SIXTEEN
“Come in, Sarpi, come in.” Donato beckoned for him with a hefty hand. Bereft of cornu and cape, Venice’s ruler sat behind the long marble escritoire clad informally in a thin linen shirt, breeches, and hose, his silhouette, large and imposing, cast by the bright, late afternoon sun streaming in the window at his back. Few ever saw him like this, or for that matter, in this private room of the first-floor palace apartments. In their shared battle, these two men had long ago lost any reason for pretense and ceremony.
The diminutive cleric shuffled forward with a nod of thanks to the servant who had opened the door for him, crossing the dense maroon and gold rug that sat upon the polished stone floor.
“Have a seat, my friend, I need just a moment.” Donato’s booming voice echoed off
