by Alex Connor
Tired, he sighed, thinking of Gabriella’s grotesque death. Her face had been disfigured, her limbs removed, her killer obviously wishing her to remain anonymous for as long as possible. He had wanted to destroy her, pull her apart. It had only been by a fluke that Tintoretto had recognised her. That wasn’t lust, der Witt decided, that had been hatred.
Der Witt took off his hat, rolling the brim around in his hands as he always did when he was thinking. So had the motive been jealousy? Had Gabriella stolen another woman’s husband or lover? Unlikely, she had been a reserved, respectable girl, diffident almost. Then perhaps she had rejected someone? A man who could not accept her rebuttal. A man who had hated her for it. His thoughts moved onto another consideration. Gabriella had been a maid, with little or no important connections, but what if she had accidentally uncovered something that had put her in danger?
‘… You must be careful, I wasn’t careful…’
The Dutchman stared ahead, thinking. Was Gabriella killed because of something she knew? The Wolves of Venice… the four – were they real? So important that they would have killed to protect their identity?
A loud noise sounded overhead, Der Witt startled, but keeping silent; unwilling to let anyone know he had entered the shop illegally. Perhaps someone had seen him and notified the authorities. Which would mean trouble, imprisonment, questions asked which he did not want to answer. Questions finally answered that would keep him in blistering Venice, far away from the Hague and the cold Northern light.
Still silent, the Dutchman listened to the noises overhead. Someone was walking about. A thief? Or a member of the Inquisition who had followed him? His heart rate accelerated. He had known they had been making enquires about him for a while. Might they have finally decided to make their move… Uncertain, he considered what to do. Should he call out, explain to who ever it was that he had been a friend of Marina Castilano and was looking after the shop for her? Or hold his tongue and wait until the person left?
When there had been no sounds overhead for several minutes the Dutchman approached the steps, ready to ascend. But although there was silence from above, it seemed as though the person hadn’t left, or even moved; that they were standing directly above him.
Knowing he was there.
Chapter Twenty Eight
When Ira finally left Jacopo Gianetti’s bed chamber he paused on the corridor outside to fasten his medical bag, Cara’s footsteps still faintly audible from the room he had just exited. Thoughtful, Ira ran his hand over the leather of the bag, his initials braded on it - I G – some fancy of Rosella’s who had taken such pride in his qualifying as a doctor. He thought that even if he became as wealthy as Jacopo Gianetti he would never use another bag, he would ask Solomon Taborski to mend the worn leather instead, patching it up, letting it age as he did.
Not that he would ever become as rich as Jacopo Gianetti, or Marco, set to inherit a great fortune when his father died. Frowning, Ira thought of the ridiculous signet ring he had seen Marco wearing, too large for his fine hands, too much a show. All the months Ira had known Marco, he had never seen him wear jewellery, but now he was decked out like a carnival float. One of Aretino’s bejewelled, twinkling gondolas with their decadent nymphs and rancid shepherds.
His anger surprised him, especially when Ira realised that it wasn’t just anger. That he was also jealous of Marco Gianetti; of the indolence, the wealth, the lazy entitlement to a luxurious life that was his without effort. Ashamed, Ira tried to justify his feelings, but they stuck in his craw like dry bread. Marco had been a good friend for months, they had been comfortable in each other’s company - after Ira’s initial suspicion. And in the ghetto Marco had been welcomed, Rosella accepting him without question. His charm cajoled people into liking him, his good humour welcomed. But not by all; many had asked why the heir to a dynasty would mix with those of another race and religion.
Ira knew why; Marco needed the surrogate family he and Rosella offered. He had welcomed the differences of the ghetto, the parsimonious surroundings in direct contrast to his own extraordinary, cold abundance. But over the last month Ira had watched his friend alter, the corrupting influence of Pietro Aretino casting its putrid shadow. There had been times Ira had seen Marco drunk in the middle of the day, walking with Aretino and his coterie, a gaggle of courtesans following. Patiently he had listened to his friend’s reports of musical concerts or influential parties at the Doge’s palace, later Marco had even regaled him with the sexual exploits Aretino had provided for his amusement. He knew all the whores in Venice, Marco told him, although he only used boys.
