by Alex Connor
“Gabriella was not my lover, she was a friend. And she came to me for help and I failed her.”
“Why did she need help?”
“I don’t know, she disappeared before I could find out.” Der Witt said quietly. “Every day I go look at the bodies in the morgue, searching for her. I never find her.”
“But she might have left Venice of her own choosing —”
“Rich women might have the chance to travel, with a chaperone and money to accompany them. But poor women don’t leave Venice.” der Witt retorted. “Gabrielle was a maid, she had no money, no family, she lived on her wage from the Castilano sisters, her life was simple, set to follow the way of every other woman.”
Caterina tipped her head to one side. “So why is she missing, if her life was so ‘simple’?”
“And why does it matter to you?” the Dutchman asked.
“You don’t trust me and yet you expect me to trust you!” Caterina replied, sighing before she spoke again. “I need to tell you something, my friend. It might mean nothing, or it might be important, but you need to hear it. I saw Gabriella four days ago. She was crying, carrying clothes for the Castilano sisters, and I felt sorry for her. So I stopped and asked her what was wrong.”
“And she told you?”
“No. But I knew she was afraid. Terribly afraid.” Caterina continued hurriedly, “I was so worried that I said that if she was in danger she could stay at my house. She refused.”
‘How can I bring it to you?
Ask the Dutchman, he will explain.
I’m going to see him later to tell him
everything.
You must be careful…
I wasn’t careful’
She was crying quietly, looking around her.
Rich clothes over her arms, the gilt buttons of a tunic catching the sunlight.
Looking round,
Ready to move on.
‘The Wolves of Venice. Do you hear me?
There are four..
Don’t let them tell you less.
Look for the four.’
Caterina repeated the girl’s words carefully. “After she had told me that she hurried away, as though she regretted saying anything. Later I called by the Castilano shop, but Gabriella wasn’t there and I never saw her again.”
“I failed her.”
“Gabriella said that she was going to meet up with you that night and tell you everything. Did she?”
“No...” he hung his head.
“She didn’t keep to the meeting?”
His head bowed. “It wasn’t her who failed, I did. You want to know why? I fell asleep, Caterina. I fell asleep. That’s what you do when you age, you fall asleep like an old man, and fail someone who needs you.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “So you never discovered what she was talking about? Never knew what, or who, are the four?”
“No.” He coughed, took in a breath to cover the catch in his voice. “And I keep thinking that if I’d met her that night she might still be alive.”
“But we don’t know she isn’t —”
“It’s been five days now.”
“Venice is a strange place, with many spies and many hiding places,” Caterina said, pulling the hood over her head. “Don’t give up hope, Dutchman. She might still come to you. Or to me.”
He shook his head. “No, Gabriella was afraid. If she is still alive, she’ll be hiding... And if she’s dead the tide will carry her in.”
Chapter Seven
It was a protracted winter, far too long for comfort, the Adriatic irritable with storms. Still in the long arms of February the days closed down around four, the chimes from St Marks and other Venetian churches a gloomy calling to prayer. Priests took to wearing shawls under their vestments, the congregation huddled together for warmth in the pews, even enemies, their shaking white hands extended for the communion wafers at the cold brass altar rail.
Above their heads the many Assumptions and Crucifixions retained their warm colours, whilst the drained faces of the worshippers looked to the paintings for comfort. In the pew nearest to the choir Jacopo Gianetti sat with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his fur doublet, his gaze averted from the man seated opposite.
He had spent a pleasing hour with Doge Francesco Donato, who had become Doge four years previously. If he was honest, Jacopo had little in common with the Doge, but he had been a long time friend of the Dogaressa, Alicia Giustiniani, a member of one of the most powerful families in Venice. There had even been a time, long ago, when a marriage between them had been suggested, but Jacopo’s wealth – although more than enough for Alicia - had been insufficient to ensnare her family’s approval.
