by Alex Connor
“I have business here.”
“Everyone has business in Venice.” She replied, walking about his room and studying the maps. “I dressed the most beautiful whores, most brilliant nobility and the richest Contessas in Venice. Everyone of note came to my shop. The merchants knew me by name, called out to me when I visited the ships newly arrived from Paris and the Far East. They let me walk about the bales and boxes freshly unloaded, even allowed me to put my mark on the silks before anyone else had seen them. Yes, it’s true, I had all the fashions from the French and Russian courts... Everyone knew my shop. Everyone was envious of my wares and my clientele. Even Adamo Baptista bought from me.” her gaze turned back to the Dutchman. “You flinched. Are you afraid of him?”
“I am afraid of everything I do not understand.”
“Then you must be afraid a great deal of the time,” Marina replied. “I know I am.” She pointed to a map on the wall over the fireplace. “Where is this?”
“The Hague.”
“Is that where you came from?”
“Once.”
“Perhaps we should all stay where we are born, in our own countries. Perhaps we would all be safer if we did.” Sighing to herself, Marina picked up her bag and moved towards the door, then turned back to the Dutchman. “May I ask you a question?”
“You may ask.”
“And you will not lie to me?”
“How will you know?”
She smiled wistfully. “A Venetian answer from a Dutch apothecary. Only in Venice...” Her voice became serious again, her gaze fixed on his face. “Who are The Wolves of Venice?”
He didn’t reply.
And, after another moment, she left.
Chapter Twenty Five
Jacopo Gianetti sat upright in his bed, his sleep disturbed, old dreams returning, dreams he had thought long dead. People were so real in dreams, speaking and moving as they had done in life, then leaning towards him, whispering, whispering words he could not hear and knew he should hear. Consonants and syllables that were imperative, but without proper form. The whispering he could sense, but the words alluded him and he awoke with a sensation of encroaching dread.
Having heard his footsteps pacing around, Cara tapped on the bedroom door. “You are awake, Signor Gianetti? It’s not yet five.”
He wondered if the time was supposed to matter and moved over to the water basin.
“Signor Gianetti —”
“Lasciami! Lasciami solo!” he snarled, hoping the servant would walk away, then he glanced into the mirror hanging above the basin. There had been a fleeting intention to rinse his face, but instead Jacopo found himself staring at a reflection of his dead wife suspended from a rope behind him... Startled, he stepped back, knocking over the basin.
Hearing the crash, Cara ran in. “What happened, signor?” Surprised, she stared at the broken bowl and the spilled water splashed across the wooden floor.
White faced, Jacopo pointed to the image over the bed. But in the instant it took for Cara to turn, it disappeared.
“Are you ill, signor?”
He shook his head dumbly. “No……”
“Do you need a dottore?”
“No, no. But I did not sleep well,” Jacopo replied, in that dusk voice of his, which always lied. “I had a nightmare.”
She was bending down, picking up the pieces of broken china, her hair greying at the crown. Was she getting old? He thought, yes, of course she was. Cara had worked for him for many years. But if she was old, he must be old too.
“Am I sick?” he asked, his usual coolness replaced by a helpless pleading. “Am I sick again?” He touched his forehead, “I think maybe I am. I need a doctor, get Ira Tabat —”
“You said that you didn’t want him here again.”
“Are you telling me what to do? Are you my master now?” he snapped, skirting round the bed, his left hand timidly lifting the covers to see if there was anything underneath.
Horrified, Cara watched him. “Is there something wrong with your bedding, signor?”
“There are things in this bed that should not be here!” He wailed, pulling back the covers and then relaxing as he saw the empty expanse of white sheet. It had been a dream, nothing more. Nothing over which to lose his composure. “Forget what I said, Cara, I was half asleep.”
“So you don’t wish me to call dottore Tabat?”
“I do not think —” His equilibrium deserted him. Suddenly he could smell perfume, a particular scent from Naples which his first wife had always worn.