He only used boys... Marco had said the words as though they meant nothing. As though Aretino’s voracious sexual appetite had left none injured, which was not true. It was common knowledge that the writer visited the prison, choosing desperate boys and offering them freedom in return for sexual favours. His contacts at the gaol were like his connections everywhere; pernicious and malevolent. And no one could challenge him. It was not for nothing that Aretino’s sobriquet was the scourge of kings.
Yet Ira still could not understand why Marco had come so completely under Aretino’s influence. He had more wealth that the writer could ever accumulate and a respected name: he was, without any doubt, superior, safely elevated amongst an elite Aretino could only terrorise and blackmail into subservience. But for how long would his power go unchallenged? There had already been one assassin attempt on the writer, there were sure to be others. Men with grievances willing to kill the biggest, most hated toad in Venice. And yet, despite everything despicable about him, the power Aretino possessed had been like a whirlpool to Marco Gianetti, sucking him in to drown.
Uneasy, Ira glanced down the hallway. On either side of stood servants in full livery, silent, staring ahead, as immobile as caryatids, a row of gilded torcheres still lit although morning had already made its entrance. At the head of the staircase Ira glanced down the stairwell, at the yard after yard of exquisite Carerra marble, the central portion in the entrance a mosaic of Bacchus and Adriane. Glorious, imperious. Soulless.
“My dear dottore,” a voice said, Ira turning to find Aretino approaching. “You see how we left you to your ministrations? How is my dear friend?”
“I am returning this evening to check on Signor Gianetti’s progress. At the moment he is sleeping soundly.” Ira made a move to go, but Aretino stopped him, putting his hand in the crook of his arm.
“Are you sufficiently qualified to attend him?” he asked, his small dark eyes amused. “There are many finer – more experienced - medico in the ghetto. I have wondered often why it was that you were called to attend.”
“I was recommended.”
“By whom?”
“No one you would know,” Ira replied, removing his arm from Aretino’s grip. “If you would excuse me, I have other patients —”
“In the ghetto? Or in Venice? If the latter, I do hope that you wash your hands before you treat any Venetians, dottore, they say there are many rats in the ghetto.”
“There are biggest, fatter rats out of it.” Ira replied curtly.
“It would seem that there is some animosity between us,” Aretino said, his manicured fingers stroking his beard indolently. “...which is unfortunate. I have many contacts and could recommend you to the most influential people in Venice. People Marco knows. In fact, I believe your friend would approve of my advancing you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Aretino repeated. “Because Marco has affection for you.”
“But he does not respect my advice.”
“Advice is something that demands disrespect.”
“Even when it is in his own best interests?” Ira countered. “Marco would be better served if you encouraged him to concentrate on working with Tintoretto —”
“Marco will never be a great painter!”
“He is not without talent.”
“Being ‘without talent’ does not impress anyone.” Aretino replied, his to
ne silken. “Marco is a young man, with a young man’s appetites.”
“Which is natural, but should take up only a part of his life, not all of it.”
“I merely spoil him – to make up for his father’s lack of affection for the boy.”
“Why?”
“Does there always have to be a why?”
“For a man like you, yes.” Ira replied, seeing with satisfaction that he had scored a direct hit.
Aretino’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing for an instant, his voice placating when he spoke again. “And what precisely is a man like me?”
“I do not know you personally, Signor Aretino, but I know of people who have had dealings with you. And suffered for it. There are rumours in Venice —”
“Ah, rumours!”
“Attempted assassination is not a rumour.”
“All famous men inspire envy and hatred.”
“All wicked men deserve it.” Ira replied.
