The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  Having been about to leave, Marco paused at the door and turned back to his grandmother. “What do you want from me? What do you want me to say? I did wrong, I know that. But I cannot change anything. Why do you have to torment me? Rosella is dead, the baby is dead, and Ira Tabat will pay for it.”

  “No,” she said simply. “If he is found guilty, he will be executed – but you will pay.”

  *

  Gilda Tabat pushed away the ledger she had been working on, her attention wandering. Around her she could hear the usual noises of the ghetto; voices, dogs barking, plates clattered one against the other, and occasionally someone playing a piano. Hyman Golletz, she thought, the old man making tunes into the night. Rising to her feet, she walked to the door and stood, looking out. The curfew was long over, the ghetto inhabitants gathered in, two children swinging from a lantern hook in the wall.

  “Ira never killed his sister.”Angelo said suddenly.

  Gilda nodded. “I know.”

  “Do you think it was Marco Gianetti?”

  Giada glanced at her son. “No, he didn’t kill Rosella, not with his own hands. But he was responsible. I don’t know how, but he was. And he’s going to let Ira die for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “He can’t do that —”

  “He can. And he will. Marco Gianetti’s involvement can be traced through all of this. It was him that tricked Rosella into meeting with Adamo Baptista; it was him who seduced her and made her pregnant; and now it’s him – Marco Gianetti – who will not say one word in his friend’s defence.” She shivered at the doorway. “With his power and money he could have found the real killer.”

  “Unless it was Marco Gianetti.”

  “No, I’ve told you, Gianetti’s not man enough to murder anyone.” Gilda replied, “Someone else will have done the killing. Someone like Adamo Baptista. Perhaps on Aretino’s orders. After all, Marco and the writer are old allies. They have the power, the money... These are the people who rule this city. How long has Aretino terrorised his victims? How long has Baptista come to houses like ours and threatened us with the galleys? Oh, I remember every word he said to me – and so do many others.” Her voice cut like a blade. “Gianetti will not get away with this, I swear it. The wolves – Aretino, Baptista and Gianetti – will suffer. If it takes me a day, a month, a year or a decade, I will have revenge on all three of them. Gianetti in particular. And I will not be alone.”

  She moved indoors, closing the door behind her, Angelo following. “What are you going to do?”

  “Rosella was one of us, a Jew who belonged in the ghetto with us. As did Ira. If he is found guilty tomorrow – which he will be – he will be put to death. Then, despite the scandal, everyone will forget. It may take a little time, but it will happen. And Marco Gianetti will prosper and marry and have a family; Aretino will bribe and charm his soiled body further into the Doge’s court; and Baptista will move about Venice unchallenged, his reputation as feared as that of the devil himself.” She drew in her breath. “But we have something they do not – the ghetto. There is power in numbers, in a group banded together in a common cause. Believe me, as they have sought to destroy us, we will destroy them.”

  “How?” Angelo asked, “how can we?”

  “By waiting.” His mother replied, “we wait and wait, and if necessary we wait a little longer. We are patient for the perfect time, the precise moment...” She picked up a kitchen knife, driving the blade into the wooden table “…and then we strike.”

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Through the intercession of his patron, Tintoretto was allowed to visit Ira in prison. The trial had been a debacle, the involvement of Marco Gianetti making what would have been a quiet affair into a circus. In an attempt to curtail public interest, the Council of Forty had held the trail in secret, but details had filtered out and gossip was rife. Watching from the sidelines, der Witt hoped that there might be an investigation into there being another killer, but there was none. And he, together with Caterina Zucca, witnessed the disastrous proceedings in silence. Ira Tabat was beaten, but The Wolves of Venice were not.

  In court, Ira’s natural reserve did not serve him well, he seemed to be indifferent, removed from the case. A man without feelings could easily be regarded as a murderer, people thought, and even when details of Rosella’s death were discussed Ira expressed no emotion.

  “You must fight back!” Tintoretto told him, sitting on a bench in a cramped prison cell. One of a row of single, narrow cells with a connecting corridor. “You must rebut their accusations.”

