by Alex Connor
“ —the fortune which would ensure influential friends at court and willing whores.” Aretino stared at him, his voice malicious. “There is only one way you will inherit, Marco Gianetti - and that is by paying me to keep your secret.”
Chapter Forty Six
I am falling, Marco thought, I am falling without wings. A fly torn apart. I am sinking through space and through earth, and the breath in my lungs feels like liquid and the blood in my veins like oil. I am falling, alive, to no death. A corpse within a living man.
“You are lying!” Marco said finally, surprised that the words left his lips, because he could feel no breath, no moving of the tongue.
“No it’s the truth, and I have proof. And now I will tell you something of great strangeness. Your father never asked what hold I had over him. He never asked for proof. I can only surmise that he had a number of secrets, business dealings from which he profited, some would say, stole. Land sales which were corrupt. His list of misdemeanours was impressive, so much so that he could not afford to question me as to what I was blackmailing him about in case he inadvertently gave himself away by mentioning something of which I had no prior knowledge.” He paused, fanning himself with his hand as the light began its slow fade into dusk. “But I do have proof that you are not his son.”
Marco could barely form the words. “What proof?”
“Your mother wrote a letter to her father in Milan – a letter which was intercepted. In despair she admitted that she had been unfaithful and that she was carrying another man’s child. The man with whom she committed adultery – your real father – sadly died years ago in a boating accident. But your mother’s infidelity with this gentleman was the real reason she committed suicide... Have some wine, Marco, you look faint.” He passed him a glass, Marco draining the wine, a few drops spilling down his doublet. “When the truth comes out, what a scandal it will be. The Venetian authorities will obviously not allow a bastard to inherit the Gianetti fortune, especially a bastard who would be married to a Jewess.”
“I…I…”
“The legacy will be taken from you,” Aretino said with triumph. “As well as the Gianetti name, and then the inheritance will be dispersed amongst your many dull male cousins.” He leaned back against the cushions, glossy with malice. “Your dreams of riches are over, Marco. When your true parentage is revealed you will be penniless, the lands and monies taken from you as you are turned out of the palazzo and forced onto the streets with your whore.”
Marco shook his head helplessly. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe you.”
Aretino tossed a sheet of paper towards him. “Read it. That is copy of the letter your mother sent to her father. Remember I told you that there is always one servant who will act as a spy? The woman was in my employ at the Gianetti palazzo —”
“Is she still there?” Marco asked bitterly. “Is she still spying for you?”
“No, she retired to the countryside.” Aretino smiled. “And don’t fret, it was not your plump Cara, who fucked your virginity out of you.” He laughed, his chest booming with a mixture of coughs and laughter. “You look so surprised, Marco! Did you think that you did anything about which I did not know? I had a timetable of your testicles and bowels, a calendar of your sleeping, I daresay I can tell you the temperature of your bath water.”
Marco struggled to his feet, the wine and the shock had befuddled him. “I will contest it!”
“With whom?” Aretino countered. “The Doge? The Counsel? And if you bring the matter into court be aware that the secret will be exposed. Poor Marco, you cannot win. I have the proof that you are a bastard, unable to inherit the Gianetti fortune —”
“It is my birth right!”
“It is not!” Aretino retorted, his black eyes flickering with spite. “One word from me to the Doge and you are a beggar. One word and you are destitute. One word and you are set to fend for yourself in this world and believe me, Marco, you could not do it. Your little escapade was a jaunt. You took money to ease your way, but without money there is nothing – no food, no roof over your head, no friends. Those people who accepted you in the ghetto hate you now, if you went to them they would spit in your face. And who else can you go to?”
“My grandmother —”
“Your grandmother? What can she do with the proof I would show her? She is a very old woman, if the shock didn’t kill her being made destitute would —”
“What are you saying? Why would it affect her?”
Aretino rolled his eyes.
“You have a handsome face, Marco, but you are so slow... It would affect the noble Contessa because she is residing in the Gianetti palazzo in ignorance. If I expose your secret, she will be penniless like you. You can’t save her. All the Gianetti possessions and properties would be tied up by law, to be assessed and then distributed amongst your dreary cousins. And we all know how apathetic litigation can be.”
“You can’t do that to her!”
“I am not punishing your grandmother, but you will be if you refuse an offer to save her.” Aretino pushed another cushion into the small of his back, leaning his bulk against it and sighing. “Be reasonable, Marco, you have no one to help you. There is only one person who can save you. Only one person who can ensure that you inherit your fortune and keep your name and status.” Aretino paused, looking up to the balmy October sky. “They say it will be foggy again, but I doubt it. The sky looks as clear as a child’s eye.”
Marco slumped back into his set. “The letter could be a fake —”
“No, I have the original and a signed and dated copy of a letter written by your real father, admitting who he was.”
“How did you get that?”
Aretino clicked his tongue. “The same way I obtain everything, little boy, I bought it. The man was a drinker, a fool, he was more than willing to oblige.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You enjoyed your acceptance at Court, relished the affection with which the Doge treated you as his old friend’s son, without realising the level of Jacopo’s corruption. The Doge would not appreciate being taken for a fool and would be sure to exile you from court when your true origins are revealed.” He sighed again, “But all this can be avoided, Marco, did I not keep your father safe for many years?”
