by Kate Forsyth
Venice, Italy – May 1508
The sun sparkled on the lagoon, and waves rippled under our gondola. Laughter and music filled the air. I leant forward from under the felze, taking a deep breath of the briny air. Everywhere I looked were boats hung with brightly coloured flags – batellas and caorlinas and, ahead, the Doge’s massive bucentaur, with its purple velvet canopy to shield Doge Barbarigo’s head from the sun. I could just see his thick white beard, and the red hat he wore with its peak shaped like a horn, and his heavy golden mantle.
‘We have a good position,’ my mother said. ‘It was lucky we came early. I think all of Venice is out on the lagoon today.’
In honour of Serenissima’s Marriage of the Sea, Bianca wore a gown of turquoise-green velvet, with long hanging sleeves lined with white satin and trimmed with jewels. I too was dressed in sea-colours, with my long hair caught back in a snood of pearls.
‘It’s such a lovely day,’ I said. ‘It was raining last year and you wouldn’t take me out.’
‘Well, who wants to sit in a gondola in the rain?’
Our gondolier manoeuvred our craft closer so that we could see the Doge toss a golden ring into the choppy waters. We were not close enough to hear him, but we all knew what he said: ‘We wed thee, sea, in the sign of the true and everlasting Lord.’
‘Only in Venice,’ my mother said.
Our gondolier then turned our boat around and rowed us slowly back towards the Piazza San Marco. I saw Zusto da Grittoni in his own boat, sitting beside a fat woman with the biggest bosom I had ever seen. It was like she had stuffed a bolster under her purple brocade. Beside them sat a row of shiny-faced children, stepping down in size from a scowling boy with his first soft dark down on his upper lip to a little girl the size of a doll, dressed in a froth of frills and bows. They all looked stiff and unhappy.
Both my mother and I shrank back under the felze at the sight of him. If Zusto da Grittoni saw us, he made no sign or gesture.
Our gondolier drew up at the piazza and helped my mother and me to alight. The Fair of the Sensa was in full swing in the piazza, with small wooden stalls selling anything you wanted from anywhere in the world. Jugglers in motley tossed painted balls high in the air, and two men fought each other while balancing on long stilts. We made our way through the stalls, my mother tottering on her cork-heeled chopines, I darting from side to side, yanking against her hand, wanting to see everything.
‘Bianca, is it you?’ a man’s voice said.
My mother looked around, then gave a little gasp, her hand to her mouth. A man was standing before us, wearing a rich brown velvet doublet with pale pink billowing sleeves over a tight pair of hose. His face was clean-shaven, but his hair, which hung loosely past his shoulders, was like a cloth-of-gold banner.
‘Egidio!’ my mother cried. She put out one hand and gripped my shoulder, as if suddenly dizzy.
‘It is you. Look at you.’ The man she had called Egidio looked her over with a laughing face. ‘Don’t you look fine?’
Then his eyes fell on me, and his face suddenly sobered. ‘What’s this? A little girl?’
‘I’m not a little girl,’ I said at once. ‘I’m soon to be twelve.’
‘Twelve, eh?’ He shot my mother a quick glance. ‘And look at you, pretty as a picture.’ He reached out and picked up a tendril of my hair, exactly the same colour as his.
‘Egidio, what … what are you doing here?’ My mother’s voice was faint.
‘Our ship has come in. Oh, Bianca, the adventures I’ve had. You’d never believe them. We’ve seen the edge of the world, and grappled with pirates, and heard the singing of sirens. I’ve made my fortune and am ready to retire now, to a nice little farm in the country somewhere. I think I’ll grow cabbages.’
‘You’ve been away so long.’
‘Oh, well, things got rather hot for me in Malegno, you know that. Those damn Inquisitors. Sniffing about and sticking their long noses where they weren’t wanted. I wasn’t going to risk being burnt at the stake, you know.’
‘My grandfather died and his farm was confiscated.’ My mother sounded weary, rather than angry or sad.
‘No! They didn’t burn your nonno?’ Egidio sounded genuinely shocked.
‘They tortured him to death.’
‘Bianca, I’m so sorry.’ He put one arm around my mother and she leant her face into his shoulder. ‘He was the most gentle soul alive. I never thought they’d harm him.’