Cara stared at him, watching his gaze flicker backwards and forwards from the bed.
“Yes, I think you should call Tabat. Yes, call him! Tell him I want to see him, that I am not myself.” Trembling, Jacopo slumped into a chair beside the unmade bed. “Tell him I would be grateful if he would hurry. Yes, yes, tell him to hurry.”
*
Troubled, Rosella moved around the room, laying the table for the evening meal. In her bed behind the curtain, her mother moaned softly in her sleep, as she often did, but she did not wake. She never awoke anymore... Rosella stood over her mother, looking at the face she remembered. Yet it bore no resemblance to the parent she had once known, and she envied her peace. Felt an inappropriate jealousy because sickness had abandoned her mother in some place free of emotion, responsibility or confusion. Where she had nothing asked of her, nothing expected; a place of inertia.
Without wishing to, Rosella conjured up an image of Adamo Baptista’s face, the smell of wood smoke on his clothes, the fine hairs on the back his hands, and the voice that had been courteous and yet sensual. She flushed, uncomfortable, wondering how she could have found any part of him appealing. No, not appealing, desirable. Her throat dried, her mouth sticky with shame. But she had done nothing, nothing at all. Nothing that would dishonour her, or her family.
But she had wanted to.
And the thought left her limp, a dull ache in the pit of her belly. She had never felt such a pain before, certainly not with Angelo Fasculo. And yet she had imagined herself falling a little in love with him. Had even pictured a life with him. Would it be so very bad to love him? Rosella asked herself. Angelo was attentive, a hard worker, and a Jew; they were from the same culture, they understood the ghetto life. It was true he was not cultured, but culture a person could teach themselves. She could teach him… Rosella closed her eyes, trying to coax her thoughts away from Baptista and return them to Angelo.
Ira walked in unexpectedly, startling her. “Rosella, I have to go out again on a visit to Jacopo Gianetti.”
Jacopo Gianetti... The surname echoed around her brain. Gianetti. Marco Gianetti, her friend who had arranged for Adamo Baptista to accompany her home. She felt anger and at the same moment gratitude. Another thought followed on immediately. Why had Marco introduced them? Was he presenting her as he would a plate of food? An offering?... She shook her head against the thought, no, Marco was simply being kind, ensuring that she returned home in safety. But to pick Adamo Baptista to act as chaperone...
“Can I take this with me?”
Nodding, Rosella turned her attention back to her brother. “Yes, of course, I’ll wrap it for you,” she said, putting the bread and cheese into a cotton pouch and handing it back to her brother. “Be careful tonight. There was some street fighting earlier on.”
“Fighting?” Ira queried, tucking the package into his pocket. “You weren’t caught up in it, were you?”
“No, no, I wasn’t anywhere near...” She said, adding. “…Marco warned me.”
She could sense Ira’s disapproval and wondered what would happen if he discovered her stroll with Baptista. But how could he not find out? People always gossiped and they had been seen in the streets and at the entrance of the ghetto. She had even noted Solomon Isaacs pause at his doorway to stare, pointing them out to Hyman Golletz. And if he had seen them, the news would have been spread within the hour.
“… I saw Rosella Tabat walking with that bastard Ad
amo Baptista. I would not have thought a respectable woman would want to consort with the likes of him.”
And soon others would have joined in.
“Perhaps Rosella is not as innocent as she seems. She poses for that painter, after all, what kind of girl does such things? I heard Il Furioso used whores in his paintings. All of them nude...Of course her mother can’t advice her, and her brother’s too busy to see what’s going on…”
“And to think that Angelo Fasculo is in love with her. I can’t see Gilda approving any match now...”
“Rosella?”
She jumped, Ira looking at her. “Is everything alright with you?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just that you seem different.”
Was she different? Rosella wondered. Was it obvious on her face that her body had changed, become moist and willing. Could people tell by just looking at her? Could her brother tell? She didn’t want it to show, but she didn’t want to stop the sensation either; that carnal, hypnotic response of the body.