“And how much did it cost him?”
“Greedy boy,” Aretino reproached him. “The Gianetti fortune is immense, my fee was no more than a straw dropped from a passing hay wain.”
He signalled for Baptista to approach, putting up his hand to signal for him to stop about three yards away. Close enough so The Florentine could see what was going on, but not close enough for him to overhear the conversation.
Then he turned back to Marco. “So, what is your decision?” Aretino asked, his tone impatient. “Penury for yourself and, by extension, your grandmother? Or my little creaming off the top of the Gianetti fortune to keep you safe? Think about it, Marco. When you inherit you will be one of the most powerful men in Venice, the Doge will court you, the nobility fawn over you, and you will have not only the best whores in Venice, but your pick of the most influential and wealthy future wife.”
“My grandmother wishes me to marry Rosella Tabat —”
“Pah! A man of the stature you will become necessitates a wife from a powerful family.”
“She is carrying my child.”
“A matter that can be solved to everyone’s agreement. Rosella Tabat will be found a suitable Jewish husband. Naturally the child with remain with you, to be brought up as a Gianetti —”
Marco shook his head. “She will not give up her child, neither would I asked it of her. It would be too cruel —”
“You must think of the future and suppress your kind heartedness. Otherwise years from now your son – if it is a boy – will come back from exile to claim his legacy after your demise. And how would that play out with your legitimate heirs? As for Rosella Tabat – be very careful, women can wait and plan for many years to exact their revenge via the
ir offspring.”
“Rosella is not like that —”
“All mothers are like that.” Aretino corrected him. “Be reasonable, Marco, this is not just one man’s future, but the future of the whole Gianetti family.” He smiled to himself, thinking of how he had used the same argument with Marco’s father, and how Jacopo had reacted. Would his son react in the same way? He wondered. “Think of the lands you will own, the horses, properties, paintings – your father commissioned several Titians, amongst other. No more playing at being an apprentice to Tintoretto - who expects the Gianetti heir to work for a living?” his voice took on a lilting tone. “Servants to do you bidding, women to obey every whim. Without your father’s sober influence, the Gianetti palazzo could become a pleasure house, famous in Venice and across Europe. You have the charm and the appearance, Marco, you look like the heir to a fortune. If you had been ill tempered, an uncouth, illiterate hunchback no one would have accepted you, but you have been favoured by the gods.”
“I do not feel favoured,” Marco said hoarsely. “I feel used —”
“It will pass,” Aretino said abruptly. “A man feels less used in a palazzo than a hut.” His rapped his hand on the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. “I would have your answer, Marco!”
“If I agreed to your terms my whole life would be a lie —”
“Many lives are just that.”
“—and how could I hurt Rosella again?” Marco shook his head. “She is innocent in all of this. How could I steal her child from her —”
“Your child.” Aretino remonstrated. “You are not stealing anything. Besides, if it is a girl, then what harm? Leave the infant with its mother… You have to choose, Marco, a business arrangement with me is all it would take to settle this matter. The choice I offer is simple; poverty and disgrace - or power and acclaim.”
“I cannot do this.” Marco said hopelessly. “I cannot… I cannot cause such injury —”
“Very well,” Aretino beckoned for Baptista to approach. “Signor Gianetti wishes to leave now.”
“Is there no other way?” Marco asked desperately. “Dear God, is there no other way?”
Aretino shook his head.
“God has no say in the matter. It is your decision as to how to live your life. It is your choice and the one with which you will have to live... You look at me as though I were a devil, but you’re wrong.” Aretino spread his arms out in an expansive gesture. “Behold, your Saviour. From now on money is your Father and secrecy your Holy Ghost.”
They say the Devil is a young and handsome man, otherwise why would we be seduced by him?
Yet that is just another old wives tale. The Devil came to me in the bloated form of a man; and his trickery was not wonderful. At first it had appeared seductive, but that had been Aretino’s way to get the puppet used to the strings; once the victim is entrapped his charm is gone. What is left is a carapace of wit, hiding a pustuler core.
All my life I had accepted that Jacopo Gianetti was my father. Never once had I questioned it. I believed that his dislike of me had stemmed from my mother’s suicide, the ‘milk fever’ motive that had seemed logical. A child is told what to believe. Only later do we challenge the accepted version with our own judgement. So when Aretino stated that I was illegitimate; unable to inherit the Gianetti fortune; that everything I had been taught to expect would be snatched out of my hands
I burned.
Being disliked and rejected by a father I had sought to please seemed all the more unbearable. Jacopo Gianetti had known I was not his son, and yet for the sake of greed – that organ he had fed so assiduously – he had kept me in ignorance. And he had not even known which of his sins Aretino was holding over his head like Damocles’ sword. Which property deal, which false witness, which bastard child - which was it? Jacopo had never known, nor dared to question.