‘You should’ve been here. You said you’d help me, you promised me.’
‘I’m sorry. I heard the Inquisition was coming for me, so I got out as fast as I could. I never thought …’ He looked back at me, frowning, biting his lip. I stared back at him, wondering, Is this my father? The man who can change shape into a lion?
‘Is she mine?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Can’t you tell? She has your hair and your eyes, and, God forgive me, your boldness.’
‘This changes everything.’
‘Not for me.’ Bianca drew herself away from him, looking about her in sudden anxiety.
‘I suppose you are happily married now.’
‘No, Egidio. I’m not married. I’m a whore.’
He stepped back, his face changing.
‘What else was I meant to do? I was alone, destitute, pregnant.’ She spoke the last word as if it tasted nasty in her mouth, then at once reached a hand to me and drew me close to her side.
‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Bianca. Surely it’s not too late? Let me make amends.’ He seized her hand.
‘I need to go.’ Bianca withdrew her hand and turned and hurried away. For once, I needed to scramble to keep up with her. I turned my head and looked back at my father, feeling such a strange mixture of emotions: curiosity, resentment, fear. He stared after us, his golden-red hair shining in the sun.
My mother was restless and unsettled that night. She paced the floor, pressing her hands together, biting her lip. Zusto da Grittoni’s gondola pulled up at the door; she sent a footman to say she was not well. A moment later, she made a quick motion, as if to call the footman back, then she sank into her chair, twisting her handkerchief, her face so white and anxious I wanted to comfort her somehow. I crept over and sat on the footstool at her knee, and reached out to stroke her hair.
She laid her head against the arm of her chair. Encouraged, I gently pulled the pins from her hair, unravelling the complex arrangements of braids and ribbons and jewels. Her hair cascaded down, warm and silky and scented with ambergris. I kept on stroking. Her face was hidden, her breath coming and going unsteadily. I could not tell if she was weeping.
We stayed there by the embers of the fire for a long time, our shoes kicked off. I heard the church bells ring out for compline. I was hungry but did not want to break the spell of tenderness between us. Then a footman came quietly in. ‘There is a visitor for you, signorina. I told him you were indisposed but he insists on seeing you.’
My mother looked up. ‘His name?’
‘Egidio, from Malegno, he says.’
A blaze of joy lit up my mother’s face. ‘He has come!’ She rose and ran for the door, heedless of her bare feet and tumbled golden hair. Normally, when my mother had a male visitor, she would put belladonna drops in her eyes to dilate her pupils, chew a clove to make her breath fresh and anoint herself with ambergris so she smelt sweet, but this time she did not even glance at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.
I crept towards the half-open door, listening and watching. I heard him cry, ‘Bianca!’ She leapt into his arms, like an arrow into the gold. They kissed all the way up the stairs and into her bedroom, the door closing behind them with a definite bang.
I ran silently up the stairs to my own room and pressed my ear to the connecting door. I could hear sighs and moans and whispered endearments. Something twisted deep in my stomach. Very slowly, I eased the door open. The room was lit only by the warm glow of the fire. It shone on my father’s bare muscled back and o
n the shining glory of my mother’s hair, rippling down her back like a snowmelt in full spate.
I eased the door shut again and went to my own bed. The sheets were cold. I curled my legs to my chest, burying my head in my pillow so I could hear no more.
My mother woke me later. The room was dark. She sat on my bed. ‘Maria, wake up.’ I sat up, yawning and rubbing my eyes. ‘Mia cara, we’re going to go away. Your father wants us to go and live with him.’
‘Where?’ I asked stupidly.
‘Somewhere in the country. Come, sit up. Let me dress you in something comfortable. We won’t need any silks or satins there.’
She brought a blue woollen dress from the closet, and my fur-trimmed cloak, and my sturdiest boots. I held up my arms and put forth my feet as commanded, and was soon dressed. She filled a small bag with a few necessities – a clean chemise, a comb, some hair ribbons – and emptied my jewellery box. I caught up my favourite doll, dressed in lavender silk, and clutched her close to my chest. I was conscious of the sharp rapping of my heart against my ribs. Going away, to live with my father? I thought no man could ever come between us? The words were rattling against my teeth, wanting to get out, but somehow I could not speak.