  “They have already made their judgement, I am guilty in their eyes.” Ira replied, “Witnesses have spoken of my anger towards my sister, my hurt pride, my sense of shame that she was unmarried and pregnant, and the fact that I struck her —”

  “Which you do not do on purpose!” The artist retorted. “I have gone to the authorities and given a statement to that effect. I expect them to call me as a witness at any time. No one must be unaware of the truth.”

  “The truth? The absolute truth is an instrument that can only be played by an expert.”

  Tintoretto sighed. “My application to the Council that consider another person to be the murderer was dismissed. There was no evidence to support it. When I informed them about der Witt’s daughter, the death of Gabriella Russo and the woman in France, they almost laughed in my face. Told me I was weaving fairy tales. They even said that I should not endanger my own status by supporting a suspected killer.”

  “They are right, you should not.” Ira replied. “You should not even be here. But I am grateful that you are.”

  “They will not allow anyone from the ghetto to visit you.”

  “No, I thought not. I am not even allowed the comfort of my own people.” Ira replied, adding bitterly. “Marco Gianetti did this.”

  “The murder? No, no, he is not capable. You cannot truly think he killed your sister.”

  Ira stared ahead.

  “He caused her death. If he did not murder her with his own hands, he caused it to happen. The night he arranged for Adamo Baptista to walk my sister home – that was when it all began. That was Marco’s doing. Marco, obeying Aretino’s orders.” Ira lowered his head. After a month’s imprisonment he had lost weight, his collar bones protruding, his face gaunt. Food had been brought in for him, but had been ignored, wine also had been sent from the ghetto, but little was touched. “If he chose, Marco could speak up for me, he could tell them how I loved my sister, how I could never have killed Rosella.” His voice wavered. “He knew us, we were friends. How could he let them believe I’m her killer?”

  “You have to speak up for yourself —”

  “To what end!” Ira snapped, his temper rising. “I am as nothing to the likes of Gianetti, Aretino and the Council of Forty. I have no say in this city, no power. This is all planned.”

  “Planned?” Tintoretto leaned towards him. “What is planned?”

  “Marco needs a scapegoat, and I serve that purpose.” Ira replied, glancing at the artist. “Consider this. Marco has just inherited a vast legacy and the honourable name of Gianetti. Perhaps he decided that marriage to my sister would not serve him – even if it had been his grandmother’s wish. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of Rosella, to free himself.”

  “Not by murder —”

  “Marco was always foolish, lead by the nose by charlatans... I see the hand of Pietro Aretino in this.”

  Tintoretto clicked his tongue. “That bloated pig has been quiet, not seen at court since the trail began.”

  “He will be watching, mark my words.” Ira replied, “He used Marco as a puppet before and he will be using him again. Marco has a great fortune and status now, but no true friends. He will be feeling adrift, his sudden prominence unnerving – what better time for the bastard Aretino to offer support? “

  “Surely even Marco would not be that stupid?”

  “He’s lost, he always was, and people like Pietro Aretino always attack the
weakest lamb, the one trailing behind the flock.”

  “Then we most expose him!”

  “Aretino?” Ira countered wretchedly. “‘The Scourge of Kings,’ the blackmailer royal? Better and richer men than I have tried and failed. Aretino has the favour of the Doge, he has the powerful eating from his hand like snakes taking milk from a saucer.”

  “Then I will talk to Marco, force my way in if I have to.”

  “He will not see you!” Ira snapped. “He cannot see you, cannot face you. Do you still not understand?” his voice dropped, all anger gone. “Please, will you make me a promise?”

  “Anything.”

  “Discover who killed Rosella and the other women about whom you told me. Find the murderer and stop him. Get justice for his victims, and clear my name... Will you do that for me?”

  “You have my word.”

  Ira nodded. “You have been an unexpected friend and a great comfort to me, Tintoretto, I thank you for that.”

