But Claire was most captivated by a person who, in previous chronicles of the conspiracy, had been relegated to a footnote. Alessandra Rossetti was a young courtesan who wrote a secret letter to the Great Council exposing the plot. Known as the Rossetti Letter, it was mentioned in most accounts of the Spanish Conspiracy, but was never fully examined, as Alessandra’s role had remained a mystery. No one knew how Alessandra had learned of the conspiracy; with the exception of the Rossetti Letter, there was no documentary evidence linking her to it.
Claire hadn’t found any evidence, either, but she believed it existed somewhere—most likely in Venice’s Biblioteca Marciana, which she hadn’t yet been able to visit. She suspected that past historians had overlooked it simply because they didn’t consider it important enough. They’d written about Ossuna, Bedmar, and Silvia at length, but Alessandra’s life and contribution to history were largely ignored. A few had even stated that the Rossetti Letter was incidental, that the Spanish Conspiracy would have been discovered without it, but Claire thought they were missing the point. As soon as she’d learned of the young courtesan, her imagination had been captured. Who was this woman? How did she become involved? No previous historian had looked at the conspiracy from Alessandra’s point of view, had placed her at the center of events, had given her adequate credit for helping to maintain the Venetian Republic’s independence. Claire thought of Alessandra as a sort of Italian Joan of Arc, and she harbored a secret hope that her dissertation would elevate the courtesan to a more prominent place in history.
If Andrea Kent doesn’t beat me to the punch, she thought as she brushed the last crumbs of her sandwich from her lap. That the Cambridge professor was a woman was especially worrisome; there was a greater possibility that she, too, would write about the conspiracy from Alessandra’s viewpoint, making Claire’s dissertation completely redundant. Her only hope was that Andrea Kent was having as much trouble finding information on Alessandra Rossetti as she was.
Two years and countless hours of research, and still Claire’s knowledge of the courtesan was sketchy, full of holes that she could fill only with question marks. In general, even the most illustrious Venetians of the time did not leave behind numerous records, documents or other accounts of their personal lives—and women, generally, left behind fewer than men. By researching wills, tax declarations, and an odd collection of personal correspondence, Claire had been able to piece together a biography of sorts. She took out her notes and looked them over once more.
Alessandra Rossetti: born 1599, died?
daughter of Fiametta Balbi, of a noble family; and Salvatore Rossetti, a Venetian citizen. No confirmed birth dates for FB or SR. F. Balbi died circa 1608?, cause unknown. A merchant specializing in goods from the Levant, Salvatore Rossetti died 1616 (with Alessandra’s elder brother, Jacopo, born 1597) in shipwreck off Crete.
With the deaths of Salvatore and Jacopo, Alessandra was left alone at the age of seventeen. The only honorable options for a woman of her station—a Venetian citizen, from a well-to-do merchant’s family—were marriage or the convent, but Alessandra didn’t choose either. The mystery of why she didn’t marry was easy enough to solve; when the sea claimed her father and brother, it also took her family’s fortune, including her dowry. As for the convent, Venetian girls rarely chose it of their own accord. Claire was fairly certain that Alessandra had entered into a close relationship with a man named Lorenzo Liberti, her father’s business associate and the executor of Salvatore’s diminished estate. Claire had come across a letter by Liberti in which he’d written that Alessandra had “bewitched” him, not only with her beauty but with her agile mind. Barely a year after their liaison had begun, Liberti was stricken with cholera and died.
Not long after Liberti’s death, Alessandra became a courtesan. By some accounts, she was one of the most sought after women in Venice. It must have been a momentous time for her; less than twelve months later, in March 1618, Alessandra wrote the letter exposing the Spanish Conspiracy.
And then she disappeared.
The Rossetti Letter was the last known document written by Alessandra Rossetti, even, from what Claire had found, the last document that referred to her. So far she hadn’t been able to discover Alessandra’s fate. Had the letter placed her in danger? Had she died during the bloodbath that followed the revelation of the Spaniards’ plot? If she’d managed to escape with her life, why couldn’t Claire find any mention of her after March 1618?