‘Can you carry your bag? I’ve got a bag of my own. Come, let us get it and then we’ll go meet your father. He has gone to hire a gondola … I dare not take mine.’
‘Why not?’ I followed her through the connecting door into her bedroom. The fire had sunk low. I heard the city bells ring out for the midnight mass.
‘Better not … this city is full of spies, you know.’ She bent and picked up her bag, then crossed the room to her doorway. She put her finger to her lips, then quietly eased the door open. Light struck across her face.
‘Going somewhere, Bianca?’ Zusto da Grittoni’s voice rang out.
My mother fell back a step. Wildly, she gestured to me. Go! Hide! I flew across the room and crouched down in the shadows behind her bed, the doll pressed against my chest. Peering around the edge of her bed-curtain, I watched as my mother retreated back into her room.
‘My lord! What … what are you doing here?’
‘I heard reports that you were entertaining. Yet you’d turned me away from your door. And now I find you sneaking out in the middle of the night. Where are you going?’
‘No … nowhere.’
He stalked into the room and she retreated before him, step by slow step. All I could see of my mother was her hair, loosely bound up in one long silvery plait, swaying with each backward step. All I could see of him was his shadow, stretching across the marble. I crouched down, clutching my doll close, the bag squashed uncomfortably below me. My chest was a kettle drum; my heart the hammer.
‘No one ever betrays me and escapes unpunished. Do you know what we Venetian men do to whores who have betrayed us?’
‘No. Please. I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean …’
Suddenly, she burst into motion, running for the door. She was caught there by his menservants, dragged back and flung on the bed.
‘You may have her when I am finished,’ Zusto da Grittoni said. I heard my mother gasp as her clothes were torn away, then a moist thwacking sound as the bed rocked and squeaked. I shrank back, making myself as small as possible. ‘You’re all wet and ready for me. Or is that the juices of your lover? Should I thank him for preparing the way for me? I would … if he was not already dead.’
My mother gave a guttural cry. The bed rattled as she tried to fight him off. A slap, a cry of pain, and Zusto da Grittoni panted, ‘At last! Some life in you. I should’ve done this … long ago.’ He slapped her again, calling her terrible names – a hag, a whore, a filthy lying bitch – each word punctuated by a blow. It seemed to go on forever. I buried myself in the velvet bed-curtains, my hands over my ears, but the sound could not be blocked out and my body felt each rock and jolt of the bed.
When he had finished, he said, standing up, ‘Now you will pleasure my servants, and, after them, yours, as a reward for their faithful service to me. Then, my dear, we have trawled the town for the filthiest, most disease-ridden men we could find. They’re all eager for a go at you. But before the entertainment begins … where is your daughter, Bianca? A tasty little titbit, I thought last time I saw her. And still, no doubt, a virgin.’
‘No! Don’t you dare.’
‘I would dare,’ he answered. ‘I’ve thought for a while that she would do very nicely, once your beauty began to fade. Which, I’m afraid, my dear, it has. I was beginning to tire of you anyway. Admit it, you’re long past your prime. How old are you? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Your daughter, however, is just quivering on the cusp of womanhood. It shall be my very great pleasure to open her up, as it were, to the pleasures of the flesh.’
‘No!’ My mother’s feet hit the floor. She was slapped back down on the bed, and then the menservants came forward in a rush and a clatter of boots. My mother whimpered and sobbed and pleaded, struggling to escape, but the two men only laughed and taunted her, one holding her down while the other climbed onto the bed.
Zusto da Grittoni, meanwhile, went through the door into my bedroom. I saw his embroidered shoe pass by inches from my face. I lay still, the endless creak, creak, creak, creak, creak of the bed torturing my ears.
Zusto came back. ‘She’s not there. Where is she?’
My mother did not answer. Her breath came in short gasps. The man was grunting like an animal.
‘WHERE IS SHE?’
‘Gone,’ my mother said faintly.
That was the last word I heard her say for a very long time.
All night, men came and went in my mother’s bedroom.
