by Alex Connor
“To fuck?” Ira queried. “No, I don’t need a woman just for that. Not any woman. But you do, and that’s your choice, Marco. And anyway you have more opportunities than I do to find such company.” He had been wondering for weeks how to put his doubts into words and continued carefully: “You were telling me about Caterina Zucca. I suppose you met her through Pietro Aretino?”
“No, they are not friends. But we all attended the same concert and he introduced me... You don’t like Aretino, do you?”
“I don’t know him.” Ira replied, clapping as the juggler began again. “But what I’ve heard of him he’s hated. Many people – including some in the ghetto – speak of his many cruelties.”
“He has been kind to me.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“What do you mean by that?” Marco countered, noticing the chill in Ira’s tone. “You’ve changed since I’ve been fortunate enough to become a friend of Pietro Aretino’s —”
“A friend?”
Marco nodded. “Yes, a friend and since he has become a friend of mine you’ve become cold with me.”
“You imagine it.”
“I do not imagine it!” Marco retorted heatedly. “When I mention what I have been doing, or where I have been invited, you say little. Even concerts at the Doge’s palace do not impress you. I am becoming known —”
“You were already known as the son of Jacopo Gianetti, you already had honours and a reputation - which you could now lose because of your new acquaintances.”
A roar went up from the crowd, the jugglers working together, four men in a line, tossing metallic balls in spirals, the colours blurring and spinning against the sun. The heat had risen, trees with their leaves only half opened making limited shade, a drowsy, soporific breeze coming in from the Adriatic.
“You are jealous,” Marco said, his tone sullen.
“No, I am concerned.” Ira replied.
“You are jealous! And I understand why.” Marco continued. “But you can’t begrudge me my good fortune. Aretino had chosen me to mentor, to present to influential people at court. He is wealthy, clever, a word from him can make or ruin a reputation and he wishes to further my career and make me prominent in Venice.”
“Like Caterina Zucca?”
Marco jumped off the wall, his expression defiant. “I do not want to argue with you, Ira. We are friends and I want us to remain so —”
“It is because we are friends that I risk saying this. You have changed, Marco. Not just the clothes,” he gestured to the extravagant outfit he was wearing, “but your manner. You ignore your work, you disrespect Tintoretto, for what? To be flattered by a blackmailer? Corrupted by a man whom people fear but no one loves?”
“You have no right to say all this —”
“But I dare say it, Marco, and risk your anger.” He persisted. “Be careful that you are not developing the one thing of which you accused your father – greed. Greed for power, status, approval —”
“You cannot tell me what to do! You cannot advise me. You are not my father —”
“And neither is Pietro Aretino! If you are looking to him for paternal guidance you are looking in the wrong place.” He caught hold of Marco’s arm. “Please, be careful of this man. And of his associates, like Adamo Baptista. Aretino may have the admiration of the Doge, but Baptista does not, and no good can come of any association with him.”
“I don’t associate with Baptista!” Marco snapped, shaking off Ira’s grip. “You tell me the motives of others, you warn me of their intentions - but what do you want from me, Ira? When we met you were just one more Jew doctor from the ghetto —” he stopped, immediately regretting his words. “I didn’t mean, Oh God, I’m sorry —”
Stunned, Ira shook his head and stood up. “I have given you my opinion, but what do I know? Your city and your culture is not mine, Marco, I have no right to comment, but I will say just this and then no more on the subject. Remove yourself from Aretino’s influence. If you do not, you may find yourself having to pay a price even you cannot afford.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rosella had tied the scarf around her hair several times, but was still not satisfied, finally discarding it and tying her hair back instead with a strip of blue lace. Asleep in her bed by the wall, her mother lay motionless, Rosella glancing over to Ira, her concern obvious.
“Is she worse?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Not worse.”
“She hardly moves now, I don’t think she even knows we are here.” Rosella said quietly. “Will you sit with her until I return?”
“Yes, I said I would. But don’t be late and miss the curfew.”
“Angelo Fasculo nearly missed the curfew again the other night. He thought he was going to be fined, but he was just given a warning.” Her face had flushed slightly, Ira noticing.
“D’you like him?”
“Angelo is … nice.”
“A hard worker.” Ira said, thinking of the usurer’s son. Not ambitious, but steady, handsome, and although at times volatile, a kind man. “Has he asked you to go out with him?”
“Yes… but I haven’t agreed to meet him yet.”
“But you would like to?”
“If you approve, yes, I would like to.” Rosella replied, keeping her flushed face averted and changing the subject. “I don’t understand why you are still worried about my going to the studio. Marco will be at there whilst I pose for Il Furioso” she pulled a comical face. “and you know Marco. He’s like a brother to me. He fusses and treats me as you do.”
“You don’t think he’s changed?” Ira asked, “that he’s not as he was?”
“He’s quieter. I’ve noticed that.”
“Moody.” Ira added. “He is not falling in love with you, is he?”
She laughed. “No! And I would never fall in love with Marco Gianetti. Angelo Fasculo, maybe,” she teased her brother. “But Marco? No.”
