The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  Lauret was breathing rapidly, leaning against the stonework and trying to get his breath. His face was flushed, one puffy hand wiping the sweat off his forehead.

  “I swear to God I don’t know who they are.”

  “Did Gabriella Russo?”

  He shook his head wearily. “How would I know?”

  “But it was her who told you about the list?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Did she confide in you before she was killed? Did she tell you who was on that list?”

  “No, no —”

  “Seems odd that the girl who was murdered was the same girl who knew about these ‘Wolves of Venice’ and this dangerous list. Perhaps she was killed because of what she knew?...”

  Lauret could feel his pulse thundering in his ears, his heartbeat unnaturally loud, and thought he might pass out, even die on a stone bridge over a grimy canal.

  “... It would seem that you have two choices.” Baptista continued. “You can try to leave Venice again, but that would fail as I have spies along the quayside who would stop you. Or you could think about Gabriella Russo. How she ended up without her arms and legs and her face slashed. And then you could imagine your fat little torso tossed into the Adriatic, bopping about for the fish to nibble at, your eyes open to the beaks of the sea birds —”

  “I can’t help you!” Lauret wailed, his voice barely audible.

  “But you must. Because by helping me you would be helping yourself. To be truthful, you have no other choice. And you realise that too, Lauret... Let me know what you ‘remember’ as soon as you can.” He looked down at the merchant’s feet. “You’ve pissed yourself. If I were you, I’d make up my mind whilst I still had a bladder.”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  The door was slightly ajar as Bakita looked through the crack into Caterina’s bedroom. He knew his mistress was at a concert, Leonardo Donato, the Doge, holding a lavish banquet after a recital in honour of the Spanish ambassador, a man known for his culture and also for his politicking. In order to continue the good relations between the countries, the Ambassador had brought with him a gift, a painting by Jan Gossaert, a Dutch artist of considerable repute, and after the feast there was to be a firework exhibition in St Marks.

  Such a display had never been seen in Venice before and there was intense excitement, even some anxiety. Would the fireworks burn people? Or set fire to the houses? Would they destroy Venice and why would the Doge risk such destruction?

  Years earlier, Lev Izmailov, ambassador to Peter the Great, had reported from China that they made ‘such fireworks that no one in Europe has ever seen’. But now they would see them, the Spanish Ambassador had declared boastfully, and marvel.

  Bakita listened at the door, then moved his position slightly to see into the room from a better angle. What he had expected to see was his employer, Caterina Zucca, making an early return. Perhaps she had become tired, he reasoned, or brought back a client. But the woman Bakita caught sight of was not Caterina, it was Tita Boldini. Alone, carrying only one candle and bent over her mistress’s dressing table.

  He wondered at her recklessness and then realised that Tita would have expected him to accompany Caterina to the palazzo, as he usually accompanied her everywhere. Silent, his powerful form and ornate costume making his presence unmissable. But that evening Caterina had been collected by a lover and had needed no guard on the outing.

  Bakita watched as Tita opened the middle drawer of the dressing table, easing it out with both hands. She was very quiet, he thought, adept, moving without making noise. A practised thief - because he was certain stealing was not something new to her. She was also careful to keep the candle away from the window, where it might be seen through the crack in the shutters. He presumed that she would also have some explanation prepared; that it had not been her, but one of the other girls. Or that she had forgotten her mistress was out and had come to bid her goodnight.

  Abruptly, Tita turned round. Bakita knew she could not see him through the crack in the door, but she seemed to be looking straight at him, her pupils dilating like those of a cat. He felt a chill go through him but stayed motionless; expecting the woman to sense she was being watched and hurriedly leave the room. But she didn’t, instead she moved towards the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  He remained silent, startled when Tita snatched open the door. Her expression was challenging. “The great black knight, what are you doing here?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “Oh, I remember, your Italian is poor, I will speak slowly. What – are - you - doing?”

  “You steal.” He said flatly, taking her wrist and shaking her arm until she dropped the jewelled bracelet she had been holding. It fell onto the rug, the rubies glowing in the candlelight.

  “I borrowed it —”

  “You steal.” He repeated. “I tell mistress.”

  “You tell your mistress?” Tita said mockingly. “I don’t think so.” She moved over to him and ran her hand down his chest, lingering over his crotch. “You stay quiet and will make you happy.” Her hand moved expertly, her lips parting as she dropped to her knees.

  “No.” Bakita said, stepping back. “You steal, I tell mistress.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Tita replied, standing up and speaking very slowly so he would understand the import of what she said. “Just go back to your room and forget what you saw... You like it here, don’t you, Bakita? You like your mistress?” she fingered the braided epaulette on his left shoulder. “You like your costume, with all its fripperies...”

  He couldn’t understand all of what she said, but he could see the threat in her eyes. “You are no good.”

