The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  “Forgive me,” Ira said, shame-faced. “I shouldn’t have said such a thing.”

  “You’re right, you shouldn’t.”

  Embarrassed, Ira glanced over his shoulder into the studio beyond. The apprentices had returned to work, two of them fastening a mammoth sheet of canvas onto its wooden frame, another mixing some pigment, adding in the linseed oil droplet by measured droplet.

  “Will he come back?”

  “Marco? Oh, he will come back some time. Maybe in an hour, maybe in a week, but he always comes back. But by now he will have heard that you are looking for him, so he’ll —”

  “Hide?”

  “Yes,” Tintoretto agreed. “He will hide, because he will feel guilty. If he didn’t realise what he had done, he will now. And if he was fully aware of his actions he will be afraid to meet up with you. Marco has money, but you have friends. Many people respect you, and not just in the ghetto.”

  Ira shrugged. “People there been looking at me strangely, or evading me. I thought I was imagining it, but obviously I wasn’t. Last night Hyman Golletz seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. Now I know what he wanted to talk to me about.”

  “Rosella is a decent girl —”

  “Stop saying that!” Ira shouted. “It doesn’t matter, don’t you understand? It not what it is, it’s how it looks. The damage was done as soon as she was seen with Adamo Baptista – however innocent. A decent woman would not mingle with the likes of him. We both know that. And worse, Marco knew that. He knew it, and he led her into a trap. Whatever happened, or didn’t happen, my sister is ruined. And I’m going to kill him for it —”

  “Be calm, Ira, be calm,” the artist urged him. “Talk to Rosella first, let her explain. Behaving like this will only frighten her away. Let her talk to you —”

  “I’ll talk to her, but first I’ll find Marco.” Ira got to his feet, his tone dismissive. “If you see the bastard tell him I’m looking for him. And tell him that wherever he goes and however long he hides, he won’t escape.”

  *

  Surprised by his confrontation with Ira and the reckless threat levelled at him, Aretino smiled to himself remembering how quickly the impertinent Jew had been corralled; his expression shifting from menacing to distressed. Immensely gratified by the way his plan had worked out, Aretino lingered in the water of the deep marble bath, capacious enough to hold himself and the two young men he had taken from the prison. The gaoler was a greedy man with enough secrets to make him malleable to the writer’s wishes, and so he had accepted Aretino’s heavy purse and freed the duo.

  Water, Aretino decided, was a most comfortable medium. His bulk could relax on a bed or settle banked with cushions, bolsters and those tapestried pillows from Northern Holland, but his flesh revelled in being weightless, the water buoying him up so that he could fully appreciate the clever fingers and tongues of the youthful bardasses.

  “I have often wondered, my dear Adamo, about your little companion, Signor Nikolas Volt.”

  Baptista was sitting on the other side of a screen, always an unwilling voyeur, a man who appreciated privacy in his seductions and abhorred the writer’s exhibitionism. And that day he had found Aretino even more loathsome, his bulbous, white body odious in comparison to his companions.

  “What have you wondered?” Baptista asked, putting his finger to his lips as Volt himself entered and took a seat behind the screen.

  “Are you lovers? He is a very pretty boy, so unusual with those slanting eyes and that rosebud mouth.”

  “I don’t bugger boys.”

  “Girls perhaps?”

  Volt tilted his head to one side, his sloe eyes watchful as Baptista replied. “Why are so interested in my private life, Aretino?”

  “You know why. Have you fucked Rosella Tabat yet?”

  Volt’s gaze moved over to Baptista, his expression bland. “Is that what you want?”

  He could hear water splashing, the writer’s sexual diversion interrupted. “Don’t torment me, Baptista, you know what we planned.”

  “We planned a seduction.”

  “So did you fuck her, seduce her, or whatever you chose to call it?”

  “She rejected me.”

  “Hah!” Aretino snorted. Baptista could hear him heaving himself out of the bath and pad over to the screen. Wrapping a towel around his gut, he peered round, amused to see Nikolas Volt there. “Ah, you have your pretty baby with you. I see you would not want to commit yourself in front of your amor.”