Yet the fondness between them had endured. Alicia saw Jacopo as he had been as a youth; feckless, spontaneous, lively. Jacopo saw Alicia as she had been as a girl; sensual, flirtatious and superficial. But although the passing decades had all but obliterated Jacopo’s liveliness and Alicia’s flirtatiousness, in middle age they found a snug comfort in the memory of surriptious love. The girl who had enticed Jacopo Gianetti into dark corners now dedicated herself to the redecoration of the Doge’s Place, and, like many a Dogaressa before her, became the formal protector of a guild, in Alicia’s case, the glassmakers. The figure that had one been lithely alluring was now stout, her flippancy maturing into a radical protection of the workers. Their pleas and complaints she heard and bore enough influence on her husband to ensure that glass workers were able to travel abroad. She felt useful, resourceful, in control of herself. And her husband.
Fifteen years earlier the Doge of Venice had been quite a different calibre of man, immune to feminine interference. Andrea Gritti, distinguished diplomat and career soldier, had been a man Jacopo respected, but disliked, not least because Gritti was resistant to Aretino’s charm and thereby Jacopo’s influence. But when Donato was elected Doge and his wife Alicia became Dogaressa, Jacopo’s leverage had increased expedientally.
It was simple to flatter an old lover into agreement and Alicia had been persuaded that Aretino, although at times an odious bombast, could also be a witty and famous asset to the court. Donato was not a man especially cultured, but Alicia had an intense desire to make herself memorable. Redesigning the Doge’s private apartments she had been grateful for Aretino’s connections. His presenting of the finest merchants, most lavish traders in furniture and silver had been appreciated, his conversation outrageous and appealing. As a respectable matron, Alicia might feign disapproval, but she felt herself drawn to the literary letch and welcomed him at court. Before six months had passed Pietro Aretino had been firmly ensconced in the Doge’s home and circle; an eagle amongst sparrows.
And he had made it happen, Jacopo thought resentfully. He had used Alicia’s affection as Aretino’s entrée, watching the bulbous writer outrage and flatter his way through the courtiers. Before long he was accompanied by the black crow, Adamo Baptista. A Florentine by birth, but by nature, who knew? One day he simply appeared; conjured himself from Aretino’s shadow and remained, like a shadow, dark and inescapable.
Glancing up, Jacopo was aware of the confident stare of Aretino and the sidelong glance of Adamo Baptista; aware also that the latter was no follower of religion. As for Aretino, it had been said of him that ‘the only person he had never criticised was God. But that was only because he hadn’t met Him.’ Would God be afraid of the deviant author, blackmailer, liar? Jacopo wondered. Why not. Most were. There were hundreds in Venice who feared his tongue, his extraordinary knowledge of hidden scandals, personal foibles and long, dreadful secrets, all accumulated in the decades since he had arrived in the Republic.
His background depended on which version Aretino was relating, but most agreed that he had grown up in Perugia, before falling under the protection of Agostino Chigi, the banker and Raphael’s patron. Always ascorbic and witty, Aretino’s poem ‘The Last Will and Testament of the Elephant Hanno’ was written when Pope Leo X’s pet died. Despite i
ts lampooning of many leading figures in Rome, it had made Aretino’s reputation as a satirist and his future was set. Spite was his main weapon. and sex, his Lust Sonnets written to accompany Giulio Romano’s pornographic drawings, I Modi.
But I Modi caused a sensation so great that Aretino had to flee Rome, the Pope outraged by the obscenity, the introduction to the sonnets inflammable
Come view this you who like to fuck, without being
Disturbed in that sweet enterprise… with all respect
to hypocrities, I dedicate these lustful pieces to you,
heedless of the … asinine laws which forbid the eyes to
see the very things that delight them most.’
Later, when the Pope died, Aretino came under the protection of Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici, but the writer only settled back in the capital when Pope Clement VII was elected. At that wasn’t to last... Jacopo kept his gaze averted, his mother’s sharp elbow pressed against his flesh like a dagger as he thought of the attempted assignation of Aretino, which – had it been successful – would have relieved many of the blackmailer’s grip.