  “Go back to your pen, African, or I will destroy you. Make sure your black arse is returned to a slave ship with the recommendation that your next owner should be a man, someone who uses strict discipline.” She stooped to pick up the bracelet, but he put his foot over it.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” she replied, clawing at his leg, her nails leaving long scratches down his calf. Then before Bakita had time to react, she lunged at his face and scratched his cheek, her other hand ripping the fabric of her chemise, her hair unfastening. He reached out to catch hold of her, but she was fast and ducked out his way, running down the stairs and into the kitchen. A moment later he could hear hysterical sobbing, the coachman rushing upstairs carrying a sciopetta pistol.

  “Move and I’ll shoot.” The man commanded.

  Bakita put up his hands. “I did nothing, nothing —”

  “You attacked that girl, bastardo, the mistress will deal with you.”

  “No, no,” Bakita pleaded. “she lies –”

  “You lie, pig. Look at your face - you’re covered in scratches where she tried to fight you off,” he gestured to the stairs. “Move! Go on, get a move on. And be grateful I don’t shoot and say you tried to run.” He forced Bakita downstairs and then locked him in the cellar. “You’ve run out of luck. It’s going to be bad for you now,” the coachman shouted through the door, “you’re headed for the fucking galleys again. Bastard.”

  *

  Pietro Aretino glanced around the drawing room of the Gianetti palazzo, noticing that he had been put into one of the less impressive chambers and not the most palatial. He found the thought irksome, a pinch to his pride, but showed nothing in his face when Lavinia Gianetti entered. She came accompanied with a slight, squirrel faced man who was holding a sheaf papers, a pen in his left hand.

  “My dear Contessa –”

  Lavinia waved aside the words, gesturing for the writer to take a seat. With some annoyance Aretino noted that the offered chairs were narrow and found himself sitting perched on the edge of the seat, the wood creaking under him.

  “Why did you wish to see me, Signor Aretino?

  “I wanted to offer my condolences on the death of your esteemed son –”

  “You already sent your compliments when Jacopo died.”

  “ – and I am
most concerned about your grandson’s whereabouts.”

  “Marco has been missing for four months. Since June, in fact, and now we are in October.”

  “Time does not stop for any of us, Contessa.”

  “Do you expect it to?” she replied tartly, gesturing to the squirrel like man. “This is my lawyer, Ranuccio Ferriti.”

  “Surely there is no need for lawyers –”

  “I invited him here as a witness.”

  Aretino’s smile turned to a grimace, then he recovered himself. “I mean only to offer my help in any way –”

  “Then I could help me by telling me why you were blackmailing my son.” Lavinia replied, glancing over to Ferriti who was taking notes, before turning back to Aretino. “This gentleman is my confidante, a man in whom I place absolute trust. You may speak freely in front of him, Signor Aretino. Now, I will ask you again, why were you blackmailing my son?”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Don’t feign indignation, that is only for the innocent,” she responded. “You relish in your reputation. You love your hold over the many puppets you control. So let us be frank - what is – was – your hold over Jacopo? Or was your interest in my grandson – of which neither of us approved – was that what gave you pleasure?” she gazed at him, her eyes penetrating. “No, that would not be enough. Jacopo would have paid you to stay away from Marco, and you would have agreed to the arrangement. So, obviously there was something else that you used as your weapon.”

  “Contessa, if anyone else had spoken to me as you have done today –”

  “Hold your tongue! I am not afraid of you. I am old and disinclined to be threatened by a bully.” Lavinia retorted. “I am also very rich, and not without my own power.”

  “Your power is over, Contessa,” he replied with a thin film of contempt. “You are, as you rightly say, old, and you are not the heir to the Gianetti fortune. Once you had great power, but no longer. This is not the Venice it used to be.”

  “That is true, but there were crimes and villains before. There were thieves and charlatans and the worst of whores, but the city could manage them. But your kind of criminal - with your cohorts like Adamo Baptista and your secrets and threats – your sort gets fatter and fatter on other peoples’ money and misery.” She glanced over to Ferriti. “Are you writing this down?”

  “Si, Contessa.”

  “Eccellente. I want every word to be accurately recorded.” Her attention moved back to Aretino. “And please don’t threaten me with a court case, signor. You can hardly claim slander.”

  “Despite your hostility towards me, Contessa, I would like to help you to find Marco.”

  “So you can fleece my grandson of his inheritance?”

  “You think me capable of that, Contessa?” Aretino replied smoothly. “But how? The law is on his side, the side of inheritance. Of course, should your beloved grandson remain missing in time he would – forgive me – be declared dead. And then naturally there would be questions as to the Gianetti legacy. I believe you have male relatives, Contessa?”

  Buffoons, Lavinia thought, incompetent men who would mishandle or waste the Gianetti inheritance. Males who had succeeded in life due to their genealogy, rather than their skill or courage. Over the months Lavinia had reluctantly considered the possibility that Marco might never return, but she doubted it. He had been forced to leave Venice, or gone of his own accord, for a reason. And if she discovered the reason she was convinced she would find Marco. Then, with the heir back in Venice, she could guide her grandson, advice him, and keep some control.

  “I do not wish to discuss the Gianetti legacy with you, Signor Aretino. What I would like to know is this – what did Jacopo have, or do, that he needed to keep a secret? What secret was then discovered by you and used against him? You are a blackmailer by profession –”

  “An author, Contessa.”