  Volt was composed, shuffling a pack of cards, the pack that Lauret had given to Baptista. His slight hands moved in a rhythm, the coloured backs of the card flickering like sunlight through a stained glass window.

  “Do you play as well as you shuffle?”

  Volt paused, looking at the writer. “Do you wish a game, signor?”

  “Certainly, but not of cards,” Aretino replied, his attention returning to Baptista. “If the girl rejected you, force her.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Aretino replied, fascinated. “Since when were you so moral?”

  “If I raped Rosella Tabat the whole ghetto would be up in arms. The part Marco Gianetti played in it would be exposed, as well as your own involvement.”

  “That would be a storm I could easily weather,” Aretino said dismissively, “but I don’t want Marco exposed just yet. I have other plans for him.”

  “Also remember that falling out with the ghetto would threaten our contract with Gilda Fasculo.”

  “She would not dare to speak out, knowing it would expose her and bring her creditors down on her.”

  Baptista shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But perhaps there is someone else who might be more of an adversary. Ira Tabat is a respected doctor who carries some influence. If I raped his sister, he might take me take me to court —”

  “The case would be dismissed,” Aretino said blithely. ”I would see to it.”

  Baptista smiled, “But not before Venice bathed in the details of your blackmail of Jacopo and manipulation of Marco Gianetti —”

  “You are becoming nervous, Baptista. You well know that Jacopo would not dare expose me and ruin himself. I have him under my control, as he has been for many years and will continue for many more. He’s my puppet. I can do with Jacopo Gianetti as I chose.”

  Baptista’s expression was amused as he answered. “Perhaps if you did spend so long in the bath with your boys you would know more… Jacopo Gianetti died an hour ago. And his son has gone into hiding.”

  I heard that Ira was looking for me and I made my way home.

  Like a weakling, I told the guards on duty at the door to prevent his entry – only to be told that Ira was already inside, attending to my father. Irony in all its perfection. Unable to return to the palazzo, I headed for Burano, a north eastern suburb of Venice, and a forty minutes journey by boat.

  To this day, I’m not certain why I picked that island, it was so quiet, famous for its lace making. Only a month earlier I remember admiring a collar that the Doge’s wife was wearing and she said it had been Venetian point lace, Punto di Burano, a speciality of the island’s, the lace complicated and ornamental, its openwork fabric formed by looping, interlacing and twisting threads.

  Naturally there was also some fishing in Burano, flimsy weathered boats bobbing like ducks on the late tide, a few fishermen staring at me as I docked. I understood why. I was a stranger, elaborately dressed, as out of place as an elephant caught in their nets. But it was lace that was the main talent of the island. As glass was to Murano, lace was to Burano.

  Where was I headed? Where every coward heads, a church. The Church of St Martin of Tours, to be exact, a saint who watches over drinkers and the poor. I was no drinker, but my soul was poverty stricken. I was emptied of morals, a sickness inside which had made me vomit on the boat. Not sea sickness, conscience sickness. I knew the whole enormity of what I had been coerced into doing. But I had done anyway. I knew what the outcome would be
when I introduced Rosella to Adamo Baptista. But I did it anyway.

  To my shame, Aretino’s approval mattered so much that for days after the fateful meeting I would not let myself think of my betrayal and instead glowed in the writer’s approbation. He sent me his most carnal whores, I was welcomed at the Doge’s Palace by people of immense influence in Venice and the merchants begged for my custom. With his puppet in place, Aretino declared me the most glittering member of the Gianetti history. And, when I inherited, the richest.

  But that was then.

  Never once did I think of seeking refuge with Pietro Aretino. My senses came back to me like a man recovered from fever, the memories of what I had done seeming more delirium than reality. But it was reality, I knew that when Aretino refused me admittance to his home, when my days became a void and the invitations ceased. I would like to assure you otherwise, but my Epiphany was not sought, but forced upon me.

  I went to church in Burano.

  I did not pray.

  I did not dare.

  I thought of my father, of Ira and Rosella, of the friendship offered so readily and abused so completely.

