Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  ‘Come forward. Welcome to the Camp of the Hebrews. Are you English?’

  ‘Why do you ask if I am English?’ I was working hard at fitting into this Venetian world and was disappointed that my foreign origins were so immediately obvious.

  He smiled; a kindly smile but knowledgeable. ‘You English always appear tentative and reserved. It is your nature, I believe.

  Come. All are welcome in God’s house. Welcome to the Scola Canton.’ He waved me into the doorway and I followed, perhaps not quite as tentative and reserved as he expected me to be.

  Once inside, all was different. The room looked like a church, with carved pews along each side, but instead of an altar at the end there was what appeared to be a great throne. The ceiling was vaulted, letting in masses of light, and it was adorned with many intricate golden chandeliers. The walls were hung with crimson curtains, and the floor was covered with rich yellow and ochre tiles.

  The man introduced himself as Rabbi Isach Piatelli, and quickly established who I was and the reason for my presence in the Jewish quarter. I asked why all the Jews seemed to be concentrated into this one small area.

  ‘A law was passed by the Maggior Consiglio in 1516, under which the Jews were instructed to live in the Ghetto Nuovo. Do not be concerned on our behalf; it is normal – the Muslims and the Tedeschi (what you English call the Germans) are similarly housed. We are constrained, but also protected by the Republic of Venice from the wrath of the Catholic Church in Rome. Twenty-three years ago, the Pope instructed that all Jewish books were to be burned. Here they made a great fuss of burning some old stuff for a couple of days then left us alone again. “Trade before religion,” that’s the Venetian motto; and we Jews are too important to the trade of the city to be driven out. So we stay here and make our own life. It works.’

  Rabbi Piatelli was a small man, slightly stooped and pale beneath his long beard, but as with Doge Venier the eyes that looked out at me from beneath hooded brows were steely and intelligent.

  ‘So here we have a conundrum: a Jewish rabbi explaining the workings of Catholic Venice to an English . . . Protestant?’ He had guessed right and I nodded. He smiled in return, and in that quick smile I felt I could see a thousand years of history.

  ‘Are we all so different?’ I asked him. He smiled again, recognizing that it had been a leading question.

  ‘Welcome to the persecuted,’ he replied. ‘It is strange how it forms new bonds. I understand from what I hear amongst the merchant travellers that England is also not a land of religious tolerance these days.’

  I had to admit that he was right. I also expressed my surprise and disappointment that the Jewish community should be so constrained here, while Catholics and Protestants enjoyed free access and relatively free speech, so long as they did not try to increase the influence of the Pope or slow down the sacred process of making money.

  This time there was weariness in the rabbi’s face.

  ‘The Republic of Venice is not a natural phenomenon but a man-made object which has been very artfully designed. To have created this great city on a base of mud and sand is a feat of human ingenuity which I have to applaud. What is more, Venice’s control of the seas has given it an economic power well beyond the means of these little islands: another great achievement. But with the weakening of its economic power since the Portuguese found the sea route to the east, the edifice is beginning to crumble: people are beginning to understand that the might and invincibility of La Serenissima is like that of a great bronze statue – hollow. And never forget that this particular hollow statue stands on a base of sand and mud.’

  ‘If the place is crumbling around us, why do you stay?’

  He shrugged, the gesture pure Venetian. ‘I cannot change the world. But in accepting that, there is no reason I should not observe it and seek to understand it.’

  He led me to a small room adjacent to the main synagogue and motioned me to sit. Then he put his fingertips together and sat in silence for a moment. Finally he smiled, as if decided, and leaned forward. ‘You indicated that you are Protestant, not Catholic?’

  I confirmed this, emphatically.

  ‘Then let us take something you and I have in common: the Ten Commandments. Your Protestant church shares the Commandments with the Hebrew original in the Written Torah. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, only recognizes nine of these commandments and, having omitted the second (for where would they all be without the worship of graven images?), they have conveniently split the tenth into two, to make up the numbers. Whilst we both instruct that thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, wife, servant or goods as part of one commandment, the Catholics separate the coveting of wives from the coveting of other goods and chattels.’

  He smiled again; a wry smile. Was this, I wondered, a natural instinct for the persecuted? Did they learn from an early age not to antagonize the oppressors but instead to smile – always smile, while keeping their true thoughts to themselves? ‘Perhaps the Catholic women prefer not to be included in a list of chattels?’ The smile was fixed now, and the eyes combative.

  I smiled back, I hoped knowingly, attempting to hide the fact that I had not, until this moment, appreciated the subtle differences between the two faiths on these matters.

  ‘Now!’ He steepled his fingertips again. ‘Let us consider the interpretation of these commandments in this fair city. Number one: “I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other God before me.” Listen carefully and you will hear the Venetians whisper, “apart from money, that is . . .”

  ‘The second: “Thou shalt not make unto thee a graven image, nor bow down unto them.” This is the one the Catholics omit, and you only have to visit a Venetian church to see which side the Venetians are on. So it would be fair to conclude that Venice is a Catholic State.

  ‘The third and fourth are observed, for blasphemy is rare in Venice and the Sabbath day is observed with regularity.