  “You speak as if it were over —”

  “It is over for me,” Ira replied, composed. “But time will tell when it is truly over. Marco Gianetti has much on his conscience and the likes of Aretino and Baptista should beware. One man might be overpowered, but justice will not be so easily trodden underfoot. This murderous game is merely beginning.”

  Chapter Fifty Four

  On 25th October 1548 Ira Tabat was hanged, a rabbi from the ghetto staying with him throughout his final hours and at his end. In a square courtyard away from sight, Ira was lead to the scaffold calmly claiming his innocence and making a wish that the true murderer of his sister be found and punished. The Council of Forty, despite Tintoretto’s many and desperate entreaties, refused to reconsider their verdict and all mention of another person being responsible for Rosella Tabat’s murder was expunged from the record.

  It was a grieving Tintoretto that returned to his studio, letting his apprentices leave early and bolting the double doors. Cold to the marrow, he threw kindling on the stove and sat beside it, remembering when he had talked with Ira there. How he had warned him, advised him, to no avail. Ira Tabat, rigid to the last, had refused to pander to the court and had paid the highest cost known to man. Without lighting any candles, the artist continued to sit in front of the stove, its meagre illumination making ghouls out of draped paintings and imps out of the little wax figures.

  He did not have to concentrate to remember Rosella’s face, or Gabriella’s. Rosella’s mass of black hair and the chip on Gabriella’s front tooth; details of faces he knew would accompany him for the remainder of his life. And he thought of Ira, grown thin in prison, his direct gaze just short of arrogance. Their ghosts seemed to gather around him as he sat watching the flames through the glass door of the stove, and for one instant he imagined that he heard the studio door open and a voice call out to him.

  Marco as he had been. Young, laughing, bringing wooden crates from the market stained with tomato juice, the colour of blood. Marco, watching Pietro Aretino as he visited, impressed, fascinated, entrapped. Marco, the lad with meagre artistic talent who had played tricks on him, encouraging Rosella in their practical jokes. Marco, now the head of the Gianetti legacy: once affectionate and amusing, now corrupted, a scorpion in silks.

  “You are late, why are you always so late?”

  “I was looking at the oils in the market —”

  “You are a liar, Marco, you were watching the jugglers in the Rialto, someone saw you there. And now you are late. Again.”

  And he wanted to say that it was of no account any longer. That time meant nothing. Early or late, fate was mapped out, the future moving in rhythm to the clock of the spheres.

  Tintoretto glanced over to the painting he had put to one side. Tomorrow he would have to concentrate, he was behind with his work and soon Titian would return from Augsburg and their rivalry would reignite. The contest for commissions would begin again, Aretino his rival’s slinking agent, the Doge dispensing largesse to Titian, as Il Furioso’s triumph threatens Venice’s premier painter.

  He tried to find some excitement in the idea, thinking of the new painter come to Venice - Veronese, apparently a genius in his youth. Another rival, Tintoretto thought. Well, he would take him on. Like the alley pugilists, he knew how to fight... But grief was not ready to let go and for hours Tintoretto sat by the stove, feeding the listless fire with kindling, seeing faces in amongst the flames of the people he had loved and lost.

  Whilst Tintoretto remembered, Marco stood by the window of the Gianetti palazzo and looked out over the night Lagoon. He told himself that his choice had been unavoidable, that his life had been under threat, that his grandmother had been in danger also. But his mind rejected the thoughts. Spitting them out like bad oysters, his memory mocking him. The isolation he had felt as a child seemed to intensify, the ballast of his fortune inadequate, the vacuum inside him expanding until he was sick with distress.

  And then he noticed a group of people below, looking up to the windows of the palazzo and staring at him. They did not move and they did not speak, they just accused him. Without court or jury, evidence or rebuttal, they fixed their gaze on him and he knew. He knew they had come from the ghetto; that they had come to revenge Ira Tabat.

  Stepping back from the window, Marco nearly stumbled, turning as he heard a servant enter.

  “What is it?”

  “You called out, signor, do you need something?”

  “I made no sound.”

