I strode forward, down off the bridge, and at once caught sight of a goldsmith’s shop. It had as its sign a gold chain painted on a board, and several steps led down to its door from the street. I leapt down those steps and pushed open the door. For many a night I had dreamt of this, and I was here at last. But, as I stood in the dappled light that glimmered in through a barred window from the canal outside and looked round, I was puzzled. On the shelves of the shop were gold chains: nothing but slender gold chains, of a wonderful fineness, some enamelled, others set with pearls, others bearing the repeated SS of the spiritus sanctus. I questioned the jeweller as he came out from behind his workbench. It was then that I learnt the vast scale of the trade in Venice. There was no Goldsmiths’ Row as in London, with its fourteen shops, each one selling a little of everything. The goldsmiths of Venice were divided into twelve separate guilds, each encompassing dozens of craftsmen and shops. The establishment I had stepped into was of the branch that dealt only in catenelle d’oro: small gold chains. There were other shops for basins and chalices in silver, others for gold and silver cutlery; there was another guild for trinkets, another for the larger gold chains as opposed to the smaller, another for filigree and one for the setting of jewels; another for embossing and engraving and work with the chisel and stamps; there was even a guild all of its own for buttons made of fine gold wire. And that was not to mention the diamanteri: the jewellers, who are themselves split in two: those who trade in diamonds, and those who sell gems of colour. There was even a guild for sellers of imitation jewels and false pearls. ‘Then finally,’ the shopman went on, ‘there are those who carve rock crystal, and those who specialise in faceting, or casting gold in moulds of clay, with or without the use of clamps.’
He stood smiling and blinking at me. I did not wish him to see just how dismayed I was. It was the first hint that this world I had stepped into was a great deal wider than I had supposed. I thanked him and bowed my way out.
After that began days of searching, of trudging alleys and climbing bridges, pushing through the bustle of the fish market and the streets of the butchers, the spicers, the druggists and the poulterers, then past the flour and grain warehouses, past the rope-sellers and the sail-makers near the Grand Canal, and the crowds around the four great banks of Venice, two for the nobles and two for the citizens. Everywhere we asked after gold and gems. In those days we spent many an hour, Martin and I, in those damp underground rooms, while I ran my eye over the goldsmiths’ work and surveyed stone after stone. I saw wonders there: emeralds of Persia weighing as much as three scruples; a wine-coloured amethyst, as large and precious as any diamond, that shot out a ruby’s fire from a heart of purple; a set of blue-green sapphires of Pegu beyond India, rare and evenly matched. I saw turquoises and cornelians, rings, basins, dishes for sweetmeats piled with diamonds and pearls. My head swam at the richness of it. But all their gems were dear, much too dear. A thousand ducats could vanish on a single stone.
Some of the shopmen curled their lips, detecting the narrowness of my purse. ‘Perhaps the signore would prefer something cheaper?’ They showed me the trays of lesser stones, the pale garnets and small yellow topazes and chrysolites that sold for fifty ducats and less. But that would not do. I had set myself to buy stones that had in them the seeds of obsession: deep stones, stones with hearts, stones to reflect a mighty, kingly passion.
By the seventh day I was beginning to think I had made a fatal mistake in coming here. I would have only one chance in my life at breaking free of my mother’s empire. I had made my attempt too soon, without enough funds, and I was going to fail. These were the thoughts I tormented myself with as I walked the alleys in the heavy, late summer showers. My cloak was sodden with water, and my hat, a flat woollen cap of the kind worn by apprentices in London, drooped from my head. And if Venice was not for me, where else could I go? If I returned home, it would be to defeat and shame; and I would still owe my mother those twelve hundred marks. I might travel further, to Cairo and beyond, but the time needed for a venture of that sort would stretch into many months, or even years, and my expenses would rise and rise. All hope of a quick success with the King would be gone. No, my fortune must be secured right here and right now, or nowhere and never.