  ‘In the fifth, “Honour thy father and mother”, the Venetians really are interested, for the governance of the state is completely controlled by the nobili, those nobles whose families first controlled the islands. Of course, these nobles are careful to ensure that the citizens of the merchant classes gain beneficial employment as the lawyers and administrators of the Doge’s chancery and the Republic’s civil service, but together they ensure that the ordinary people, the popolani, have their place, know it, and keep to it. So honour works upwards, but less so downwards.’ He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘It helps to have noble parents if it’s honour you seek.’

  ‘The sixth commandment would appear to be straightforward. “Thou shalt not kill” seems simple enough, and for the nobles it is simple indeed, for with poverty amongst the masses, the price of a man’s head is pitifully low, and a noble does not have to break the commandments himself when bravi can be hired for a pittance to do the job for him.’

  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable as the list progressed. Was the great Republic of La Serenissima really so cynical and debauched? But Rabbi Piatelli had a list of ten items in his head and I could see, by his remaining straight fingers, that ten was what I was going to hear, whether I liked it or not.

  ‘Seven: “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” The few men of the nobili who are allowed to get married lock their wives away, making any contravention of the commandment (by the wives, at least) impossible.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but was prevented from doing so by the remorseless march of the rabbi’s list of commandments.

  ‘Eight: “Thou shalt not steal.” He winked at me. ‘But if you are a Venetian, and in a position of power, you can levy taxes, demand brokerage fees, and apply any rules of unfair competition you like to diminish the position of foreigners who are taking more than their fair share out of the pot.’ He opened his hands wide. ‘So who needs to steal?’

  I shook my head. Nothing new there, then. I remembered the manoeuvrings of the English Court and somehow knew it would be the same wherever one
group of men had power over others.

  ‘Nine,’ I looked up. We were nearly there. ‘ “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour . . .”’ He shrugged, ‘. . . if he, like you, is of noble blood and can take you through legal process before the proweditori. Otherwise, you can do what you like, for your powerful friends will protect you – that’s what the system is there for. That’s why Jews have difficulty acting as money-lenders here; not because usury is illegal or against our religion, but because our contracts are not enforceable in the law.

  ‘And ten. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.” Unless you are a noble and she is low-born, in which case you take her as a mistress and know that there is precious little anyone, including her husband, can do about it. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, servants or possessions.” Once again, it depends who you are. I can promise you that if you are a Jew and your neighbour is a noble Venetian, your possessions are daily at risk.’

  He sat back, seemingly pleased with his little profile of the city and its ways.

  ‘So you see, La Serenissima has her own ways and her own interpretations. You can do business here. You will normally be safe here and you can have a great deal of pleasure here, if that is what you want. But never fall into the trap of believing you will be treated equally, for you will not.’

  He stood, perhaps realizing that he had held me for longer than either of us had intended. We were at the end of our conversation, and I also stood to leave. There was much of the city I still wanted to explore. Rabbi Piatelli led me to the door. ‘This is a successful city, but a greedy one, and wholly self-centred. Enjoy it, but be aware.’

  He shook my hand, hanging on to it for a moment and gripping my elbow with the other hand. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself. But make sure you are very clear who your neighbour is. There are many pockets in this society and, as they say here, it all depends whose pocket you are in.’

  I thanked him for his advice. One lesson stood out: there was one law for the rich and another for the poor.

  CHAPTER 20

  February the 16th 1556, Ca’ da Mosto

  I was lost in my thoughts, when I heard the earl approaching. He was whistling, which answered my first question: in recent days, Courtenay’s mood had changed so frequently that Thomas and I had invented a new game, Guess the Earl’s Mood Today We had decided that, on balance, high-and-mighty self-importance was (just) to be preferred to self-indulgent public misery Whistling was, therefore, a relatively good sign.

  Thomas had, as usual, gone to the Oratorio, where an outbreak of measles was hitting the elderly particularly hard, and he was not expected back until late. I had the pleasure of the earl’s company to myself.

  ‘I have decided to have my portrait painted, Richard. What do you think?’

  I was not sure I had a reply. ‘To what end, Your Grace?’

  ‘Why, to the end of a beneficial marriage, of course. The nobility in this city are charming, simply charming, and the ladies particularly so. I am certain that I am in the right place at the right time and shall, within a very few weeks, find a suitable match.’

  ‘But if you meet the lady, Your Grace, why does she need your portrait?’ I was enjoying being obtuse.

  ‘To communicate, of course. Look here: either I shall meet the daughter who will fall in love with me and need to seek her father’s permission to marry, or I shall meet the royal father, who will decide that his daughter should marry into the oldest house in Europe, in which case he will need to show the daughter what she will be getting. It’s quite normal. Surely you remember those Holbein paintings in London. What do you think they were for?’

  My mind went back to the story of Anne of Cleves, and the reason poor Hans Holbein’s career with King Henry had ended so abruptly. It was said the reality of the ‘Flanders Mare’ had been a terrible shock to the King after Holbein’s flattering portrait. Thomas Cromwell had reputedly told the artist to paint the princess ‘in a good light’ and he had done just that, in the process omitting any reference to her big nose or her yellow teeth.