Claire set her notes on her desk and sighed. Sometimes she worried that she’d never find the answers to the questions that preoccupied her: How did Alessandra learn of the Spanish Conspiracy? And what had happened to her after the conspiracy was revealed?
The Wheel of Fortune
18 April 1617
THE BELLS OF San Salvador were ringing as the gondola left the narrow confines of the Rio San Giovanni Crisostomo and sailed into the Grand Canal. Alessandra leaned out from the felze, the black baldachin that covered the boat’s midsection, and looked up at the lowering sky. April, and yet it still felt like winter. Last night’s scattered clouds had converged into an unbroken canopy of gray, and she half-expected to feel raindrops on her face. Instead, only the chill spring air greeted her, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the pungent odors of the bustling fish market on the opposite bank.
Her gondolier steered the craft to the middle of the great waterway, dodging a fruit-laden barge that sent a shower of frigid water over the bow. I had the dream again last night, Alessandra realized with a shiver. The same dream she’d had too many times in the past year, the one that caused her to wake up gasping and crying, that caused her to snap at her good, loyal Bianca for no reason, that left an emptiness inside her that she feared would never pass. She’d forgotten it as soon as she awoke, but now it came back to her in an instant: her father and Jacopo sinking down into the deep, cold ocean, descending into the murky darkness until only their pale, still faces were visible, their wide eyes blank, mouths open in mute surprise.
Keep safe from stormy weather, O Lord, all your faithful mariners… Each year on Ascension Day, the Doge repeated this invocation during the Sposalizio del Mar, Venice’s ceremonial Marriage to the Sea. As far back as she could remember, Alessandra had, along with all of Venice, watched proudly as the Bucintoro was rowed across the lagoon and into the Adriatic. The red and gold ship of state was as ornate as a Mandarin dragon, and the Doge rode on its crest in his golden chair surrounded by the six scarlet-robed members of his private counsel, the Signory, and a hundred liveried oarsmen. When he threw the gold ring into the sea, and spoke the words dear to every Venetian’s heart “…keep safe all your faithful mariners, safe from sudden shipwreck and from evil, unsuspected tricks of cunning enemies,” she had recited them along with him.
What a child she’d been, to believe that gold rings and prayers to the sea would keep her family alive. Alessandra felt bitter tears rising, as they did too often, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. There was no time for that this morning; her father’s banker had summoned her. At last, her father’s legacy, such as it was, would be in her hands. The shipwreck that claimed Salvatore and Jacopo Rossetti had left her nearly destitute; Alessandra’s father had staked everything he owned on his last voyage. During the past year, the executor of her father’s estate, Lorenzo Liberti, had invested what remained. Now that Lorenzo was dead, it would be up to her to manage it. No doubt the banker had some advice for her.
She disembarked at the Rialto steps. Mornings were the market’s busiest time, and the lanes all around the Erberia and the adjacent church known as San Giacometto were crowded. She slowly made her way through the throngs of shoppers carrying baskets of asparagus from Sant’ Erasmus, artichokes from Sicily, or wriggling burlap sacks filled with live crabs or eels. The last time she’d been here, she’d been fifteen, and on her father’s arm. It wasn’t entirely proper for a well-bred young woman to be in the market unescorted, but then, she thought wryly, s
he’d given up being entirely proper a year ago when she’d become Lorenzo’s mistress.
She unfolded the banker’s letter. The top was imprinted:
Banco Cattona
at the Rialto
on the Filled-in Canal of Thoughts
Below that was a note in a precise hand:
Signorina Rossetti:
It is of the utmost importance that you see me at once regarding your account.
I remain your obedient servant,
Bartolomeo Cattona
She stopped a young man pushing a tumbrel stacked with bread and asked for directions to the bank.