  “ – of obscene literature.”

  He inclined his head. “The Church has declared it so. But Venice has been generous to my talents and rewarded me for my wit.”

  “Venice is generous to all manner of vagabonds. But she is equally dismissive of those who fall from grace, or lose the favour of the Doge.” She sighed. “Your rise to prominence was affected largely by my son. His recommendations allowed you entry into the highest echelons of Venetian society and the Doge’s Palace itself – places that would otherwise have been off limits.”

  “I disagree, Contessa, my literary works have made my name —”

  “In Rome, not in Venice. In the Republic it was Jacopo Gianetti who made your name – after you had been dismissed from Rome.” Lavinia paused, moving her position on her seat, her hip paining her.

  “You are suffering, Contessa?”

  “As you will, when – or if – you reach my age, signor.”

  “You lost your husband whilst you were young and now – at the end of your life - your dear son, Jacopo, has died.” He shook his head in mock pity. “Your life has been full of tragedy, Contessa, the suicide of Marco’s mother a great scandal and then the untimely death of Jacopo’s second wife following on... I often wondered why Jacopo did not marry again. But then perhaps he did not wish to suffer any further losses.”

  Lavinia’s expression remained calm. “Are you implying something?”

  “About what?”

  “The deaths of my daughters in law.”

  “We are all mortal, Contessa, it is up to the good Lord to decide when He calls us.”

  Slowly, she smiled. “Now I understand more clearly why Jacopo despised you. He did not fear you, but he was wary of what you could do to harm him.” She glanced over to her lawyer. “Signor Ferriti and I would like to know if you are in any way involved with the disappearance of my grandson.”

  “Me?” Aretino replied, his forefinger pointing to his own chest. “Why would I be involved?”

  “Marco was fascinated by you, and stupidly impressed. I blame his father because he had lived too isolated a life for a rich young man. In that respect, Marco was perfectly positioned for your manipulative attentions. I do not doubt that you flattered him by your interest and mesmerised him by your decadence. Your tastes are abnormal, but I presume you provided my grandson with women and the finest wines. Oh, and also a gondola. I heard you had provided one hand painted and decorated with Marco’s own initials in gold.” She sighed. “Your courting would have been manna to a boy who had been repeatedly dismissed by his father.”

  “Your grandson has great charm, it was a pleasure —”

  “The pleasure was purely yours. You are not a man of kindness, Marco was serving a purpose for you or you would not have pretended to be his friend. The question I am asking is simple – what is my grandson’s purpose?”

  Aretino struggled to his feet, heaving his vast bulk out of the chair with difficulty and aware that the lawyer was surreptitiously laughing at him.

  “I came here in good faith, Contessa, but I have been insulted. I do not know anything of Marco’s disappearance or his whereabouts. Whether you believe it or not, I was very fond of him —”

  “You use the past tense, signor.” Lavinia remarked. “Is that a subtle hint?”

  “An error in my grammar, no more,” he replied, nettled. “If you would excuse me, Contessa, I must take my leave. Rest assured, despite your hostility, I will endeavour to find your grandson with all the means at my disposal. And should you require my help, you have only to ask.”

  Lavinia looked up at him from her seat, her expression dismissive. “I will ask nothing from you, and I have nothing for you, Signor. There are no secrets in my life to pad out your pockets.”

  Aretino bowed smoothly. “Can you be sure, Contessa? Can you really be so sure?”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  That October – the autumn of 1548 – the city was plagued by fog. It would descend at dawn and linger, grey and listless, around the great, dank bulk of St Marks and the sullen Lagoon. With the fog came the wind, brisk and persistent, maki
ng loading and unloading difficult for the boatmen. Many of the most violent gusts capsized the smaller vessels, merchants desperately trying to retrieve their spilled goods before they fell down to the sea’s end. And under the wooden posts that held the city afloat, sank silver from Holland and spices from the Far East. The Lagoon grabbed at its bounty and the silt below welcomed its unaccustomed wealth.

  The cold brought sickness as the damp swung up from the canals and from the cellars of palazzos. Starved of its summer heat, the walls grew chilled, fires making little impression, beds heaped with furs and tapestries. In the poorer areas of Venice the tanners, the dressmakers and the inhabitants of the ghetto looked to each other for comfort, keeping together, huddled like calves to a cow.

  Only the glassworkers found enough warmth, the cramped conditions and the unending fires holding the damp at bay. In front of the great mouths of the furnaces, men sweated whilst their arms ached supporting the iron rods which - at their ends – carried the molten glass droplets. Against the darkening light the infernal ovens blazed like the mouth of Hades. With speed and skill the men fashioned the molten glass then dipped it into buckets of water, a hissing coming up like the warning from a snake pit.

  Yet on the streets and bridges the weather had its way, Barent der Witt walking with his head bowed against a push of wind. Dishevelled and irritable, he entered Caterina’s sitting room, took off his coat and hat and allowed her to lead him over to the fireplace.

  “Come, my friend, you must be cold. A little Cognac, perhaps? I have some come from France, and it is quite superb.”