The Exile's Story

Some said Venice was the pearl of the Adriatic Sea.

Men could be so strange sometimes. Rather than love a living, breathing woman, they became obsessed with intangible things—the Basilica of Santa Maria della Salute, or the Republic of Venice. Neither was the heavenly god of love Plato spoke of.

Women tried every possible way to hold on to their hearts, but with little success. Yet those men who rushed after women found them repulsive.

What could not be had was always the best, because what could not be had was pursued forever.

Marino had, in fact, saved Giovanni Dandolo's life. He could have ignored Giovanni, let the sailors murder him, and then installed one of his own men as naval commander.

But he had not done so. Perhaps it was because that was his destined fate. A ghost lurked within the thick fog that blanketed Venice.

"Was that naval commander Giovanni Dandolo the same person as the forty-ninth Doge, Giovanni Dandolo?"

Pomona calculated in her head as she ate grilled New Orleans chicken wings. Even if Giovanni Dandolo had been in his twenties when he was elected, by 1355 he should have been an old man in his eighties or nineties.

The Mediterranean sun became vicious in the afternoon. They had to find shade beneath trees or rooftops, or they would get burned. Now they were all hiding in the shadows, like a band of conspirators who could not bear the light, secretly plotting something.

"Oh, I really never thought of that," Monica said.

Europeans had never been good at mental arithmetic, though they were shrewd. Before the water pipes were installed, Venetians would fetch water from the Doge's Palace and carry it elsewhere to sell. The wealthy had not fenced off this excellent water source for themselves.

As