I could see nothing of them but their feet. Some wore shoes of soft leather, red or forest-green or brown with large buckles. Some wore soldier’s boots. One wore a priest’s long black cassock. Many were barefoot, the skin filthy, the toenails discoloured.
My mother whimpered and sobbed, but it was the constant creak, creak, creak of the bed that most disturbed me. I could do nothing but squeeze my eyes shut and jam my hands over my ears.
Slowly, the darkness ebbed away and grey light began to creep into my mother’s bedroom. The parade of feet finally stopped. Zusto da Grittoni, who had watched all night, sitting in the armchair where my mother and I had sat together so many times, got up and came to the bed. I heard him spit on her.
‘That, you filthy unfaithful whore, was what we call the royal thirty-nine. I hope you enjoyed yourself. If anyone asks you, tell them this is what happens to those who betray the Grittoni family. And tell that sweet little daughter of yours that she is more than welcome to seek my protection, as long as she better understands her duty to me. Now get out.’
BELLADONNA
Venice, Italy – May to August 1508
Rage gave me the strength to get her away.
Unsurprisingly, she could hardly walk. I half-carried her from that foul house and found us a dark alley in which to hide. She clutched a lock of golden-red hair in one hand. It had been tied at one end with a bloodstained rag of pale pink fabric. I tried to take it from her, but she would not let go. It was my father’s hair, I understood that. If only my father had not come back. Indeed, he was a dark walker, the bringer of pain and misfortune.
When dusk fell, I led my mother – halting step by halting step – away from the sound of church bells, deeper and deeper into the alleyways that criss-crossed San Polo. I cannot tell you how I felt. I was cold and numb. My legs were weak, and shivers racked me. All this time, my mother did not speak a word. She clung tight to the hacked-off lock of hair. Her eyes were pale green pebbles in her white bruised face.
We came to a bridge where bare-breasted women hung over the ramparts, hollering down at the gondolas floating serenely along the murky canal below. To one side was a patched and narrow house with a pomegranate tree in a pot by its open front door. A haggard old whore sat in the doorway, cutting a pomegranate open with a knife. It was crowded with seeds g
lowing like tiny rubies. Without thinking, I pressed both hands together and begged. She looked us over – our fine clothes, my mother’s bruised face, her torn bodice and stained skirts – and offered me half of the fruit. I scooped the seeds out with my fingers and thrust them into my mouth. They were delicious.
‘Need somewhere to stay?’ the whore asked.
I nodded.
‘Got any money?’
I rummaged in my mother’s bag. It was full of beauty products – a vial of belladonna drops, a tub of white lead powder, a jar of vermilion to redden her lips. I found a pearl necklace, all tangled up with her brush, and showed it to the old whore. She reached out greedily for it, but I held it out of her reach.
‘How long can we stay?’
‘Saucy little bimba, aren’t you? You can stay a month, but not a second longer.’
I nodded. I had been afraid she would grab the pearls and tell us only a night.
‘And I’ll need water, lots of hot water.’ I wanted to sit in a hot bath forever. I wanted to scrub myself till my skin bled.
‘Anything else, contessa?’
‘A room with a lock and key.’
Her eyes flickered back to my mother, staring away into nothing. ‘Very well. Come with me.’ Getting to her feet, the whore drew her shawl to cover her heavy bare breasts.
We climbed a narrow staircase three floors up to a tiny hot room under the roof. The straw mattress was crawling with bed lice, the floor was filthy and the chamber pot crusted with ordure, but at least we could lock ourselves away in there. And there was an escape route out the window and across the rooftops.
First, I washed my mother as best I could. She cringed away from me, trying to hide her body with her hands. ‘It’s all right,’ I crooned. ‘We’re safe now. Let’s just get you clean and then you can rest.’
I washed out the chamber pot, swept the floor and threw the mattress out the window. I scrubbed and rubbed and dusted and scoured, as if I could so easily wash away the images of the previous night. When all was clean, I folded my mother’s velvet cloak and laid it on the floorboards, so she could lie down. I bought us some food and fed it to my mother as if she was a child. She lay on her cloak, her legs curled into her chest. When it grew too dark to clean any more, I tried to cuddle up to her. She jerked herself away. So I lay alone on the hard floorboards and tried not to weep. Eventually, I slept.