My impatience came near to leading me to ruin. I had just crossed another bridge over another canal. On the far side of it was a small grated doorway; over it hung a wooden sign showing a gold ring set with a dark green stone. It was a goldsmith’s: and one who dealt in gems. With a fresh surge of hope I pushed open the door and went in. Sapphires and turquoises flashed in the dim light, as if from the walls of some fantastic mine. I caught for an instant a blood-red glint from the deeper part of the shop, where I found a great fiery ruby resting on a white silk cushion. The shopman was at my elbow, his eyes glinting, murmuring low.
‘A ruby of Serendip, signor. A higher colour or more life in a stone you will not find. Not in the rubies of Calicut, or Bisnager, or Pegu. Look on it. Weigh it. A full fifteen carats. For you, two thousand ducats.’
I picked up the stone and turned it in my fingers, letting it stain them red. It flashed like a burning coal, and its colour was strong, from the centre right to its extremity. It was flawless, smooth but uncut, with an uneven, bulging outline. I tried it on my tongue, and felt the coldness that is the mark of the very best rubies. As I turned it in my hands I could feel its magic seducing me. I knew I could beat down the goldsmith’s price. Suddenly Martin was beside me.
‘Does it not please you, master?’ he whispered. ‘Is it flawed?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘On the contrary.’
‘Then buy it, for God’s sake. Why should you need more than a single stone? Buy it, and let us go home to England.’
Buy it, the voice of temptation whispered to me in concert with Martin’s. It would be so easy. It was my mother’s voice too, teasing me. If you say you are such a great merchant, she seemed to murmur, let us see you make a purchase. But you are a dreamer, and a hesitator. You never had the backbone of your brother.
‘I shall cut it for you myself,’ the shopman offered. ‘A pyramid cut. It is too rounded for a table. A plain ring, perhaps. I promise you it will look superb.’
I turned the stone in the light, forcing myself to think coolly. What would its worth be, when cut and set, and carried home to England? More than two thousand ducats? Perhaps. But after the cost of cutting and all my other expenses there was every chance I would go home to the fate I dreaded more than all else. I would follow in my father’s steps, and make a loss. And whatever its worth, it was only a single stone. It was not enough to snare and enchant the King; not enough to outshine Breakespere and Heyes. I glanced sideways at Martin, who continued to peer at the gem: whether in genuine wonder, or out of a desire to lure me into a purchase, I was unsure.
As long as I remained standing there I was in danger. I made myself lower the ruby back into its place. On the white cushion its gleam tormented me, so that I closed my eyes and turned from it. Without a word I walked back up the steps to the street. As soon as I was back in the bright sunlight the spell of the stone fell away from me, and I thanked God for my escape. I was angry with myself for having come so near to so great a mistake, and I strode on fast. All I wanted was to put as much distance as possible between myself and that treacherous stone. I heard Martin’s voice behind me.
‘Master! Why did you not buy that ruby? You said yourself it hadn’t a flaw. When are we going to buy something?’
I could have kicked him for his obtuseness. Or was he not as dull as he seemed? I was in no doubt that Martin was under special orders from the Widow. At the very least, he must be my mother’s spy. And what if he was more? What if he had delivered that near-fatal advice on purpose?
‘But, in God’s name, master!’ Martin called after me again. ‘We have seen all the goldsmiths’ shops: every one. What do you intend to do?’
I turned on him. I saw in his eyes my mother’s view of me, her scorn
at my childish confidence, and the naïve pleasure I took in pretty things: ‘So like your father.’ Thomas was the one with steel in him, she always said. His mind was sharp, an accurate tool that weighed and calculated, just like the Widow herself. She did not see the Thomas who sang in the moonlight beneath a girl’s window, or the Thomas who leapt across the eaves of a church roof with just as much recklessness as myself. Nor did she see the fine judgements I had taught myself to make in my quests for gems. She was mistaken, deeply, about both of us: so I told myself. But that ruby’s fire had burnt away a good part of my self-assurance.
I faced up to Martin and said, ‘I am here to buy gems, gems in quantity, gems of wonder and obsession, gems to kill for and die for. And that is just what I propose to do.’