Instead the pederast had survived and left Rome to settle in Venice and develop his career as a blackmailer in the ‘city of vices’. Vices he was personally committed to exploiting; so much so that ‘he kept all that was famous in Italy in a kind of state of siege.’ Not just Italy, Aretino’s reach had also extended to Francis I of France and King Charles, both paying him to discover and reveal the other’s weaknesses…
Jacopo winced as he felt his mother’s elbow dig further into his flesh, his eyes moving upwards to the nave above the altar. So many years had passed since that night. So many Venetian summers and winters. Fifteen years, and all of them overhung by the threat of betrayal. Fifteen years of money exchanged at stone lintels; of favours extracted under duress. Fifteen years in which time Jacopo Gianetti, head of one of the wealthiest families in Venice, had been under the thumb of the corpulent, pustuler Aretino.
His gaze still fixed on the painted ceiling of the nave, Jacopo could feel the presence of the woman sitting beside him. His mother, Lavinia. Almost as critical as Aretino, certainly as proud. Defiantly protective of the Gianetti name and fortune.
“There need be no anxiety, my dear friend Jacopo” Aretino had said that night, fifteen years earlier. “I have no intention of exposing your secret –‘
“I have no secret!” he had replied, sick to the soul, wondering how much – if anything – Aretino knew. He was a card player, almost as proficient as the incomparable Adamo Baptista – but he could be bluffing. He could.
Was he?
I am so cold, Jacopo had thought, standing by the canal, deep into midnight, thinking. His instinct had alerted him. I am being watched. Jacopo had sensed, glancing around him. For how long had he been watched? He had not noticed anyone. Heard no footsteps and a footfall always echoed in Venice in the night hours.
Yet he had heard nothing.
And Aretino had been leaning towards him, his bulk unpleasantly close. “You are safe, Jacopo, I will not betray you. You are a confidante of our wondrous Doge, a friend at court. How could I threaten the esteem of the Gianetti name?”
“I have done nothing.” Jacopo had replied, but his voice – was that his voice? – was disentangled from his body; squirming like an eel at the end of rusty hook. “How dare you —”
“How dare I what?”
Jacopo paused, wrong footed. After all what did Aretino really know? And could he chance asking without giving himself away?... Jacopo had paused, wretched. Sick, so sick, stomach writhing, a bag of worms. Was he going to risk hanging the Gianetti name and reputation out like a banner at which the populace could throw their shit?
“Only you and I will ever know the truth of your dealings,” Aretino had continued. “Your esteemed mother will not be troubled, nor the Doge. This is a simple matter of business between the two of us.”
And then Jacopo had said. “I do not understand to what you are referring.”
“I think...” Aretino had quoted an exorbitant sum. “… paid every month would be fair.”
“For what?” Jacopo had replied. But that voice of his. That borrowed voice of his that did not work for him. That voice was lying. And they both knew it. “I am an innocent man.”
“Of what have I accused you?” Aretino had responded, smiling like a gargoyle. “Tell me, Jacopo, what do you fear I will expose? Have you so many secrets that I might be favoured with a choice?”
There had been no reply to the sleek question, to the damning question. To answer would have been to admit, to confess, to agree that a secret existed: that same secret which would cause the Gianetti coffers to be bled for as long as Jacopo or Aretino lived.
Above their heads Jacopo had heard pigeons scuffle for purchase on a window ledge, and wondered how. How Aretino had known. Or did he? And at the same precise moment realised that the knowing – or the presumed knowing – would be enough to buckle him. But he would not allow the truth breath; he would not allow vowels and consonants to be formed: he would not permit the empty alleyway or the dank canal to hear it.
And so a mental noose had wrapped itself around his neck and when he left Aretino that night it was etched into his skin like a brand. In the summer it would itch, chafe; in the winter it would burn like ice. But it would never leave him...
Drawing in a breath, Jacopo’s gaze moved from the nave to the altar, to the choir stalls, then to the pew opposite. And he knew, before he saw looked, that Aretino’s eyes were fixed on him.