For four months the two men had been close. In that time Marco had often visited the ghetto, but since Jacopo’s recovery Ira had been banned from the Gianetti palazzo. The boycott had irked Marco, but Ira had expected it and, as such, accepted his exile. Their very differences had proved to bond them. Marco was easily bored, a poor timekeeper, indifferent to responsibility and frivolous with money. By contrast, Ira was devoted to his profession and his family, deeply aware of his obligation to them.
Yet each complimented the other. Marco found in Ira and Rosella the siblings he had never had; Ira found in Marco a freedom, an artlessness he envied. And when Rosella began to pose for Tintoretto Marco had immediately offered to chaperone her.
“Il Furioso is not a satyr” he had told Ira. “As for Titian, if you sister was sitting for him, then I would worry.”
Despite his reassurances, on the first visits Ira had accompanied Rosella to Tintoretto’s studio and Marco had taken her home to the ghetto, doffing his cap in mock service at the gates. As for Rosella, she enjoyed his company and found him amusing, but her affections were growing for Angelo Fasculo, her life expanding as the studio was. Having hired four more apprentices, Il Furioso’s workload ran with the same efficiency as a factory. The drawings were made, copied, then the master would create his wax figures. Only then would Tintoretto begin to paint. Frantically, covering yards of canvas as he repeatedly checked his models to ascertain that he was following the configuration. Often he was so intent on what he was doing, he would move without looking, assistants pushed out of the way roughly.
After a couple of weeks Rosella felt confident to attend the studio alone, Marco walking her home later. But over the past month Marco had been intermittently absent, Tintoretto infuriated, and Rosella deciding to keep the upheaval a secret from her brother in case Ira prevented further visits.
“He is a fool!” Il Furioso had snorted as Rosella posed for him. “Marco does have some talent, but he is so lazy, so so feckless.” He had thrown up his hands in irritation. “He thinks I am not good enough —�
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“No, that’s not true.”
“Keep your head still! How can I draw you if you jiggle about like a puppet.” He had moved over to the raised dais and turned Rosella’s head an inch to the left. “Good, yes, hold the pose.”
She had done so, still managing to talk. “Why would Marco think you were not good enough?”
“Titian dismissed me when I was his apprentice. Some say because he disliked me, others that I was too much competition for him.” He had paused, stared at Rosella’s profile. “Titian’s father was a distinguished soldier and his family boasted many notaries. My father was a dyer,” he had laughed, the hazel eyes mischievous. “I was not born for court and palaces. Nor for courting Contessas and the nobility – but Titian was made for such things. A courtier, a lover of women, a genius.”
“No more than you.”
“You are kind. But you keeping moving!” he had snapped, then continued more calmly. “Marco is impressed by Titian and by Pietro Aretino, the writer. You know of this man?”
“No,” she admitted, “who is he?”
“A lying, blackmailing, braggart with a clever tongue.” Tintoretto had replied, “A very gifted writer, a very amusing conversationalist, but depraved.”
“Depravato?”
“I have said too much —”
“But why would Marco admire such a man?”
“He has wealth —”
“The Gianetti are rich!”
“ – but Aretino has connections to the nobility, to the Doge’s palace, to beautiful women, and all the best this city can offer. Which is temptation of the highest order.” The painter had replied, “If he champions Marco, he will become famous in Venice. After all, the boy has the beauty and the wit, Marco Gianetti also has an honourable name, something Aretino prizes.”
“But he could have fame here, as a painter, taught by you.”
“Art is struggle, suffering, toil. An artist has to fight for commissions, for public notice. There is no ice slick to the top - and Marco does not like hard work. A painter spends much of his life alone, in a world with the population of one.” He had pointed to the box on the table beside him. “Why would he make little wax images, when he could have breathing bodies to play with?”
Suddenly Ira tapped his sister’s hand, bringing her thoughts back to the present. “You had better go now, Rosella, or you will be late.”
Nodding, she left the house and crossed the main square of the ghetto and was just exiting the gates when a man stepped out. The sun was behind the figure and for an instant Rosella didn’t recognise him.
“Marco? Is it you?”
He nodded, moving to her side. “Have you said anything to Ira?”
“About your absences?” she replied, pulling her shawl around her shoulders as the daylight faded and a chill came down. “No, I’ve said nothing. But the master has said a great deal.”
“Tintoretto is angry with me.”
“He thinks you are a fool.” She said simply, glancing over to Marco and risking the next words. “Why are you mixing with Pietro Aretino?”
“So he’s been talking about me! Discussing my business with strangers.”
She stopped walking. “With strangers? I am a stranger to you now, Marco? I wasn’t a stranger when you came to our house and I fed you. I wasn’t a stranger then —”
“I didn’t mean it.” He replied, falling into step with her as she walked on. “I meant … things have changed.”
“You have changed.”
“Why is that such a terrible thing?” he countered. “I am allowed freedom to do what I want. To live as a choose.”
“No one has ever questioned that. But perhaps too much freedom has been bad for you.”
“You sound like my grandmother!”
“If your grandmother knew how you were behaving she would be less kind than I am.” Rosella stopped walking and faced him. He was wearing a fitted black velvet doublet with brocade edging, a trim white ruff around his neck. The beginnings of a beard and moustache were starting to change his appearance; no longer the amiable young man, but a male with some hauteur about him.