“Different?” she repeated. “How?”
“You look tired,” Ira said, kissing her on her forehead. “I may be late, don’t wait up for me, will you? And if I see Marco I’ll thank him.”
“For what?” she asked breathlessly.
“For warning you about the fighting on the streets. What else?”
*
The brawl that had taken place in the afternoon had quickly died out, leaving St Marks hazy in the late summer evening. Birds, listless in the heat, dozed on the unpacked tea chests and bails of cargo unloaded onto the quayside. Delicate porcelain imported from the Far East, safe in its straw filled boxes, dozed indolently on a muted tide and in the distance the horizon began the slow dampening down of the sun.
Apparently the fight had begun because of a theft, some man being relieved of his wallet by a French pickpocket, the thief taken to the prison - where he had immediately sent for Adamo Baptista.
“Lauret, do you never learn?”
The corpulent little merchant put his hands together pleadingly. “I am not guilty. It was all a misunderstanding, I swear.”
Waving for the guard to leave the cell, Baptista stared at the frightened man. “Those cards you gave to me —”
“They were the best, monsieur.”
“They were indeed.” Baptista agreed, smiling coldly. “I have no complaints there.”
“Did you win much?”
“Is that any interest of yours?”
The little man shook his head. “No, monsieur, forgive my impertinence.”
“As for the other matter I set for you, did you manage to remember anything important that Gabriella Russo told you?”
Lauret was shaking so much that he could hardly gather his thoughts. “Please, can you get me out of here? I have never been in jail before. My health is not good. Despite appearances, I am not a well man.”
“You should have thought of that before you stole —”
“I stole nothing! It was the girl.”
Baptista looked at him with a disbelieving expression. “A girl? What girl?”
“That’s was the strangest thing, I saw her in the crowd and I recognised her. I knew her from the past, I can’t remember where or when, but it will come back to me.” He looked round the damp cell and coughed unconvincingly. “I swear, Monsieur Baptista, she was the thief, not me. I saw her with my own eyes —”
“This girl?”
“Yes!” he agreed “and I was so surprised to see her in Venice. She was walking about in the crowds. Her dress was expensive, but she had very drab cloak over the top and it almost covered her costume, so that I only caught a glimpse of the fabric when she turned—”
“I’m not interested in fabric, Lauret. Or a fantasy girl.”
“But she wasn’t a fantasy!” the squat little man retorted. “And whilst I was trying to remember where I had seen her before she moved further into the crowd, where it was the most dense – I think there were some musicians playing. A lute, I think, yes, I’m sure it was a lute. You know how it is sometimes in the square, you can’t tell a lute from a lyre…?” he looked into Baptista’s bored face and hurried on. “Anyway, this girl – young woman really – she slid over to an elderly man in a quilted doublet —”
“Get on with it! I am not interested in his attire!”
“ – and then I saw her cut the strap of the purse on his belt. As quick as that! So fast you couldn’t see her hand move. The old man must have felt something because he turned. The girl had gone. But he saw me. And I panicked. I ran...”
“How far and how fast can you run on those stunted little legs of yours?”
Lauret flushed. “Not far... The crowd caught me and they didn’t believe a word I said. Even after I told them to search me and they found nothing. They just said that I must have had an accomplice.”
“Did you?”
“I swear on my life I didn’t take the purse! She did!” the Frenchman paused, breathless and sweating profusely. “You have to get me out of this place.”
Baptista leaned against the wall. “You ask me to help you and I come here, leaving Signor Aretino and a fine dinner, but what do I get in return? Nothing. I have been waiting for days, but you haven’t even answered my question, Lauret. Did you think over what you and Gabriella Russo had talked about?”
“If you get me out of this place —”
Baptista leaned down towards him, his voice ominous.