“Straight ahead, then left after the goldsmiths,” he said, pointing the way along the Ruga degli Speziali. He took a second look at her before he walked on, and Alessandra saw his interest, his uncertainty, his confusion. He doesn’t know what to make of me, she thought. An unmarried girl would wear a veil, but I do not, nor do I wear the neck pearls of a married woman. As for the third possibility, I am too modestly dressed. I am neither maid, nor matron, nor meretrice.
She followed his advice and soon was beyond the bustle of the markets, in a quiet cobblestone lane lined with shops. The Banco Cattona was considerably less impressive than she had imagined it. A squeaky door opened into a tiny anteroom in which sat a young clerk with ink-stained fingers and a pained, cachectic appearance. Alessandra presented her letter and the clerk led her to the banker’s office, a windowless chamber lined with leather-bound ledgers, each with a gold-engraved name on the spine.
Bartolomeo Cattona sat behind a desk that took up much of the room, squinting through half glasses at a wide sheet of paper upon which he scratched a row of figures. He looked up distractedly as they entered, and the feathery end of his quill came into contact with one of the tapers on his candelabrum and caught fire. He extinguished the burning feather with a gruff exhalation, and a plume of white, acrid smoke rose in the air.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said, waving away the smoke and pointing at the only chair in the office aside from his own. “So you’re Rossetti’s daughter? All grown up, I see.”
“Yes,” Alessandra replied, although it seemed odd to say it.
“Terrible what happened to your father, just terrible,” he said. “I warned him never to set sail without insurance, truly I did, but he knew better, of course.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his broad nose, grimacing as he put them on again, and regarded her with a thin-lipped smile. “But again, these days there are many like him, the high costs of shipping being what they are, many who are willing to risk it all just like your father did, in the hopes of undercutting the Turks, and the Portuguese, and the English. In better times,” he went on, tucking a silver curl back under his silk cap, “no one would have set foot off the Molo without a long list of underwriters; why, I recall voyages that were complete disasters and still managed to turn a handsome profit! If only he’d taken my advice, your misfortunes would not be so great, my dear.”
Alessandra suspected that Signor Cattona wouldn’t have dared insult her father like that if he were still alive; he probably wouldn’t have made such a pompous statement even to Lorenzo. She tried to conceal her displeasure at the banker’s patronizing manner. “My father and brother died on that voyage,” she said. “No amount of money could make up for their loss.”
The banker must have heard the suppressed anger in her voice, for his cheeks brightened with color. “Of course,” he said, coughing uneasily. “Forgive me.”
“Signor Cattona, perhaps you could tell me your reason for this letter.”
“Ah, yes. But first, please, allow me to offer my condolences on the passing of Signor Liberti.” He spoke with a formality that should have been reserved for Lorenzo’s widow, not herself, Alessandra thought. Was he aware of the nature of their relationship? “From the flux, was it not?” he asked, regarding her warily.
“Yes.”
He leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “Was he stricken here in Venice?”
“He was in Florence when he became ill.”
“Ah.” The banker sat back, visibly relieved. “One can never be too careful. You’re too young, of course, but no one who survived it can forget the plague of 1575.” Cattona shivered, and with a seeming effort brought his thoughts back to the present. “Were you aware that as executor of your father’s estate, Signor Liberti made a number of withdrawals from your account?”
“Yes, of course. He made investments on my behalf.”
“I see. Did he deposit the returns at another bank?”
“No, the profits were to go here.”
“Signorina Rossetti, I am sorry to say that never happened. Signor Liberti made many withdrawals, but no deposits. I’m afraid there is very little money left in your account.”
Her stomach sank. “How little?”
Cattona turned in his chair. Alessandra saw that it was cleverly fitted with wheels on the bottom so that he might easily navigate the shelves full of ledgers lining the room. He rolled along the back wall until he came to a ledger marked with her name, took it from the shelf, and pressed it open on his desk. He turned a few pages, running his index finger along the columns of figures, then stopped and looked back at Alessandra.
“Twenty-eight ducats, fourteen soldi, three piccoli,” he stated solemnly.