  ‘You saw my portrait in London, of course?’ He was preening again.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace, I did. I thought Hans Eworth captured your spirit most excellently.’

  In truth I thought the painting depicted a man who had just wet himself and hoped no one had noticed.

  ‘Well said. Well said. Well, now it’s time for another. Yes, time for another.’

  My heart sank. Surely this was not to be the next mannerism: saying everything twice in case the lower classes had not understood fully the first time. I smiled.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace. And who will make this portrait for you?’

  ‘I am relying on you for that, Richard.’

  I looked at him in astonishment. My drawings were adequately good, but I had never tried oil paints.

  ‘I want you to find the best there is, and expect you to secure for me a beneficial commission.’

  ‘Beneficial, Your Grace? In what respect?’ I simply couldn’t resist it.

  He glared at me. ‘Cheap, Richard. I don’t expect to pay the inflated prices these rich merchants in Venice pay. It’s ridiculous. The right man will understand. They always want to paint royalty; it has a certain cachet, as they say in Brussels, and it brings in the commissions thereafter. It won’t be a problem. Simply let drop the magic words “Plante à Genet” and all will be well.’

  I gave him my best courtier’s bow, though I wondered how many doors the Plantagenet name would open nowadays.

  ‘I shall scour the city immediately, Your Grace.’

  Courtenay stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, recreating the standing pose in his last portrait. ‘You know, Richard, I do believe I have grown in stature and authority since Eworth painted me.’ He twirled again. ‘Yes, that’s it. Stature and authority.’

  As I sought to leave the room, still maintaining the manner of a courtier, he called after me.

  ‘That man who painted the Doge? What’s his name? Titian? He’s probably the right man. Understands royalty. Nice bright colours, too. But make sure you get a good price agreed, Richard. It’s far too late to haggle when the work is complete, you know.’

  I closed the door. ‘Nice bright colours.’ I was not going to enjoy this.

  CHAPTER 21

  February the 18th 1556 – Sacca della Misericordia, Cannaregio

  I was lost again. This morning I had set out for the workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, whom the English called Titian, guided by what I thought were clear directions from Peter Vannes.

  Despite my inner distrust of the man, I believed he would be able to recommend appropriate artists to me, and he had advised me to try Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto (although he had been careful not to declare a preference). Any fears I might have had about giving away the earl’s secrets were soon dispelled, as Peter Vannes told me Courtenay had already discussed the idea with him at some length.

  Vannes had given me careful instructions on how to find each of the ‘artisan’, as he called them (to my surprise these outstanding artists were treated as tradesmen), and although I had become a little confused as I scribbled my notes, I was confident at least of finding the workshop of Titian on the Fondamente Nuove along the north shore.

  But now here I was, beside the muddy basin called the Sacca della Misericordia, with no idea where to go next. The area had grown more and more desolate as I had passed the Oratorio where Thomas helped the sick, and the district ahead of me looked so disadvantaged and downtrodden that I believed I must be heading in the wrong direction.

  I was right on the northernmost edge of the island and a keen salty wind whipped across the water from the cemetery island of San Michele a couple of hundred yards to the north, making me shiver. Gone were the palazzi, the fine squares, the rich merchants and the well-dressed women. Here at the edge of Venetian society it was cold, hard and desolate. Another world.

  I sat on a wall and watched
a man walking slowly through the waist-high muddy water. He appeared to be pushing something and I realized that I had seen this before, during my childhood. He stopped and lifted his net and it all flooded back to me: the shrimp fishermen along Charmouth beach. They used to push large D-shaped nets like that, with a bar across the end which disturbed the sand as it was pushed along, making the shrimps jump into the net. Like the Charmouth fishermen, he swung a large sack round from his back and tipped the catch from his latest effort into it. Seeing me sitting on the wall, he made his way out of the water and joined me, wearily.

  ‘Are you a fisherman?’ His voice was tired.

  ‘I have done some fishing, back at home, yes, but there we normally use shrimps as bait for bass, sea trout and salmon in the river.’

  ‘Which part of the world are you from, stranger?’ His Venetian accent was as strong as any I had heard since arriving.

  ‘From the south-west of England, a place called Devon.’

  He smiled, wearily. ‘Here for trade, are you? Come to buy luxury goods, silks and spices?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I am acting as secretary to an English earl, who is visiting for a few months.’

  He wiped his nose with the back of a muddy hand, making his face dirtier rather than cleaner. ‘Earl, eh? Rich people? Nobility. Another world. The world above.’ He swept his arm to signify the muddy creek. ‘Welcome to the world below.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I did not fully understand the point he was making.

  He pointed to one of the fondamente across the muddy creek, with a church and tall stone-and-wood buildings rising up behind it. ‘Look over there. What do you see?’

  I followed his gaze. ‘A church, some large houses?’

  He shook his head. ‘Typical. All you see is the world above; your world. Now let me show you my world. Look lower. What do you see?’

  I lowered my eyes. ‘The stone embankment and the quayside?’

  He nodded. ‘Closer. Yes the stonework of the fondamenta holds back the water and acts as a base for the building work and for the roadway, but beneath that?’