1. Magus in a Gondola

Venice, 1591; 1577

 Ill-fated and mysterious man!
--bewildered in the brilliance
of thine own imagination,
and fallen in the flames . . . .
Again in fancy I behold thee!

--Edgar A. Poe

"You have been to Venice before, signor?" asked the gondolier.

"Sì signor, many times, in many ways."

"What brings you here now?"

         As the Rialto loomed ahead in the mild June afternoon, the gondolier spoke up again, telling Filippo all about the new bridge. The magus was only half-listening to the details about the contest for its design, thinking instead of how its previous incarnation's rotting wood and faltering drawbridge had been to him, fourteen years before, an emblem of his own precarious position--and now it stood transformed, a marketplace over the Grand Canal, arched on solid stone like a temple, if only to Mammon. Perhaps some day, thought Filippo, I too will be transformed, my body a temple to the thrice-great one, a bridge to infinity.

"When I was here last," said Filippo to the gondolier, "I wouldn't walk on the bridge, for fear it would collapse."

3.

Again she was the only woman in the place, indeed one of the few cittadine he had seen on the campi and calle, most of them watching the world go by from balconies. Conspicuous indeed, the honored courtesan/poet a brilliant red star in a constellation of pale dimwits, like that poetaster cafone Maffio Venier, who happened to be in town for the election of his kinsman to doge. Maffio also happened to be at the bookshop when Veronica walked in. About two years before, shortly after her book of poems had been published (unfortunately just as the plague was beginning to spread), he had written some scurrilous obscene satires against her, claiming that her kind were the scourge of Venice, worse than the plague, if not in fact responsible for it.

"Our war is over, Signor Ven--" She smiled wickedly. "I almost used the noble name you have so profaned, scusi. Signor Venereale, there, that's a better fit." Glancing now at his pathetic attempt at courtly attire. "Better than those bombastic galligaskins too," she said, "I see Rome has bloated you. Here"--handing him a book--"All the sword-thrusts that demolished you are in here."

"No, gracie, Signora Ver-unica puttana." He spat that last word, the saliva landing on an old tome on a stool against a bookshelf.

Filippo had to interpose. "Scusi, signore, but would you call a lady a whore?"

Maffio glared and swatted the air with impatience, as though he had been interrupted by a fly in his face. "Would you address your better, barbone?" His hand now on his sword.

"I am a scholar, signor."

"You dress like a homeless vagabondo. Now why don't you go wander somewhere?"

At that point Ciotto interposed with some receipts he showed to Veronica. Maffio pivoted so his sword swiped Filippo, who backed off and continued scanning the shelves, looking for anything of interest he may not have read. Ciotto handed Veronica some money. "I sold twenty-two copies, signora. Not too bad, considering."

4.

How did she know? Filippo wondered now in the gondola, continuing down the Grand Canal. His death was indeed truly ironic. Don't forget to ask her. I thought nothing of her prediction then, but now I know how he died: Five years ago already, of the French pox, and he a holy man, a prelate. Doubly ironic, since Maffio had called Veronica syphilitic in one of those satires. She has a gift. My magic and her clairvoyance together will work wonders. I hope Ciotto gave her my letter. Or perhaps it wasn't clairvoyance but a curse, she cursed Maffio and caused his pox. Does she have the power?

Of course, Filippo had no idea that five years later, in 1582, he would also befriend this king. More than befriend. But whereas Veronica had given him instruction in the Art of Love, Filippo would try to teach him the Art of Memory, knowing full well of course that a monarch remembers only what he chooses to. First hearing of Filippo's lectures at the Sorbonne, Henri sent for him and asked if the art of memory he taught was natural or achieved by magic. Both, of course. Filippo charmed him with his system, amazed him with his feats of memory. And Henri, in turn, seduced him with his gorgeous impersonations.

You see this, Filippo? As they lay naked together Henri showed him a miniature enamel portrait of a woman with breasts bare and lips pursed. This is the Queen of Courtesans. There are times (don't tell my mother!) that I wish I were She! Filippo recognized Veronica from his brief visit to Venice in 1577. I know her, he said.

And now, thought Filippo in the gondola, Henri's been dead for what? over three years. Assassinated by a frenzied friar. Poetic justice. He discarded one monk, only to be murdered by another. Symmetry there. All right, not perfect symmetry: I am defrocked. I wonder in what bambino's little head the poor transplanted soul must now gradually awaken? Perhaps this incarnation has brought the bambino a better mother than that murdering Medean manipulator Catherine de' Medici. No matter, he won't remember his Maman. Nothing survives the deep waters of Lethe. Or rather, nothing ever has, in human history. But I--I will be the first to conquer Lethe!

The gondolier was pointing to his left. "Palazzo Mocenigo, dottore. You wanted me to show you. There it is."