  “Forgive me, I thought I heard you cry out.”

  “No, it was not me.” Marco replied, gesturing to the window. “Look out and tell me what you see.”

  Surprised, the servant did as he was told, opening the casement and glancing down.

  “I see the Lagoon, Signor, and a gondola.”

  “What about the people?”

  “There are no people, Signor Gianetti. There is no one there.”

  “The group! Are you blind, can you not see the group looking up at the window?”

  “There is no group, no people, signor —”

  “But I saw them!”

  “If you did, they are not there now.” the man replied, “Perhaps they will return later. Are you expecting someone?”

  I am expecting ghosts, I wanted to say to him.

  I am expecting my mother to come to me and choke and dangle her feet above the floor, looking for purchase. I am expecting Rosella to shake her head at me, and Ira – oh, yes, I am expecting Ira Tabat. Wrathful, like a wronged saint, his eyes burning with revenge. Yes, I wanted to say, I am expecting someone.

  For the first weeks after Ira was executed I barely slept. I could tell the shape and depth of every shadow, each corner was measured for any unexpected sound or movement. I had guards, but could I trust them? Sent from Aretino, were they loyal to me? Or to him? My inheritance had given me a status I could never have expected. Invitations poured into my home like melted honey, the Doge courted me and the most influential people in Venice sought my company. I was handsome, amusing, charming, I was everything a great man should have been, and every moment I remembered what I had done.

  My conscience thwarted my sleep, my pleasure, my peace. I told myself that it would fade, that time would blunt the intensity. But the planets worked in reverse, the universe making my conscience defy logic. If I was haunted those first nights after Ira’s death, I was ridden by demons in the weeks and months that followed. My grandmother died soon after and the palazzo became entirely mine. A massive colony of majestic rooms and staircases leading upwards and downwards towards more rooms. All filled with sculptures, paintings, silver in cabinets, medals on velvet pads and a myriad of marble pillars like the cold branches of a dying tree.

  Wherever I walked, an echo accompanied me. As did my shadow, it followed, one more servant at my bidding. Tintoretto asked to see me, but I refused, I could not have borne the look in his eyes. The accusation, the same look I saw whenever I walked about the streets of Venice. If I crossed people on
bridges spanning the canals, or in the churches, or in St Marks Square, there was always that look. I sat in the church pew inherited from my father, with the Gianetti crest branded into the polished wood, and in my direct line of sight was Pietro Aretino. Sometimes with Adamo Baptista, sometimes not.

  The writer’s girth increased as mine diminished. His greed seemed to pour out of his skin like oil, the great bristle of his beard piebald with age. I paid him and he kept my secret; no one knew of the bastard sitting in the Gianetti pew, or occupying the Gianetti palazzo. And, like Jacopo before me, I lived with the threat of exposure. It became a disease, always present in the blood, but at times virulent, at others, in remission. When Aretino ignored me, the sickness flared up, when he was amicable, my body restored itself.

  So the first year passed. Unlike Ira, I lived on. And I knew that ever day I was watched. I could sense it, that unending scrutiny, and remembered how often Aretino had spoken of spies. Spies in the palazzo, spies on the streets, spies from the ghetto. Oh yes, I knew where they came from. I had betrayed the Tabats and my wealth was no protection. At first I thought they would strike, but time passed and they did not. Together with Aretino’s threat I lived with the threat from the ghetto, and I changed. My conscience began to waver. I was rich, of high status, who was I to be judged?

  In the second year that followed Ira’s death I gave myself over to pleasure. Wine was the ideal solution for a guilty conscience and I was glutted with it. Women also, of every race and creed, the Venetian whores always skilful and inventive. With them came the card players, the acrobats, the jesters and tumblers that once I had watched in the park with Ira. In a smear of wine and sex I lunged on, always knowing that the ghetto would one day punish me.

  Ghetto, yes, that was the place from which I expected judgement, and I was right. But before they made their move another came into my life. A woman, offering love to a man who had long since ceased to deserve it. A woman who would set in motion the next part of this tale.