by Alex Connor
“But there are rumours. People have been talking about the suggested marriage of you and poor Rosella Tabat, horrified that that a Jewess – a pregnant Jewess – would become mistress of the Gianetti family —”
“How would anyone know?” Mario asked, baffled. “We spoke of it in private.”
“How many times do I have to tell you there are spies everywhere in Venice? Everything is heard and anything of importance is reported back to me. There has been talk…” he pulled his chair closer to Marco, his voice low. “… that you were unwilling to marry Rosella Tabat, that you were being coerced by your grandmother.”
“My grandmother wanted it,” Marco agreed, “but I was not against it —”
“Yet when we spoke the other day you were musing about finding your own wife, someone more suited to your position, were you not?”
Outmanoeuvred, Marco shook his head. “I… I… I cannot think clearly —”
“No, you cannot, and that is why you must let your friends think for you at this sad time,” Aretino said smoothly. “We must not let any suspicion fall on you. There must be no hint of guilt on your part.”
“There can be none, because I did nothing!”
“We know that,” Aretino gestured to the man by the door, Baptista barely nodding. “but people believe rumours. You had tricked Rosella and then seduced her. She was carrying your child. Actions which are not the behaviour of a gentleman —”
“You forced me into tricking her!”
“ – but you complied,” Aretino retorted coldly. “You went along with it, and then you were ashamed and ran away from Venice. Only the guilty run, Marco, did your tutor never tell you that? And you stayed away, whilst your lover faced disgrace alone. People might think that on your return Rosella confronted you, you argued, and there was an accident that ended in tragedy—”
“No!” Marco replied heatedly. “There was no argument. I did not even know she was carrying my child. I would not have left Venice had I known.”
“A guilty man denies everything —”
“I am not guilty!” Marco replied, “I did nothing. I did not kill her, I would not hurt her, I cared for Rosella, every one knows that.”
“As everyone knows you fought with her brother on your return.” Aretino said calmly. “The brother who had been so ashamed of his sister’s behaviour. The same brother who was angry with her, who wouldn’t talk to her, who blamed her for bringing disgrace to the family. The respected doctor with the brilliant future who is now a laughing stock.” Aretino leaned closer. “How he must have hated her —”
“He loved Rosella!”
“— she was strangled. They say that is a very personal crime, committed by someone who wants to look their victim in the eyes as they kill them.”
“Enough!” Marco shouted, jumping to his feet. “Ira would not kill his sister.”
“Your loyalty does you justice, but you must consider the facts. Ira Tabat is a doctor, a man who deals with life and death every day. He is also a very proud man —”
“Because he stood up to you?” Marco countered, immediately regretting his words. “Pride does not make a man a murderer.”
“Sit down, Marco,” the writer said, gesturing to the seat he had vacated. “You are in shock, you do not know what you are saying. I understand - you were a friend of Ira Tabat’s, and close to Rosella – but suspicious as it looks for Ira, it also looks dangerous for you.” He glanced away, then paused to listen. There were voices outside, people talking and laughing, then silence. “You hear that? Venice is a chattering city. Hear how they gossip, every bit of news fought over like crows fighting for a scrap of meat. People love scandal, murder, punishment...”
Almost hypnotised, Marco watched him as he continued to speak.
“... I do not wish anything to happen to you, Marco. I am most fond of you and wish to protect you.”
No, you wish only to protect your investment, Marco thought to himself. You are not concerned about me, but about your prosperity, the possibility that you might loose out on the Gianetti fortune. You do not care if I am the killer, but you care that I am saved in order to remain your hostage.
“I did not kill Rosella Tabat.”
“I know that, Marco. We both know that, don’t we?” he glanced over to Baptista who nodded. “We are your protectors, we will keep you safe. But only if you do as we say. Otherwise, you put yourself in great peril. I have friends amongst the Council of Forty, but no influence. You must understand that the Doge is intolerant of murder, and I can only protect you if you work with me, and are guided by me.”
“But we should find the real killer —”
“We know the real killer,” Aretino said patiently, “I realise how difficult it to accept that Ira has murdered his sister —”
“We do not know that!” Marco replied hotly. “It could have been someone else —”
“Who?” Aretino asked. “In whose interests would it be to murder Rosella Tabat? She had no money, nothing of interest to anyone – except her brother. And you.” He shook his head as though exasperated. “The motive is obvious – passion. The girl’s killing was spontaneous —”
“How would you know that?”
Stepping forward, Adamo Baptista answered.
“A planned murder would have been committed in private. Not a violent act in a public place, where anyone could have come across them fighting or seen the killer. The girl was murdered in the heat of the moment, in an argument probably, but it was not planned.”
“And you’re an authority on this subject?” Marco asked defiantly.
