the bustling promenade near the docks where Alix had first disembarked. The gondola, a masterpiece of Venetian craftsmanship, glided silently across the water toward the pier, its sleek black hull polished to a mirror-like shine. Adorned with subtle flourishes of gold leaf along its edges, the vessel was a reflection of Rinaldo's understated yet undeniable authority.

At the pier, Alix stepped carefully into the gondola, her hand lightly gripping Rinaldo's arm for balance. The movement of the boat was unfamiliar to her, yet she carried herself with composed grace. Once settled on the cushioned seat, she took in her surroundings… the dark lacquered interior, the intricate silk embroidery of the seat cushions, and the faint aroma of bergamot and aged wood that clung to the vessel. The gondolier, dressed in muted but fine attire, stood at the stern, awaiting Rinaldo’s signal.

With a subtle nod, Rinaldo motioned for the journey to begin. The gondola pushed off from the dock, cutting through the still waters of the Grande Canale with practiced ease. The rhythmic splash of the gondolier’s oar punctuated the soft murmurs of the city… a blend of voices, distant laughter, and the occasional call of a merchant from the waterside.

The Grande Canale stretched before them, a liquid artery winding through the heart of Venezia. Alix, though composed, couldn’t help but marvel at the spectacle unfolding around her. Palazzi (palaces) of ivory, rose, and tawny hues lined the water, their reflections shimmering like living paintings. The fading sunlight cast a warm glow upon the ornate facades, highlighting intricate carvings, arched windows, and balconies adorned with cascading flowers. Gondolas and merchant boats glided past, their passengers exchanging curious glances at the distinguished couple making their way through the heart of the city.

Rinaldo, seated beside her, observed Alix silently. Though his expression remained calm, he noted her every movement… the way her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the gondola, her gaze lingering on the passing scenery, and the subtle tension in her posture.

As they approached the Rialto Bridge, its iconic arches loomed overhead, bathed in the warm light of oil lanterns. The bridge bustled with activity… vendors closing their stalls for the day and couples leaning over the guard rail, watching the gondolas below. Passing beneath the bridge, the shadows deepened momentarily, and the muffled hum of the city gave way to the lapping of water against stone.

Turning away from the central thoroughfare, the gondola glided into quieter waters as they entered the Dorsoduro district. The atmosphere shifted; the grandeur of the Grande Canale gave way to narrower canals, where the facades of the buildings seemed to lean closer, their colors softened by age and moss. The air here was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of brine and the delicate notes of blooming jasmine trailing from wrought-iron balconies.

Alix glanced at Rinaldo, who caught her gaze and offered a faint but reassuring smile. “Dorsoduro is quieter than the Grande Canale,” he remarked softly. “It holds a different kind of charm… more intimate, more thoughtful.” His voice carried a note of pride, but also a hint of something deeper, as though he were inviting her into a part of himself as much as the city.

Soon, the gondola slowed as they approached the private dock of the Ca' Barberini, the d’Este family palazzo. Two liveried servants awaited them with lanterns, their warm glow illuminating the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. The marble facade of the palazzo shimmered in the twilight, its arched windows catching the last of the daylight.

The gondolier expertly brought the vessel alongside the dock, steadying it as Rinaldo stepped out first. Offering his hand, he helped Alix disembark with care, his grip firm and steady. As her boots touched the stone, she glanced up at the palazzo, its imposing presence a reminder of the life she was about to enter.

“Welcome to Ca' Barberini…” Rinaldo said, his voice low yet resonant. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. Then, turning toward the awaiting servants, he issued quiet instructions. The night had only begun, and the unfolding story of Alix’s arrival at the heart of Venetian power was just taking shape.