And in all those chilling childhood years I had been cared for like a botanical specimen. Kept in the right conditions for growth; fed plentifully, brought out into the sunlight to flourish, my roots to be dug deep into the Gianetti soil... And yet, in just minutes, Aretino had annihilated my life; my past a lie, my present a charade, and my future – unless I agreed his terms – penury.
The promise of the Gianetti legacy had been an enduring anchor to my wavering life. But Aretino had wrenched the anchor from the sea bed and left the boat adrift. I could say that the shock made up my mind, but that would be a lie, and I never lie. For a while I admit that I pretended I was anxious for my grandmother and how exposure would ruin her. A woman born to plenty could not have endured poverty. But neither could I. It is only when we are threatened with its loss that we appreciate the value of anything.
So, in one way, I was very similar to Jacopo Gianetti. I had his greed, and allied to that I was carrying a grudge, as indelible as a birthmark. Abandoning Rosella was a necessity, I told myself. She would not have been accepted socially as my wife and would have suffered for it. As for the child, if it was a boy, recompense would be made to the mother and he would be raised as a Gianetti. Another bastard, second in a line of bastards that would remain unexposed for as long as I paid a ransom.
Do not doubt, it was a ransom. A bribe by which I could secure myself. Money for status, for a name, for riches, for properties and houses and servants, for power. And it seemed a just revenge, that I, who had felt so demeaned, so disparaged, for so long by my imagined father, would inherit the Gianetti fortune. And its power.
So I agreed to pay the sweaty palmed Aretino for his silence. And in doing so, I knew I would never escape his manipulation. He would remain the puppet master. As he had been with my father, he would be with me. The strings were already set, the movements rehearsed, and besides, I was such a willing puppet.
Chapter Forty Seven
Curious to see what the furore was about, Caterina paused on the bridge, looking down onto the canal side. With Bakita following, she made her way over the bridge and approached the small crowd, all huddled around some unseen object. Impelled to continue, she nudged her way through the first few people and then paused, one hand going over her mouth.
The girl was lying on her back, her clothes wet. Her body had obviously been dredged from the water by the two men on a small boat who had then brought her over to the canal side. They were both looking down at her, one man holding the rope which stopped the boat from drifting, the other bearing the wet imprint of her body where he had carried her. The face of the drowned girl was untouched, but around her neck were red marks already turning a purplish blue. Although fully clothed, her feet were bare, and on her left wrist was a deep cut.
“Oh Dear God,” Caterina said, shaken, “has someone sent for the authorities?”
The man holding the rope looked at her. “Someone’s already gone.”
“When did you find her?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Was it suicide?” Caterina asked, a large woman behind her jostling to get a better view of the corpse.
“Doesn’t look like suicide to me,” she replied, “look at her neck.”
Caterina pushed the woman away and took off her shawl, covering the dead girl’s face with it.
“Does anyone know who she was?”
The big woman shrugged. “Not me, not seen her around. But how can anyone see her now with her face covered?”
“It’s a matter of respect —”
“Respect be damned,” the woman replied, looking Caterina up and down. “...she was probably one of your sort, only not as successful.”
“And if she was, should we not care about her death?” Caterina countered, the woman shrugging and walking away.
The boatmen watched her go, one turning back to Caterina. “I tell you something else about that girl - look in her right hand.”
Caterina bend down, taking hold of the girl’s hand and gently opening the fingers. Inside, sticking to the flesh of her palm, were number of dark hairs; hairs pulled from her assailant’s head as sh
e had fought for her life. Caterina stared at the hairs, then, as the boatman’s attention was diverted, slid them into her pocket before replacing the girl’s hand back on her unmoving breast.
*
Waiting impatiently until it was dark, Caterina left her house by the street entrance, leaving Bakita on guard and giving him instructions that if anyone called she was busy and not to be disturbed. Do not, she told him emphatically, let anyone know I am away from the house.
“You need me —”
She touched his arm. “No, not tonight. But you must stay here and pretend I am at home.” Her voice dropped. “Do not tell the other guard, or any of the staff. Do you hear me, Bakita?”
He nodded. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere I need to go alone,” she replied, “I am not in danger, but someone I care about may well be. Do as I say, Bakita, I will come back.”
She took a circuitous route across the Rialto, avoiding the most populated areas where the taverns were filling up with drinkers, gamblers and the whores greeting the soldiers who had come off the boats that morning. Dressed in dark clothes and a hooded cape, Caterina passed unnoticed across bridges and through alleyways where the shops had closed, doors bolted for the night. By a shrine to Our Lady she was accosted by two men, but avoided them, hurrying on with her head bowed.
The bells were ringing out the hour of six when she reached the terrace of low houses and approached the third in the row. The night was comforting, yet the flowers planted in the neat garden shimmered like glow worms in the moonlight. Glancing round to see that no one was watching her, Caterina knocked, then knocked again. She heard movement from inside, but it took several seconds for someone to approach the door and call out.
“Hello, who’s there?”
“Caterina. Let me in, Dutchman.”
He did at once, standing back as she entered and guiding her into his study. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s been another murder. A girl was drowned a little over an hour ago...” He seemed curiously unmoved and she continued. “…don’t you hear me? Another girl has been murdered.”