“You have changed,” she said, with a sadness in her voice. “I liked the old Marco.”
“I had no finesse.”
“You had no conceit.” She replied, walking on, Marco following.
“I wouldn’t allow any other woman to speak to me as you do.” He said sharply. “You are not my sister —”
“No, I am not your sister, your mother or your grandmother. I am the sister of your closest friend, with whom you have shared a very deep friendship. Have you visited Ira lately?”
“We argued.”
She looked at him curiously. “My brother said nothing about an argument.”
“I said something unforgivable.”
“I see, so that is why you have neglected him as you have neglected your work and your mentor,” She moved away, Marco running to keep up with her. “and you would mistreat them both? Two of the best men in Venice! You should be ashamed to ignore them for the likes of Pietro Aretino.”
“Ho0w can you judge him! You do not even know him.”
“I have been told what he is, and I worry for you.” She hurled back. “He uses people, he has favourites and keeps them like pets, then dismisses them. He plays cruel games, and you are not cruel. You would find such treatment painful.”
Marco looked away from her, surprised by the accuracy of her words. He had sent word to Aretino after his abrupt dismissal, asking if he had offended his host in some unknown – and regretted – manner. But there had been no response and the silence had added to his discomfort.
“... If your morals don’t matter to you, what of your family name?”
Angered, Marco moved in front of her, blocking her way. “My family name means nothing! My father would not care if I were alive or dead. If this Aretino is the monster everyone thinks, then why has my ‘good’ parent not warned me? Only once he muttered something vague, but nothing of any note. My father, the estimable Jacopo Gianetti, has been an acquaintance of his for years and I have never heard him utter one word of criticism about Aretino.”
Rosella glanced away.
“I have no right to speak as I did, I apologise. As you say, your father has no issue with this friendship, so what right have I to judge. I know your father was lacking in many ways, but you cannot hope to find a substitute in this man,” She stared into his face. “Just answer me this, Marco - what do you want from Aretino? Tintoretto says you want fame, you want to be at court, with the most brilliant and most beautiful people in Venice. I understand, it is something many desire. But when you have that, Marco, then what? What will you do with it?”
He looked at her, bewildered. “What will I do with it? … I will be happy.”
“Are you sure? It is not within any man’s remit to offer – or withhold – another man’s happiness.” She said gently, taking his arm. “Come with me now, Tintoretto will be so happy to see you —”
He baulked, like a horse fighting the bit. “Tell him I’ll come along later.”
“And Ira? What do I tell him?”
“That I’ll call by tomorrow.”
“Of course you will.” She said sadly and walked on.
Chapter Eighteen
His first impression of Venice was one of noise. Noise and more noise, hundreds of men milling about a square, chattering in different languages and dressed in a variety of styles in every colour, material and design imaginable. Turks in turbans and Chinese with queues jostled amongst merchants doing deals whilst sitting on bales of carpets, parrots and monkeys in gilt cages squawking and rattling their bars.
June had kept her promise and the heat had returned in full measure, the Adriatic setting aside her grey and making the Lagoon turquoise again. And under the sun stood twenty men, shipped from Africa as slaves. Bakita was one of them, taken from his home and transported on a ship that had heaved and battered against the waves, many o
f the slaves vomiting in the hold below deck, the stink of urine, faeces and vomit unbearable as the heat rose. A storm had caused damage, the cover of the hold ripped away, the rain pelting in and washing the filth around the chained feet of the men below. But the water brought life and only two of the twenty men died, the others arriving at the Venetian Lagoon and standing, naked except for a loincloth, whilst the hammering, yammering throng heaved around them.
Their arrival caused much interest, merchants and nobility coming to view them as they were paraded on the steps, bidding started by a corpulent German in a military uniform that had seen many battles. Bakita was the third to be offered for sale, his muscular frame pointed out by the bellowing German, a stick pointed at his arms and calves to prove their strength. Unable to understand a word of what the man was saying, Bakita’s gaze moved over the crowd and came to rest on two women. One a tall blonde woman, the other a slight, dark haired woman around twenty, both of them pausing to look at him.
The German was shouting and losing control, as another man pushed his way to the front and made a grab for Bakita’s arm. Two other men, dressed in some form of guard like costume, pushed him aside, but the German had lost his hat and his footing as Caterina Zucca spoke up, her voice carrying over the crowd.
“I will buy him.” She said, the German scrabbling to his feet and nodding as she repeated the words in German. ‘Ich werde ihn kaufen.’
A further altercation followed between the German and a Turk, but Caterina held her ground, finally paying the German and turning to the African.
“Do you speak English?”
He shook his head, guessing at the question as Caterina turned to the young woman beside her. “He will learn, and he will be ideal.”
Since her visit from Marina Castilano, Caterina’s unease had grown, and when her son had left Venice her vulnerability had become obvious. There were some kitchen staff in the house, and Caterina had her own private maid, but no confidante, and the memory of the bloodied shoes had disturbed her sleep incessantly. So when she had been approached by a young woman called Tita Boldini she was suspicious.