‘I tell you there is something strange about this pair,’ said Borachio. ‘I’ll swear the English knight was not this great weight of man we carry with us now.’
‘You’ll swear it?’ Prospero asked.
‘I’ve told you I didn’t see him close but –’ Borachio broke off, ‘– I’ll swear he was smaller. More like the steward in size than the knight. What does it matter? Let us kill them and have done with it.’
‘I’ve told you no, Borachio,’ Prospero said and dismissed him with a wave. ‘My patience withers. Do not ask again. I see for these Englishmen much use.’
‘If they reach Venice we may lose them,’ said Borachio. ‘Here they can be done and the bodies in the canal before the sun rises.’
‘You’ve found the letters, then,’ the Count said.
‘They are not in their cabin,’ Borachio replied. ‘Surely the fat one or his steward has them on his person. Kill them and then search the bodies.’
Prospero looked down at the beautifully carved travelling chess set open before him.
‘If they are not on them, what then?’ he said. ‘Will you ask their corpses where the letters have gone?’
‘Put them to the question first, then.’
‘Even if we could put them to the question without drawing attention on ourselves, what lies will we hear from tortured lips? And the proof far from us.’
‘Leave that to me; they’ll not gull us while hot iron waits and will do no more than whisper.’
‘I tell you no.’
‘My lord –’
‘No. You’re a fool, Borachio. Impatient and coarse.’
‘My lord has no need to insult me,’ Borachio said.
‘Oh but I do, Borachio,’ the Count replied looking up. ‘First, because it pleases me to do so. Second, because it seems I must hammer home my words in terms hard as iron nails or they will not enter your thick skull. I say again, I have plans for these Englishmen. In Venice.’
Interlude
Venice, June 1585
Made him give battle to the lioness
‘Madonna. For the sake of us all, sit still.’
Isabella paused in her pacing but did not sit. Her mind was in a motion perpetual and her body matched it. Her striding was replaced with the fluttering of a fan.
‘Mother of God. I cannot bear this fidgeting,’ the old man said as he slapped his palette down.
He began to clamber down the scaffold. Behind him, far from finished, lay his latest work. It was destined for the Salla della Scrutinio in the Doge’s Palace. One of several showing the triumphs of Venice as she built her empire. The Capture of Zara from the Hungarians in 1346 amid a Hurricane of Missiles; this was but a working title. He would think of something more succinct, more pithy, in time. Or maybe not. People would call it what they will. He had never really cared for titles. After all, he had been born Jacopo Comin, but everyone called him something different now, Tintoretto. Except for the lady, except for Isabella Lisarro. In this, as in so many things, she was exceptional.
Isabella snapped her fan shut. The noise loud in the space of his workshop.
‘How can I sit still when he is out there?’ she said. ‘I know nothing, Jacopo. Nothing.’
She slapped her fan against her hand. She wore high britches that day, aping a man’s style. It was the fashion in Venice for the women, at least the more daring among them, to dress in men’s clothes. The dark green silk of the britches was complemented by a jacket of white silk. It bore a high-collared ruff of pearl and lace that plunged low and was a source of considerable distraction to the painter.
‘Be patient, Isabella, and all will be well,’ he said.
‘You can say this,’ she retorted. ‘You, whose imagination can expand to encompass that possibility. I cannot. How can the stomach be filled by bare imagination of a feast? How can I make all well by the mere thinking of it so?’
‘Often have I heard you make this argument,’ he replied. ‘I know it false as I know your claim to lack imagination false. Be calm and put your mind to work.’
Tintoretto was in an unhappy mood. Ordinarily he would welcome a visit from his friend, but Isabella had been of late as changeable and dangerous as a lion with a thorn in its paw. Tintoretto loved women and, of all women, he loved those with wit and creativity and the spark of danger in them most. He thought of his daughter, Marietta. She had that to her. She was a painter of rare skill; skill greater than that of his son Domenico, poor boy. A smile, infrequently seen on the intense little man, creased his face and lifted the drooping eyes for a moment.