“I swear I will leave you here until the greasy flesh drops off your pig bones. These are the new prisons, but they are still overcrowded. And soft, feminine looking prisoners, or prisoners who dabble in the occult —”
“I don’t have anything to do with the occult!”
“The Inquisition would disagree, Lauret, and I would have to give evidence that you do trade in cards. Of course, you could be lucky and they might merely give you a warning, or they could examine the cards you gave to me – with their unusual patterning.” He paused. “All those tiny indentations that a clever gambler could use to his advantage. If the Inquisition didn’t punish you for dealing in the occult, the authorities certainly would for cheating at cards. It would mean a heavy fine.”
Lauret could see the trap opening up before him and stepped back from the edge.
“There’s no reason to do anything hastily, monsieur! I have not been idle.” He stammered. “As you asked, I went over everything I could remember, everything Gabriella and I talked about. Believe me, there was nothing important, just conversation. Jokes, gossip, some of it foolish.”
“Nothing that struck you as strange or uncommon?”
“Well, maybe one thing...”
“Go on.”
“Gabriella told me that she wanted to leave Venice, but she didn’t have enough money and I told her that if she waited until I returned on my next trip I would lend her some.” Lauret shrugged. “I’d done some good trading, but reinvested everything and had no money left to lend anyone, even Gabriella.”
“So what happened then?”
“She said she’d wait for me. But she wasn’t happy, I could see that. Not angry with me, just sad... When we parted that night Gabriella hugged me and I told her to take care of herself and then she said something strange. She said that Venice had its own wolves.”
“Wolves in Venice?” Baptista repeated.
“That’s right. That’s what she called them.”
“It makes no sense. Did she not explain what she meant?”
Concentrating, Lauret thought back. Then he repeated, word for word, what Gabriella had said the last time he saw her. “…‘Four. Don’t let them tell you less. Look for the four .’”
Baptista considered the words, Lauret looking at him imploringly. “Is it important?”
“Maybe.”
“Please,” Lauret begged. “I’ve told you all I know. Get me out of here, I’m a sick man, I won’t survive. Please, make them release me.”
; “I suppose I could…” Baptista said, smoothing down his doublet and straightening his white cuffs. “but then again, a little more time thinking might encourage you to dredge up some more information.”
“I’ve told you all I know!”
“Well, that’s very unfortunate, Lauret.” He said, moving to the door. “However I feel it’s my duty to speak to the Inquisition about your dealings —”
At once, Lauret blurted out: “There’s something hidden in the Castilano shop.”
Baptista’s eyes flickered. “What?”
“If I tell you, don’t say you heard it from my lips. It would be the end for me. I’ll tell you everything I know if you get me out of here and keep me safe.” Lauret begged. “I have a family, I have to get back to France, they need me —”
“They also needed you when you were fucking Gabriella Russo —”
“I was her friend!” the little man retorted. “Only her friend —”
“A friend who let her down.” Baptista replied. “But before I give you any promises, I need to hear what you have to say, Lauret. And don’t try to fucking dupe me, I’ll know, and you will spend the rest of your life here, whilst I go to France and visit your family... So, now that we understand each other, tell me - what exactly is in the Castilano shop?”
Chapter Twenty Six
He had never expected to enter the Gianetti palazzo again, Ira passing between the two guards at the front entrance and following a morose servant up the grandiose staircase, along the same vaulted passageway and on into Jacopo Gianetti’s capacious bedchamber. Although it was mid summer, the shutters were still bolted, the first of a hot day’s sun worming itself through the cracks.
In the dim light, Ira paused. The bed was pulled away from the wall at an angle, the mattress turned over, half on, half off, the base, Cara stepping forward when she saw Ira at the doorway.
“Thank the Holy Mother, dottore, that you come so quickly.”
Her gaze moved over to the far corner of the room. There was only one candle burning, Ira barely able to make out a crouched shape in a white nightshirt. It was Jacopo Gianetti. But he did not move, instead, as Ira’s eyes became used to the lack of light, he could see another figure sitting beside him.