He had wanted to avoid a confrontation, but having entered into an exchange with the writer he could not walk away. All his resentment and anxiety for Marco had come to the fore, together with his dislike of the corpulent rake in front of him.
“You should be careful,” Aretino said, his tone warning. “I am not a man to challenge. And I am not a man who is devoted to his countrymen and the needs of others. I am content to be devoid of any humanitarian feelings. My desires are for my own advancement and pleasure —”
“So your mentoring of Marco is not for his good, merely to give you pleasure?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Aretino replied, “A charming young man is introduced and accepted by Venetian society – his rightful place. Naturally it counts as a triumph for Marco, and for myself.”
“Jacopo Gianetti is not a fit man,” Ira said shortly. “I have asked a colleague of mine to see him and we both agree that he will not live much longer. I do not know when he will die, that I cannot predict, but in God’s time he will die and then Marco will inherit a vast fortune.” His tone became sarcastic. “Which, naturally, is something you would advice him upon?”
“I know the right people —”
“No, you know the wrong people, Signor Aretino, and your manipulation is obvious.” Ira struggled to keep his temper. “But I will say this here and now – to your face – that I will do anything in my ability to break the hold you have over Marco Gianetti. I will use whatever means at my disposal to rid him off your perverted influence. And I swear if it is within my power, I will destroy you.”
Aretino smiled, watching as Ira moved away. “Please give my regards to your beautiful sister, dottore. I believe we have friends in common.”
Ira snapped round. “We have no mutual friends!”
“But we are both are fond of Marco,” Aretino continued his eyes flint hard. “Indeed it was he who made the introduction —”
“What introduction?”
“—that of your lovely sister to my good and noble friend. Adamo Baptista.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Dutchman glanced around, looking for another door, another exit. But the only exit was at the top of the staircase, and someone had locked that door. Someone who had watched der Witt walk into the ambush that had been so carefully prepared. Someone who knew the layout of the Castilano shop well; someone with enough knowledge to search, or hide things on the premises. The same someone who had taunted Marina Castilano and driven her out of Venice.
The Dutchman was no longer young, but he was thick set and resolute. If he was attacked, he would fight - unwilling to face Italian justice, which seldom came down in favour of a foreigner. But in the meantime, he would wait… Taking a seat on the narrow bed, der Witt turned the hat brim in his hands, thinking. Marina Castilano had been desperate to discover what he knew. Indeed her last words had been Gabriella’s. So had she been convinced by his apparent ignorance? Or had she sent someone to confront him directly? … Thoughtful, der Witt glanced up the steps towards the bolted door. If he kicked it hard enough he could break the lock and free himself.
But who was waiting outside?
His hand closed around the glass vial hanging from his neck. Its coolness calmed him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the candle flickering slightly. Had someone caused a draft by opening the outside door on the floor above him? He listened, hopeful. Several moments passed. Then the candle regained its calm, the flame a little oasis in the cellar’s gloom.
*
Fondamenta dei Mori,
Studio of Tintoretto.
“Where is he? Where is the bastard?” Ira shouted, entering the studio and overturning an easel as he looked around. “Come out, you craven pig! Come out and face me!”
Hearing the outburst, Tintoretto hurried in from the back room, his sleeves rolled up, his smock splattered with paint and freckles of hot wax. Baffled by the sight of the usually reserved Ira Tabat shouting at the top of his voice, he confronted him.
“What is the matter here?”
“Where’s Marco?”
“He was here a little while ago, then he left,” he painter replied. “What’s he done?”
“You ask him.” Ira replied, brushing past the apprentices who had gathered to witness the scene. Enraged, he ran to the back of the studio and into the workshop beyond. “Marco! I know you’re here —”
“But he is not.” Tintoretto replied, following him.