He wanted Isabella to sit still for a moment so that he could have calm to resume his work, but he also wanted to watch her walk and see the long tails of her jacket flare as she turned revealing the stockinged calves in all their slender glory. He wanted to watch the single thread of rose-gold hair that had broken loose from her carefully piled tresses flash past, a dragon’s tongue hissing. It was everything he loved in a painting, colours and movement and, yes, fury and power.
Madonna, but she was still beautiful, especially in her fury. Her brow furrowed with concentration and the full lips that always seemed to promise they would whisper you secrets if you were only fortunate enough to be allowed close, slightly parted to reveal such white teeth, set with determination. Tintoretto sighed.
‘Isabella. This is not you,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘To dash about like a frightened mouse,’ said Tintoretto. ‘You are the lion. You don’t scurry about, you wait and then you pounce.’
He twisted his hand as if turning a glass of wine to find the light.
‘To see you like this, I find it hard to reconcile you with the Isabella who quelled the Inquisitors of Venice with a single glance or brought King Henry of France to his knees as if her smile were a wrestler’s throw.’
Isabella paused and pointed at the painter with her fan.
‘You are right,’ she said, ‘as always.’
She strode across the floor of the workshop and kissed him on the forehead.
‘I am all activity but without result,’ she said. ‘It is true I know nothing. Now how to remedy that? That is the question. I fear the assassin but he does not fear me.’
Tintoretto had wandered over to the window. He picked up a small knife and began to scrape paint from a palette.
‘Why do you laugh?’ Isabella turned at the sound from the window.
‘I am just recalling those I have painted,’ he replied. ‘Do you remember Aretino?’
‘No,’ Isabella said.
‘Of course not, you were a child when he died, if you were alive at all,’ said Tintoretto. ‘Sweet mother, he was a scourge. He made his living by being the poisoned pen of many a man and as many paid him just so that he would not direct his barbs in their direction. He asked me to paint him once, though he knew I did not like him.’
‘And why does that make you laugh?’ Isabella asked.
Tinteretto held up the small paint-covered knife. ‘I was reminded by this,’ he said. ‘When I finally agreed I went to his house for the sitting, but each time I took the measure of him for the painting, to ensure I had the scale right, you understand?’
The painter held up his thumb and squinted at Isabella past it, showing how he took the proportions of his subject by reference to the constant of his thumb.
‘Each time,’ he went on, ‘instead of my thumb or brush, I held up the blade of a stiletto. He knew then I had his measure. He was the most civil of all my subjects.’
‘Save I alone,’ said Isabella.
‘Oh my dearest one,’ said Tintoretto. ‘You are many things, but I would never sully you with the simple word civil. Nor dare to show you a dagger.’
Isabella laughed. ‘I shall leave you, Jacopo. I have my answer now. You have given it to me.’
‘I have?’
‘You have,’ Isabella said. ‘You’re right. I am not the mouse. I am the lion. No, not the lion, to sit and
preen and be admired, but a lioness. The one who hunts.’
She paused at the door and tapped her fan on the frame.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘I am not the hunted but the hunter. I know my prey and I shall take his measure with my stiletto.’
Act Four
Venice, July 1585
Speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice
‘Venice the Wise. Venice the Just. Venice the Rich.’
Prospero rose and the gondola shifted under him. William and Oldcastle sat under the canopy, Oldcastle clutching at the rocking sides. Prospero moved to the prow and swept his hand out over the vista.
‘Trapped between the Turk and France. A liminal place, eh, Sir Henry? A place of borders and opportunities, of doors opening and others shutting,’ Prospero said.
He paused to sniff the air, as if smelling the fortunes that floated on the breeze. William’s nose detected only the hot stink of rubbish floating past the gondola. The smell was nothing compared to London but it was not a cause for wonder. Against Oldcastle’s muttered curses that he be still, William struggled to his feet.