His courage shocked him. That he would bait a man of whom so many were afraid - a running mate of Aretino’s, a known villain, gambler, spy – and yet he felt compelled to make some resistance, some show of defiance. The outcome was predictable, Marco already knew that. He would be manipulated into place, Aretino making all his gestures and speaking all his words as his puppet performed the set piece written for him. The mannequin was not to be allowed to resist; his strings were not to be cut whilst his pockets could be so profitably picked.
Afraid for his own life, desperate to retain the Gianetti name and fortune, Marco turned away from Aretino’s gaze, passing Baptista as he moved to the window. Instinct told him that Ira had not killed his sister; however much his pride had been injured, however much he had believed himself wronged, he would not have killed Rosella...
But neither had he.
He was innocent. If the authorities suspected him his life would be ruined. And if he was imprisoned and put on trial - or if he tried to protect Ira - Marco knew that Aretino would desert him. Pretend that he too had been duped, deny all accusations of blackmail as he exposed Marco’s origins; holding him up for all of Venice to see - a liar, a bastard, the kind of man who might well commit murder to protect his status and his legacy.
Baptista’s voice was even when he spoke again. “You would do well not to provoke me, Marco. I can be a valuable ally, but a ruthless enemy.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“Come now,” Aretino said smoothly, “let us not talk of enemies, we must work together, for the good of all of us. Believe me, Marco, you would not survive a week in the Doge’s New Prisons. They have as many as ten men in a cell and the conditions are brutal. Especially for the nobility.” He sighed. “I could not help you if it went so far, my friend. If you lost your status you would not even have the money to pay friends to bring food into you.”
If you lost your status... He was making it clear, Marco thought to himself. Spelling it out like letters to a child. If you refuse to do as I say, I will ruin you.
Chapter Fifty One
Bakita was standing at the entrance to Caterina’s house when the Dutchman approached and requested admittance.
“I will ask Signora Zucca,” the guard replied, gesturing to a maid in the hallway. “Tell Signora Zucca that Signora der Witt wishes to see her.”
The maid nodded and ran upstairs,
the Dutchman smiling. “Your Italian is improving quickly.” He remarked.
“My mistress is a good tutor.”
“And a friend?”
“I hope I may say so.” Bakita replied, “in time.”
“And yet she bars old friends,” der Witt replied, taking off his hat and rolling it in his hands. “Do you know why I am in exile?” when he realised that the man did not understand him, he repeated the question more simply. “Why does she not let me in?”
The guard, resplendent in his striped silk uniform, his cropped hair covered by a silk turban, fixed his dark eyes on the Dutchman. “I do not know.”
“And if you did, you would not admit it,” der Witt replied, seeing the maid over the guard’s shoulder beckon to him. “I am allowed admittance,” he said pleasantly, Bakita stepping back to let him enter.
In her sitting room above, Caterina was preparing herself. Lying back against a cushioned sofa, her dress displayed to its full advantage, she turned her face slightly to the light and smiled as the Dutchman entered.
“I was worried you would not see me.”
She nodded to Bakita, knowing he would close the door and then stand on guard. “Why would I not see you, old friend?”
“I believe I frightened you.”
“Yes, you did!” she retorted sharply. “You acted so oddly, what were you meaning? I came to you with news that I thought would be of interest and you acted like a stranger.” She smoothed her hair. “A sinister stranger at that.”
“I was testing you.”
She threw up her hands. “Testing me! For what?”
“You came telling me about another girl being killed. And wondered how you knew about it so quickly —”
“Because I saw her!” Caterina replied, “I saw the murdered girl when they brought her out of the water. I told you that when we met, I explained. Why did you doubt me?” her tone was angry. “How often have we spoken of the murders? Worried about your being made to seem the killer? Of course I told you! Why would I not warn you?”
“You sounded as though you suspected me.”
“No, you acted as though I suspected you,” Caterina countered. “If I had truly thought you a murderer would I have gone to your house alone? I left Bakita here. I didn’t want him to overhear our conversation, I was trying to protect you, in case anyone came after you.” She paused, shaking her head. “You and I share secrets. We must trust and protect each other.”
“I have become suspicious of everyone. Even you.” He said uncertainly. “Do they know who the dead girl was?”
“Rosella Tabat, from the Jewish ghetto,” Caterina replied, “that is all I know so far, but my maid hears every morsel of gossip and will no doubt have more to tell me... You worried me, old friend. You were not yourself.”
“I’m sorry...” He replied, then added “…but I don’t want you to suspect me. I did not kill the girl.”
A silence fell between them, Caterina reaching for his hand and holding it for an instant against her cheek. It was true that she had been afraid of him, and although he had explained his behaviour she was still wary. Not for a moment did she truly suspect him the Dutchman of murder, but there had been a darkness about him that she had not expected and it had left her uneasy. They shared too much for her to banish him, but as der Witt continued to talk Caterina thought of the clump of hair she had taken from the dead girl’s hand. The hair now hidden in her desk, behind lock and key.