Chapter Eight
“... I don’t want him in here!” Jacopo shouted, pushing away his servant, sweat making the sheets damp. “Tell him to go away!” and then he grabbed at the man’s arm and dropped his voice to a rasping whisper. “I don’t want either of them, you understand. Keep them away from me. Mi senti, tienili fuori! Tenerli lontano da me!"
The servant turned to a stout maid who was staring at her master writhing in the bed. Usually such a proud man, but now ranging like a bull. She wiped Jacopo’s narrow forehead with a cloth, his white hair – undressed and dishevelled – brittle and yellowing.
“Hush, signor —”
“He is a devil. Lui e un diavolo!” Jacopo’s sunken eyes fixed on the maid, his head turning to one side as his confusion cleared. “Why are you here? Why are you in my room!”
“You have been taken ill suddenly. You are ill, signor —”
“Get out!” Jacopo ordered, throwing back the covers and attempting to rise.
But the action was too much for him, dizziness overwhelming his senses and making the furniture dance. The wooden chest and the carved bed were suddenly jiggling like peasants at a wedding, the scattered bed sheets a hurried fall of snow.
Gasping, Jacopo jerked his feet off the floor, leaping madly. “It is winter again! No, not so soon! Why did you not tell me it was snowing?” he asked the plump maid. “It should not snow in Venice. Snow brings the bears.”
The maid turned to the manservant, staring with his mouth open. “Get the master’s son and bring him here.”
“No, not my son!” Jacopo shouted. “He is not to come near me. Keep him out.”
Defiantly Cara Banti held her ground, but her master had slipped out of consciousness and was lying, spread eagled, on the carved bed. Covering him with a blanket, she thought of all the years she had seen Marco Gianetti ignored and reviled, Jacopo only speaking to his son to criticise or mock. A cruel, cold man, Cara had decided long ago, a man who had married again when Marco was seven, a man whose second wife had died of a fever. And why? No fever killed her, Cara would mutter under her breath. Neglect, lack of love, mancanza di amore, had killed the little one.
She had come into the Gianetti house like an offering; a sixteen year old daughter of a powerful Venetian family. Sixteen, Cara had remarked at the time, not enraged by the age - it was common for brides to marry young – but by the timidity of the second Signora Gianetti.
The life of the little sprat had been sudden and short; propelled from the chaperoned safety of her own family, she had been bartered and exported into the Gianetti palazzo, the carved doors closing behind her like a spring lock. Within a year she was dead, following the first wife into the Gianetti sarcophagus on the island where all the broken spouses came to land.
Jacopo had grieved for her loss. Or had appeared to. It was difficult to tell and besides, he was adept at hiding his feelings. Sparse in weight, thin featured, narrow shouldered, Jacopo Gianetti seemed slight, but he had been blessed with the constitution of a farm ram. She looked down at her felled master, a sweating effigy, so unlike he usual fastidious self. He took care of his appearance, but why she wasn’t sure. Although Jacopo entertained as lavishly as a prince, there were few solo visitors, except for the occasional sighting of the gross toad Aretino. Yet as brilliant as he business dealings were reported to be, as opulent as his homes, as powerful as his name, Jacopo Gianetti was a hollow man.
“He has a fever.” Cara told the servant. “Send for a doctor.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, his face slack. “I do not know where to find a medico —”
No, Cara thought, there had been little call for a doctor for Signor Gianetti, his health untroubled all the time she had served him. The old family doctor had died years earlier and there had been no replacement. And then she remembered what she had heard about the Jewish doctors.
“Find one in the ghetto! What a fool you are.” Cara barked at the servant. “Fetch a medico from there.”
“From the ghetto?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Yes, from the ghetto!”
“But it’s after sunset.”
“I have eyes, I can tell what time it is! The Jewish doctors are allowed to leave the ghetto if they are visiting their patients.” she snorted. “When you get there, go to the double gates and ring the bell. Someone will come to you and then you ask for the medico.”