Finally, he saw Venice.
The city emerged in silhouette, rose-gold in the light of morning. Venice the Magnificent. Domes jostled above the white and pink squares of palaces. Tall chimneys, strangely capped, thrust up everywhere, an army of mitred bishops observing the tumult of commerce below. The green waters of the lagoon were flecked black with gondola and traghetti, those uglier but more practical boats of commerce, silently oaring their way.
Their gondola turned a curve and passed the obscuring edge of a palace to reveal ahead the Piazzetta di San Marco, the public square outside the Ducal Palace. The gondola drew towards its mooring between two statue-capped columns.
To William’s right rose the Ducal Palace, a vast building of pink and white porticos and arches. It stretched away to another square beyond. Past the Doge’s Palace lay the Basilica di San Marco itself, five great green domes floating above five arches in which could be seen the flash of painted golden figures. For scale, William could think of nothing to match what he saw.
‘Hah! Your steward is like a cat at a window, Sir Henry,’ said Prospero. ‘Caught by the view.’
Prospero’s permanently arched eyebrow was turned on William.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘has your England anything to compare to this?’
William could truthfully answer that if it did he had not seen it.
‘Such is the power of Venice. They know it too,’ Prospero said, nodding with respect touched with disdain.
‘You see the horses above the western face of the basilica?’ Prospero pointed. ‘Rampant are they not? A symbol of the Venice that tramples the interests of all others before them. We Genoese have a saying, there can be no peace between our cities until those horses are bridled.’
William’s eyes travelled up to the rearing beasts and then on. To the north the square was bounded by a long arcade of buildings; to the south its edge was a scene of industry, scaffolding and broken walls, though whether the building work was putting up or tearing down William could not tell. Rising above all on that southern side, opposite the basilica, was a red-brick tower capped in a pyramid, an obelisk many storeys high, the Campanile.
Prospero was loudly naming the sights to an uncaring Oldcastle who sat, bilious, in the bottom of the gondola. William was rapt. Here was a beauty, a lightness, that he had never encountered before. It held him.
‘Enough of this,’ said Prospero abruptly. ‘One could spend many hours admiring Venice as your servant does. He will start scribbling in his little book again if we give him the chance. However, we all have business in the city and we must to that, no?’
Prospero hopped lightly to the quay as the gondola pulled alongside. William and Oldcastle hurried to follow. An unsteady Oldcastle even accepting a helping hand, reluctantly proffered, by the crouching figure of Prospero’s servant, Borachio.
Amid the already bustling activity of the square Prospero renewed his attempt to convince Oldcastle to accept the hospitality of his own lodgings in the city. Oldcastle, schooled by William, repeated both his gratitude for the offer and his refusal. The English had lodging ready for them that they must use. Prospero gave way.
‘Very well. Do you see there?’ Prospero pointed out towards an arch above which was set an ornate clock tower. ‘That is the route to the sestiere of San Polo and it is there that you will find your lodging, the House of the White Lion.’
He bowed to Oldcastle, who responded in ornate style. William was impressed. He didn’t think Oldcastle could still bend in that part of his body.
‘I look forward to our further meeting, Sir Henry,’ said Prospero. ‘If I might be of assistance at any point, I am your servant. Your man knows where to find me.’
With a further bow Prospero swept off into the crowd trailed by the surly figure of Borachio.
‘Do you know where to find him, Will?’ asked Oldcastle.
‘Of course,’ replied William. ‘Under some dark stone.’
‘Quite. Best left there I would say.’
‘It is for these points of judgment, Sir Henry,’ said William, ‘that Her Majesty has found you worthy to be her representative in Venice.’
‘Her Majesty’s judgment approaches mine in perspicacity,’ Oldcastle said. ‘The Lord knows she certainly didn’t choose me for the quality of my retinue.’
‘Calumny,’ cried William.
