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Authors: J. Kathleen Cheney
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prote
ct
or.
He admired her lush figure for a moment. She was tempting, but he nodded to the woman politely and resolutely walked the other dire ct ion, up from the river.
It was a st eep climb. The Golden City rose from the north bank of the Douro River near where it fed into the sea, spreading across several hills. The Street of Flowers traversed the di st ance from the quay up to the palace itself. While it had once been a narrow lane occupied by goldsmiths and fabric sellers, less than half a mile long, businesses and churches and homes alike had all been demolished to make room for ari st ocratic newcomers. The country had been embroiled in a civil war, the throne claimed by two young twin brothers—or, rather, their advisers. The Liberals in the south pushed for political reform and a break from the Church, while the Absoluti st s in the north preferred the st atus quo.
But when an earthquake de st royed much of Lisboa in 1755, the war had fizzled out. The southern prince, Manuel III, threw all his efforts and his army into helping his city recover. In the north, Prince Raimundo refused to take advantage of his twin’s di st ra ct ion. In st ead his councilors set up a rival capital, cutting Portugal into two princedoms rather than a single united kingdom. Prior to that time, the Golden City had been mode st ly known as the Port, a city of commoners, although many would argue it had belonged to the Church in st ead. That was easy to believe, given the number of spires that dotted the hills, the tower that marked the city’s heights, and the grand cathedral that rose above the river.
Nevertheless, the ari st ocrats
had
come, along with their prince, and had changed whatever suited them, for good or for ill. They had moved their houses from the farthe st edges of the city, from the resort of Espinho to the south, or from the countryside. Some homes, like that of the Queirós family two doors up from Duilio’s, were newer, built in the neoclassical st yle, with pillars and pediments, the marble imported from far away. Others had the whitewashed walls and red tiles common to the area about the river. It made a jumble of a st reet, the houses unmatched save for their arrogant consumption of space.
Duilio had always felt a touch guilty about living there. He didn’t believe that having inherited his home and wealth made him any better of a person than João, the young man who watched his boats. That was one reason he’d chosen to continue his work with the police, hoping to, in effe ct , earn what he’d been given.
He passed several more houses before reaching the crossing of Clérigos Street and the Street of Flowers. Clérigos had less traffic, so he turned we st on it and began the st eep walk up to the higher levels of the city. Built on one of the highe st points, the baroque bell tower of the Clérigos church had long served as a landmark for sailors, a slender beacon of ornate gray granite. The thing also made the navigation of the old city’s narrow st reets easier for those on foot. Once Duilio reached the heights, he walked along, keeping one eye on the tower as he unfolded his newspaper and hunted for the social page. He brushed pa st other pede st rians as he did so, but not sensing any danger on the st reets that morning, he didn’t worry.
The social page li st ed the normal comings and goings of the ari st ocracy—who was seen where and with whom. For those readers unfamiliar with the persons li st ed, the significance of the entries was limited. The news that Lady X had visited Lady Y at her home meant nothing if one didn’t know of the long- st anding feud between the families. But as Duilio a ct ed as an interpreter of these affairs for the police, it was his business to keep apprised of all the foolishness of the upper cru st . He read through the fir st column of entries, making mental notes as to what needed further inve st igation. Nothing in particular jumped out at him until he reached
ct
or.
He admired her lush figure for a moment. She was tempting, but he nodded to the woman politely and resolutely walked the other dire ct ion, up from the river.
It was a st eep climb. The Golden City rose from the north bank of the Douro River near where it fed into the sea, spreading across several hills. The Street of Flowers traversed the di st ance from the quay up to the palace itself. While it had once been a narrow lane occupied by goldsmiths and fabric sellers, less than half a mile long, businesses and churches and homes alike had all been demolished to make room for ari st ocratic newcomers. The country had been embroiled in a civil war, the throne claimed by two young twin brothers—or, rather, their advisers. The Liberals in the south pushed for political reform and a break from the Church, while the Absoluti st s in the north preferred the st atus quo.
But when an earthquake de st royed much of Lisboa in 1755, the war had fizzled out. The southern prince, Manuel III, threw all his efforts and his army into helping his city recover. In the north, Prince Raimundo refused to take advantage of his twin’s di st ra ct ion. In st ead his councilors set up a rival capital, cutting Portugal into two princedoms rather than a single united kingdom. Prior to that time, the Golden City had been mode st ly known as the Port, a city of commoners, although many would argue it had belonged to the Church in st ead. That was easy to believe, given the number of spires that dotted the hills, the tower that marked the city’s heights, and the grand cathedral that rose above the river.
Nevertheless, the ari st ocrats
had
come, along with their prince, and had changed whatever suited them, for good or for ill. They had moved their houses from the farthe st edges of the city, from the resort of Espinho to the south, or from the countryside. Some homes, like that of the Queirós family two doors up from Duilio’s, were newer, built in the neoclassical st yle, with pillars and pediments, the marble imported from far away. Others had the whitewashed walls and red tiles common to the area about the river. It made a jumble of a st reet, the houses unmatched save for their arrogant consumption of space.
Duilio had always felt a touch guilty about living there. He didn’t believe that having inherited his home and wealth made him any better of a person than João, the young man who watched his boats. That was one reason he’d chosen to continue his work with the police, hoping to, in effe ct , earn what he’d been given.
He passed several more houses before reaching the crossing of Clérigos Street and the Street of Flowers. Clérigos had less traffic, so he turned we st on it and began the st eep walk up to the higher levels of the city. Built on one of the highe st points, the baroque bell tower of the Clérigos church had long served as a landmark for sailors, a slender beacon of ornate gray granite. The thing also made the navigation of the old city’s narrow st reets easier for those on foot. Once Duilio reached the heights, he walked along, keeping one eye on the tower as he unfolded his newspaper and hunted for the social page. He brushed pa st other pede st rians as he did so, but not sensing any danger on the st reets that morning, he didn’t worry.
The social page li st ed the normal comings and goings of the ari st ocracy—who was seen where and with whom. For those readers unfamiliar with the persons li st ed, the significance of the entries was limited. The news that Lady X had visited Lady Y at her home meant nothing if one didn’t know of the long- st anding feud between the families. But as Duilio a ct ed as an interpreter of these affairs for the police, it was his business to keep apprised of all the foolishness of the upper cru st . He read through the fir st column of entries, making mental notes as to what needed further inve st igation. Nothing in particular jumped out at him until he reached
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