  As I say, Burano was forty minutes away from the Gianetti palazzo, from the bronze statue of the warrior in my father’s study, from Cara, who had once loved me, and the ghetto where I had been accepted. I could look across the water and see St Marks, could watch the same birds fly over my head that flew over the Lagoon. It was the same sea that was under my feet and the same sky over my head.

  I was forty minutes away from everything I had once loved. And I had estranged myself.

  Chapter Thirty

  Der Witt tensed as he heard the key turned in the lock, the cellar door swinging open, light pooling down the steps towards him. Squinting against the sudden illumination, he could just make out the figure in the doorway. A woman, tall and slightly built.

  “Signor der Witt?”

  He rose from the bed where he had been sitting, picked up his hat, and answered. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Oh, you know me. It’s Tita Boldini, I work for your friend, Caterina Zucca.”

  Without showing any surprise, the Dutchman moved over to the steps, recognising her as he began to ascend. Smiling, Tita watched him, standing on the top step, blocking his exit.

  “The door was locked.”

  He nodded. “And I was locked in. Did you lock it?”

  `Her eyes were challenging and he noticed that her clothes had transformed from the simple attire in which she had arrived in Venice. Although her figure lacked the opulent bosom and small waist favoured by the Republic, her skin was luminous, with a faint sheen around her shoulders, her dark hair woven with gold thread and seed pearls. Yet the feminine clothing did not completely hide a robustness he found daunting.

  “Why would I lock you in a cellar?”

  “Why, Signora Boldini, would you be here at all?”

  She laughed. “The Castilano sisters asked me to take care of the shop for them.”

  “That’s strange, Marina never mentioned it to me.” Der Witt replied, noticing that Tita did not step to one side and was still blocking his exit. Instinctively, he felt for the handrail and gripped it.

  “Why would she tell you what her arrangements were, Signor der Witt?”

  “We were friends —”

  “Really?” Tita replied, her tone doubtful. “Did you treat Marina Castilano? Give her an abortion, perhaps?” The Dutchman tried to pass her, but she held her ground. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and how the Inquisition are asking questions. Caterina seems very fond of you, but she has a sweet nature, don’t you think? Or is it false? Do tell me, you’ve known her much longer than I have and I’m new to Venice and eager to make the right impression.”

  He had mistrusted Tita Boldini the instant they had met and his instinct had been right. “I am sure you will leave a lasting impression here.”

  “But not all young woman do.” She shook her head sadly. “Like that poor girl who was murdered. Gabriella Russo, wasn’t that her name?”

  Moving abruptly, der Witt pushed her aside, Tita laughing. “Do I make you nervous, Dutchman?”

  “Did Marina give you a key?”

  “How else would I have gained access? Or perhaps I could have broken in, as you did.” She smiled, her tone lilting. “We were talking about vulnerable young women, were we not? Poor Caterina is very nervous since the girl’s murder. She hired Bakita for that very reason, although I mistrust him.”

  “Why would you mistrust him? He seems devoted to his mistress and Caterina speak well of him.”

  “She speaks well of a savage that speaks only a few words of Italian?” Tita replied scornfully. “How would she know what he is really like with so little information to go on? She bought Bakita off a slave ship, was told that he came from Africa, and nothing else. It seems very … unwise… to trust a man of whom you know so little.”

  “And how much does she know of you?”

  “I came with references from France, from a woman Caterina knows.”

  “References can be bought or faked.”

  She slid her hand between his legs. “My references cannot be faked, Dutchman.” Laughing, she moved her hand away, pleased to see his embarrassment. “What is that around your neck?” she asked, pointing to the glass vial.

  His hand closed over it. “It is something that matters a great deal to me.”

  “Oh, like the snake in the bottle in your study.”

  Wrong footed, he reacted sharply. “How d’you know about that?”

  “I know many things, that is my skill. At this precise moment I would like to know why you left The Hague so suddenly and why you are now in Venice.”

  “Forgive me, but my life should be of no interest to you.” He moved towards the door, Tita calling after him.

  “Very well, you keep your secrets, Dutchman, and I will keep mine. It’s true I am new to Venice, but I have much experience of the world and its villains.”

  “I will take your advice to heart.”

  “Please do. The Wolves of Venice are circling —”

  He turned abruptly. “What?”