‘An efficient steward,’ said Oldcastle, ‘would have already disposed of these troublesome letters, that his master might take his well-deserved repose.’
‘Let me remedy the fault,’ said William.
The two men walked with purpose towards the long arcade of offices on the north side of the square. Prospero had identified these buildings as the Procuratie Vecchie, home of the Procurators of St Mark, the officers of the government of Venice. They were the route by which William and Oldcastle would be brought to the presence of the Doge, the ruler of Venice.
Arrange the delivery of England’s letters to the Doge and then depart, was William and Oldcastle’s thought. Though their deception would be tested once again, the two men approached the task with lightness in their steps. Each thinking the end of a hard road was in sight. A very little, little let them do and all was done, free men again. With such foolish thoughts do great and arduous enterprises begin.
‘Quite impossible, my lord.’ The clerk shook his head.
He made a sad face and turned it towards William and Oldcastle in turn.
‘You don’t understand,’ said William. ‘It is vital that we be granted an audience with the Doge as soon as possible. We bear,’ William paused, realising that he didn’t know what was in the sealed packet of letters, ‘missives from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England.’
‘It cannot be done,’ said the clerk.
The words were not clear to Oldcastle but the functionary’s demeanour carried its own message. To an Oldcastle desperate of England, such an attitude was unacceptable.
‘What’s he say?’ he demanded of William.
‘He says that we cannot have an audience with the Doge,’ said William.
Oldcastle drew himself up. ‘Inform him that England will take it ill if she is slighted thus. Tell him, William. Tell him.’
‘Calm yourself, Nick,’ pleaded William.
‘I am as calm as the Thames on a windless day, William. Yet tell this minor magnifico that when the wind blows that great river may overflow its banks to the destruction of all.’
The clerk could understand Oldcastle no better than Oldcastle him but the reddening of Oldcastle’s face told its own story. The clerk hastened to quench the bombard before it fired.
‘You misunderstand me, my lords,’ he said. ‘No insult is intended. It is not that we deny England audience with the Doge. It is that, I am devastated to say, there is no doge to give audience. The Doge is dead.’
‘Dead?’ said William.
‘What’s he say?’ asked Oldcastle.
‘He says the Doge is dead,’ replied William.
‘Contempt,’ cried Oldcastle. ‘Mockery. This beslubberly knave thinks to fool us as though we were mere country bumpkins to be cozened out of their coins. Does he not understand that we stand here for England?’
William was concerned that Oldcastle had begun to forget he but played a part. Nonetheless he too was curious and surprised.
‘Forgive us,’ William said. ‘We have seen no signs of mourning at the death of your ruler.’
The clerk smiled. ‘Oh, my lord, the Doge does not rule.’
His look said much of the pity he felt for the inhabitants of such backward states as England. Cursed with a queen when they might be members of a beneficent republic. In profound tones he spoke in Italian, ‘Si è morto il Doge, no la Signoria.’ ‘The Doge is dead, but the Signoria is living. The Republic is not ruled by one man but by our senate, the Minor Consiglio and the Quarantia. It is a system of government that has served Venice well for many years.’
William could see that, unless swiftly curtailed, he was like to be treated to a lengthy discourse on the Venetian polity.
‘I understand, of course,’ he said. ‘Well, when may my master be presented to the Signoria?’
‘Oh, not until the new doge has been elected,’ replied the clerk.
‘Lord, these clerks must be born with one leg shorter than the other that they should run in circles thus,’ Oldcastle grunted. ‘Well, when is this doge elected?’
Not for another fortnight at the soonest, it appeared. He would then be presented formally to the citizens of the Republic. The opportunity to have audience would come during the many celebrations that would accompany his elevation.
Outside the Procuratie Vecchie Oldcastle slumped on a bench.
‘Jesu’s sake, Will,’ he said. ‘Another fortnight at least while we await discovery and destruction. My nerves cannot bear it. My purse cannot wear it.’
The Spy of Venice Page 21