“But that’s impossible.” Twenty-eight ducats was barely enough to feed herself, Nico, and Bianca for two months.
He turned the open ledger toward her. “My figures are correct.”
Alessandra looked down the row of entries, withdrawal after withdrawal, each signed by Lorenzo. “I can’t believe this.”
“I assure you that my accounting practices adhere to the highest standards,” said Cattona, offended. “Every three months, Banco Giro itself audits my books—”
“I didn’t mean to imply any misconduct,” Alessandra said. “I just don’t understand how Signor Liberti could have done this.” She looked at the dwindling figures in her account with confusion and dismay. Had Lorenzo deceived her, or had this been accidental, brought about by his sudden illness and death? She would probably never know.
“Signorina Rossetti, have you any other means?”
“No.”
“Have you given any thought to what you will do now?”
“I’ve had no time to think.”
“I know that your father left you a fine house in Castello, near the lagoon. Perhaps you might consider selling the house to raise the money you’ll need to enter San Sebastiano.”
Alessandra stared at him, openmouthed. She was appalled by his assumption that her only option was to take holy orders at San Sebastiano, the Venetian convent founded by the poet and courtesan Veronica Franco as a refuge for “fallen” women. Obviously Cattona knew about her relationship with Lorenzo, or had guessed, but his presumption was rude beyond belief. The only thing worse than being a mistress, Alessandra realized, was being a former mistress; no doubt the banker’s disrespectful treatment was what she could expect from now on.
“I could help find a buyer, if you like,” the banker continued. “In fact, I might be interested in purchasing it myself…”
So that’s it, Alessandra thought. Not only am I unworthy of respect, but he has no inhibitions about taking advantage of my misfortune. “Did you think you could frighten me into selling my home to you?” she asked. “No doubt you expect to purchase it for much less than its true worth.”
“I assure you, I can offer a fair price.”
“I dread to think of how peacefully you would sleep in my house, while I was walled up in a nunnery.” Alessandra stood up. “I’d like my money, please.”
“Pardon?”
“My money. I’d like to withdraw my money.”
The banker was silent for a moment. He looked down at his ledger, perhaps trying to think of a new, more successful approach. But when he looked back at Alessandra, he must have seen that he was defeated. “Very well, then,” he
said brusquely. “How much?”
“All of it.” She untied her purse from her waist and set it on the desk.
“Our deposits are not kept here,” he replied with an aggravated wave at her purse, “but in the strong rooms of the Palazzo Camerlenghi, the state Treasurer’s Office. It’s the tall white building right next to the Rialto Bridge. Take this chit to the main counter”—he took a small paper from the desk drawer and wrote on it as he spoke—“and they’ll compensate you.” He held out the receipt with a dismissive glance. “Good luck to you, Signorina Rossetti,” he said, but Alessandra knew very well that he did not mean it.
The clerk at the Palazzo Camerlenghi finished counting out fourteen soldi, then unlocked the largest of the three small chests on the table facing him. He glanced down at the chit from Banco Cattona, then up at Alessandra.
“Twenty-eight ducats, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Alessandra said. Her voice sounded hollow. Twenty-eight ducats. How will we survive with only twenty-eight ducats? She drew in a ragged breath and brushed her fingers across her tearstained face. This had to be the worst day of her life, except for the day nearly a year ago when she’d learned of her father’s and brother’s deaths. Lorenzo was the one who’d told her. Once he’d related the terrible news, he’d dropped to his knees and confessed his great admiration—no, he could no longer deny it, he said—his ardent love for her. He had begged her to allow him to help and protect her. He’d promised to take care of her, and she had believed him. Had she been deceived?
No, Alessandra decided, that could not be true. Lorenzo had loved her, she was sure of that; many times she had regretted that she could not return his passionate feelings. What had happened with her money must have been a mistake or simply bad luck. She only wished that knowing this made her present circumstances easier.
The Rossetti Letter (v5) Page 3