I turned and kept on walking. How, though, was I to pursue this venture? It would take all my ingenuity and nerve. I knew that every great city has its depths. Most go no further than the warm shallows, but it is in the darker waters, where the fiercer fishes swim, that fortunes are to be made, for there the prices are low, and sales are quick and dangerous. I had seen the connections my father and Mr William had set up in the underworld of Lisbon, over years of patient intrigue. I must do the same in Venice: and I had very little time to do it in. And so we walked, hour after hour, day after day.
The Rialto was not only the richest and most wondrous marketplace of all Europe. It was also a crossroads between the city’s different quarters, and between multifarious worlds. Southwards began the great palaces of the nobles, with their rows of windows cut in strange traceries in emulation of the rich cities of Islam. By night this district rang with the sound of balls and serenades. I saw gondolas steered by moorish slaves, and veiled ladies stepping inside their closed cabins with a flash of jewels. There were opportunities here, no question. But this world was closed to me.
North and west were the districts of the spicers, and then the silk-dyers and scarlet-dyers. Further still, over the Grand Canal, lay the old foundries, the jactum or Ghetto. Here the authorities had permitted the Jews to settle who had been expelled from Spain by our Queen Katherine’s parents, Ferdinand and Isabella, thirty years before. The Jews were allowed to practise no craft or profession, and that turned them into masters of finance and trade. And so I learnt my way around the Ghetto, and asked from tavern to tavern, and began to make friends. They knew everything, I was sure, but their lips were tight sealed on their customers’ secrets. I visited the Angel, too, the inn near the Rialto Bridge where the Turks in their enormous white turbans and red felt caps were permitted to lodge. They spoke to me of their trade in ginger and aloes and coral, and of the markets in Beirut and Aleppo. One or other of these connections, I hoped, would bear fruit soon.
Even from the window of our lodging, on the narrow little square called the Campiello del Sol just a few lanes away from the Piazzetta of the Rialto, I made fresh discoveries. Every morning before dawn, I saw an old man and a boy of about fifteen come trudging up from the canal at the end of the square, each carrying a pair of buckets on yokes over their shoulders. They poured the contents down the well in the middle of the square, then went back for more. After six or seven trips they vanished. One morning I went down and asked them what they were doing. The old man told me they were acquaiuoli, who carry water from Terraferma, as Venetians call their territories on the Mainland, to fill the various wells of the city. Every morning they crossed the lagoon in the mist, past the great ships lying at anchor, and crossed back again to the city.
I said, ‘And do these great ships pay a toll to the Republic on all their goods?’
The old man looked back at me unblinking. ‘Not always.’ I gave him half a ducat, and asked him to remember me.
One evening, after the gates of the Ghetto had been shut, Martin and I were making our way back home. I was feeling tired and cast down, and that made me miss our usual path. Dusk was closing in. Lights burned in front of some of the doorways, but long stretches of the alleys were dark. The next canal, by my reckoning, ought to have been the Rio di San Cassiano, and we should cross it by the small wooden Ponte dei Morti, the Bridge of the Dead, that leads past the cemetery and bell-tower of San Cassiano itself. But the alleyway twisted and turned, and then came out at a narrow bridge which I had never seen before. From across the canal came a burst of feminine laughter. There, in a blaze of light from cressets in the walls, I saw a sight to make me stand still and blink. In every window of the houses opposite there were women: naked, beautiful women. Some of them were leaning out over the canal, cradling their breasts, whose nipples were picked out in carmine. Others stood full height, looking up and down the alley, their hair decked in pearls, while their more intimate charms were shaved in the Oriental fashion. A few were even perched on the window ledges, their bare legs dangling in the air. When they caught sight of me all of them began calling and beckoning to me to come up, come and have a taste of Paradise.
I climbed the steps up to the centre of the bridge, bowed and swept off my hat. It was time, I thought, to drown my worries.
‘Ladies,’ I said, ‘I am entirely at your service.’