Ira turned. “Give him up! Wherever you’re hiding him, give him up. I should never have let my sister come here. I should have forbidden it! Everyone knows what these places are like —”
“This is a studio,” Tintoretto replied calmly. “Everyone is busy, pre-occupied with work—”
“Like Marco?” Ira snapped, pointing his forefinger at the artist. “Give him up or I swear I will rip this place to shreds to find him.”
“You will find little if you rip this place to shreds. Only insects and mice hiding in their nooks and crannies. No Venetian nobility, of that I can assure you.” Tintoretto said calmly, leading Ira into the small workshop and closing the door behind them. “Sit down, my friend, take a moment to compose yourself.”
He poured a glass of wine, but Ira brushed it aside. “I don’t drink.”
“Luckily, I do,” Tintoretto replied, downing the wine in one swallow. “Perhaps you should tell me what all this is about.”
“Marco Gianetti.”
“That much I worked out for myself,” Tintoretto said drily, “he’s very foolish, you know. A character that is pleasing, but unfortunately also easy to lead and impress, but he’s good at heart.”
“Hah!”
“I take it you have reason to think otherwise. So what has he done?” Tintoretto repeated, Ira looking at him with suspicion.
“You’re defending him! Even before you know what he’s capable of, you’re telling me he’s a good man. Why is that?”
“It’s what I believe.”
“Or maybe it’s because you want to minimise his actions?”
“For pity’s sake, Ira, I am not a carnival fortune teller! Just tell me what has happened.”
“He introduced my sister to Adamo Baptista, and she has apparently made a friend of him.”
“Baptista!” Tintoretto snapped, pouring himself some more wine. “But Marco would never —”
“Marco has.”
“But why? He must surely know the kind of man Baptista is. Even Marco wouldn’t be that stupid.” Tintoretto walked to the door and called to one of his assistants. “Se vedi Marco, portamelo subito!” then moved back to Ira. “I don’t understand why he would do such a thing.”
“Because he was ordered to. He’s under Aretino’s thumb. He’s a lap dog, running around, doing tricks to please his master. You must see how he’s changed —”
“I haven’t see very much of him at all lately,” Tintoretto replied, “but I find it hard to believe what you’re telling me. Marco thinks of Rosella as a sister, he wouldn’t put her in any
kind of danger or do anything to taint her reputation. He cares for her too much —”
“Oh, he cares for her,” Ira said bitterly, “but he cares of Aretino more. For what that sodden bastard can do for him. Marco has fallen in love with the reflected glory of being the writer’s protégé, he relishes the whores and the Doge’s coterie, and, God help him, he sees Aretino as replacement father.”
“His own parent cares little for him.”
“That’s no excuse!” Ira replied, “Marco has betrayed Rosella and he has betrayed me. I don’t doubt it was done indirectly, that Aretino forced Marco’s hand somehow, but he still allowed himself to be manipulated. He put a debauched swindler before our friendship and before Rosella’s welfare.” Ira glanced fiercely at the painter. “And d’you know why I’m so certain of what Marco has done? Because Aretino told me. And he told me with such pleasure. He made sure I knew that it was all was Marco’s doing.”
Tintoretto was still trying to calm the situation. “Ira, I understand your feelings, but think about it, please. You are assuming the worst and Rosella is a good girl —”
“I know that! She would never shame her family or do anything to embarrass herself. Not from choice - so she must have been trapped into it.”
“You are supposing,” the artist said carefully, “that something has happened, whereas she may merely have met Baptista.”
Ira shook his head.
“No. There is more to it than that.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “I’ve seen a difference in Rosella over the last week. I thought it was tiredness - she has a job and she’s been coming here more often to sit for you - but now I think about it, she’s been avoiding me.” He tightened his hands into fists. “Has she met Baptista here?”
“No.” Tintoretto replied sharply. “And you would do well not to suggest such a thing again. I am fond of you Ira because you are Rosella’s brother, but you will not come here and infer that I was involved in anything underhand, or in anything that would injure your sister. Adamo Baptista is no friend of mine and I have my own reasons to hate him.”