  “—and you would be best served by becoming part of the pack, not part of the prey.”

  Book Four

  Chapter Thirty One

  A month passed, taking July with it. Then August slung, low hipped, into the steamy Lagoon. Marco Gianetti did not return to Venice. In his absence, Jacopo Gianetti’s funeral took place, his redoubtable mother, Lavinia, attending as the head of the family, cousins coming in from Rome and Naples. Relatives of which she had seen little and heard less, the majority of the Gianetti fortune having always been controlled by her late son, Jacopo.

  The Gianetti fortune that would now pass to his only child, his son, Marco… Lavinia had received no explanation as to her grandson’s absence. Despite her many attempts to discover his whereabouts, she had failed, except for one report that Marco had been seen in Sicily. Why Sicily she could not understand, the family had no contact with the island, but she did send men to search for her grandson and expected to hear that he had been kidnapped. Or murdered. Or with a woman. God knows, he was fool enough.

  Marco had proved his lack of judgement by becoming Aretino’s pet, Lavinia thought disapprovingly, when all Venice knew about the writer. But her grandson had been lured in by the power, the opulence of the court, and by believing himself accepted - when he was obviously being used. Just as her son had been.

  On numerous occasions Lavinia had tried to reason with Jacopo, advising him to distance himself from Aretino. But despite everything she said, and the evidence she presented, Jacopo had remained stuck to the man like shit to a blanket... She had often wondered why Jacopo hadn’t come to her and asked for her help. It would have been given; theirs was not a close relationship, but honour was as important as blood. Yet Jacopo had died with his secret and although Lavinia had searched all his papers she had uncovered nothing that would account for the h
old Aretino had had over her son.

  Lavinia had always been a clever woman, and a shrewd one. Jacopo had patently disliked Aretino, yet he had kept company with him and had advanced his cause with not one, but two, Doges. There was only one reason why he would have done so. Her son, like so many others, had been one of Aretino’s victims.

  Lavinia stood up. Age, and a rheumatic hip, made walking tortuous. Having suffered little ill health in her youth she found being elderly a toil and had even wondered about the enigmatic Barent der Witt. It was common gossip that the man was an abortionist, but he was also a great apothecary, or so she had heard, an acquaintance having been cured of a skin complaint. Slowly Lavinia moved to the window and looked out over the Lagoon, thinking.

  What had made her grandson leave Venice? Was Aretino blackmailing him? Or punishing Jacopo by befriending his neglected son? Oh yes, Lavinia thought, that would be a spiteful trick, worthy of the writer. Or perhaps Marco had been driven away from Venice for some other reason? Aretino was seldom apart from Adamo Baptista and the Florentine’s reputation was alarming. While Aretino used his tongue and pen to destroy lives, Baptista used a knife.

  But what had been so important, or so shaming, that Marco had walked away from the wealth, the Gianetti name and the lifestyle? Her grandson, Lavinia decided, might have been a fool, but he was not that much of a fool. She cursed her own pride at having been remote from Marco, but reserve was her nature and she abhorred displays of affection. The child had not been at fault, but his mother’s suicide had caused a scandal which had intrigued Venice for too long, one which had made Lavinia retreat further into the endless corridors and reception rooms of the palazzo. In a home so capacious she could be sure of avoiding her son and grandson and devoting her time to her own interests.

  How foolish she had been, Lavinia realised, now seeing that her avoidance had merely resulted in ignorance. The reluctance to share family ties leaving her unbound and adrift, divorced from the intimacies and familial gossip which would have proved so useful. Unsettled, Lavinia thought back, remembering an argument she had overheard between Jacopo and his son. To Jacopo’s – and her own amazement – Marco had formed a close friendship with Ira Tabat, the doctor who had treated Jacopo. Apparently the relationship had even extended to Marco visiting the Jewish ghetto… Lavinia winced, shifting her weight onto her other hip to relive the pain…It might mean little, but it was a something to investigate whilst she was waiting for Marco – or his body – to return to Venice. There was the Gianetti fortune at stake and the heir was missing. So if her grandson had ties with the Jews, perhaps there was an answer there.