I crossed over the bridge and knocked at the doorway beneath the dangling legs. A stately old woman answered it, and looked me up and down suspiciously. My clothes did not speak of great wealth, and she was about to shut the door on me. I lifted up my purse with a chink of coins, loosened the strings and handed her half a ducat. Her face broke into an avaricious smile, and she bowed to let me in. I pushed past and bounded up the curving stone stairs.
‘What about me?’ came Martin’s plaintive voice from below.
‘Amuse yourself,’ I called back, and burst into the room overlooking the canal. There was a chorus of little shrieks, and the girls rushed to cover themselves with a variety of silk veils and shifts. About the room were four daybeds ornamented with scrollwork and piled with cushions and bolsters, each enveloped in a silken canopy like a tent, hanging from hooks on the ceiling. There was not another man present. I looked from one girl to another, scarcely able to believe my luck. They stood with their eyes cast down, timidly smiling: the picture of modesty, as if they were virgins just arrived from the country who had been innocently airing their nakedness at the windows on account of the excessive heat. I swept off my hat and bowed.
‘Richard Dansey, of London.’
They looked up at me.
‘Dardania.’
‘Ippolita.’
‘Angelica.’
‘Armida.’
Their names spoke to me of the ancient paradises of the gods; their looks, the slight bows and curtseys they made, still holding the shifts up to their bodies, all enflamed me beyond endurance. All the frustration of my search for gems translated itself instantly into desire. I looked from one to the other. How to decide? Ippolita was tall, like the Amazon queen she took her name from. She stood resting a long leg on an inlaid coffer. Armida was delicate, Angelica round as a pudding, Dardania slender and proud. In the end it was the challenge in Ippolita’s eyes that decided me. I beckoned her to me. She smiled coyly, and led me to one of the daybeds. She lay down on her side at one end with her light blue veil covering her, like a lazy Venus in a painting, waiting for me. A little chain of pearls in her hair, drawn up in a curve, gleamed in the lamplight like water drops. I tossed my purse down next to the pillow with a loud jingle of gold, and my dagger along with it: defying them to try to steal. Then I undressed to my shirt, while Angelica poured sweet wine into two glasses which she placed on an inlaid table, and Dardania and Armida set down a variety of meats intended to inflame our passions: eggs dressed with truffles, asparagus tips, and almonds and pine nuts in aniseed and honey. Ippolita ate with delicate nibbles and tiny sips of wine, darting provoking glances at me from her large, dark eyes. At last I could bear it no longer. I threw aside the plate of nuts and yanked on the gold tasselled ropes of the canopy. The curtains fell closed. I pulled off my shirt and knelt in the near-darkness opposite my Amazon, naked. Her e
yes shone, wicked with danger and untried possibilities. She twitched aside the veil, rolled over like a cat and crouched facing me.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘let us see what you can do.’
She sprang at me. She dived, she wriggled, she clasped and foined, she drew back, she leapt, she bit, she licked, she laughed. I gasped in amazement; I was out of my depth. Ippolita was a different creature entirely from the bored trollops of Stew Lane, or even those gaudier creatures of the back streets of Lisbon. But I set myself to learn fast. I answered caress with caress, attack with attack, and for each new device of hers I made sure to invent two more of my own. As we wrestled and grasped, the pearls in her headdress shook and clicked. They were fine, I thought: very fine. I promised myself a closer look, but even as I formed the thought she leapt upon me to play the cavalier, digging her heels in my thighs and sitting upright with a rhythmical swing of her breasts that mesmerised me as we approached our desire. Then, after we had refreshed ourselves with wine, I took the saddle myself. I pressed my face into her musk-scented hair, and so I found my eyes brought suddenly up against those pearls. They were of a good size, perhaps three carats or more, well rounded, with a pinkish-blue blush. That sheen proclaimed they were still in their bright youth: for pearls, unlike true gems, decline and wither with age. Persian, I judged, from the rich fisheries of the Straits of Ormuz. There were seven of them. I paused in my assault and lifted myself on my arms.
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