She had studied the hair many times. Short in length, with only a slight wave. Very dark hairs, one of them grey - and she had considered from whose head they might have come. From the Dutchman? She knew his hair well, had touched it when they had made love; it was short and dark, but his grey hairs were plentiful. Even in a small sample there would have been more white hairs than just the one. Her thoughts had then moved onto Aretino, who was dismissed immediately. A killer in his fantasies, but not in life. Which left Adamo Baptista. Caterina remembered his hair too. She had been forbidden to touch it when they had had sex, but she had noted its thickness and the way it grew long at the base of his neck. Hair with a slight wave, but densely, uniformly black.
Often she had thought of showing the hair to der Witt, but had resisted, withholding the evidence for a reason she did not fully understand.
She would.
In time.
Chapter Fifty Two
Despite Tintoretto’s efforts, the following day he was told by his patron that the matter had been handed over to the Council of Forty and on 12th October 1548 Ira Tabat was arrested. Angrily, the painter demanded to see Ira at the prison, but was told that no visitors were allowed, unless they were members of the prisoner’s family. Thwarted, the painter headed for the Gianetti palazzo and asking to see Marco. There also he was refused admittance.
“Give him my name!” Tintoretto shouted to the guards. “He knows me well.”
“Signor Gianetti is seeing no one,” was the reply. “No one is to be admitted.”
“I am Tintoretto, Il Furioso, I demand to see him.” The painter shouted, calling up at the window. “Marco! Marco! Let me in!”
But the windows remained closed, the doors locked against him, the old Contessa ducking back from the balcony of her sitting room, watching as Il Furioso stormed away, muttering under his breath. The death of Rosella had affected her more than she would ever have thought. Perhaps, Lavinia wondered, she had imagined some family life in the Gianetti palazzo. A mother and father with a child, brought up within the sumptuous walls; some form of blessing to overpower a tragic heritage.
It had not been meant. Death walked the hallways and the kitchens below. Suicide, madness, murder, all breeding amongst the Titian and Bellini paintings and the Cellini sculptures. Where once she had come as a young bride expecting love and ready to bear a flock of children, Lavinia had aged amongst coldness, separation, rooms and hearts segregated. The rebellious desire to see her grandson marry Rosella Tabat had been her swansong.
But the dark had overpowered her.
“You should speak with him.” Lavinia said, turning to her grandson. “Tintoretto was a friend of yours, as well as your mentor. This tragedy must not destroy all friendships. The painter knew the Tabats well —”
“Can no one talk of anything else?” Marco replied, “it is news in all the taverns and in the streets, the pamphlets are full of it. Tintoretto has allowed his drawing of Rosella to be reproduced in print, alongside that of Ira Tabat —”
“How strange you now refer to him as Ira Tabat.”
“That is his name.”
“Before you would have said just Ira.” The old woman replied, “do you believe that he killed his sister?”
“No...”
“But you do not speak up for him.” The Contessa replied sharply.
“How can I be certain Ira did not kill Rosella? The evidence is against him.” Marco turned away from his grandmother, unwilling for her to see his face. “Everyone knows he has a fierce temper. Look how we fought...” Marco let the inference hang, then hurried on. “Ira Tabat was ashamed of Rosella, everyone knew he was angry with her.”
“Siblings quarrel, it does not usually result in murder.”
“Ira would barely speak to Rosella, and he hit her —”
“Marco!” Lavinia snapped. “You told me that was an accident. Tintoretto told me the same. Were you both lying, or is it just you who wants to make Ira seem guilty? Why is that? What have you against him? You were friends once.”
“That was the past —”
“Yesterday is the past. We live through the past to get to the present. So what changed in your relationship with Ira?” Marco shrugged, longing to change the subject, Lavinia continuing. “He disapproved of Aretino, didn’t he? Ira thought you were wasting your life, mixing with the wrong people —”
“We grew apart, with different interests. I moved into a different social circle.”
“You moved into a circle of hell,” she replied, cupping her chin i
n her hand and looking ahead thoughtfully. “Like Tintoretto, I imagine Ira tried to advise you, warn you about the writer —”
“He was jealous.” Marco said, on the defensive. “Envious of my new life.”
`“Maybe he was, a little. Maybe Ira saw you living without responsibility, flattered and petted, a great legacy waiting for you when your father died. Yes, I imagine Ira was a little jealous as he worked daily to provide for a dying mother and his sister.” her voice hardened. “But is that reason enough to abandon him when he most needs you?”
“I can do nothing to help Ira Tabat,” Marco replied. “The evidence damns him.”
“The evidence also serves you poorly.” She gave her grandson a sidelong glance. “I do not doubt that some will suggest you might have been the killer.”
“Dear God, how can you say that! I was here when Rosella was killed.”
“In the palazzo? You say you were here, but how would I know? How would anyone know? This place has dozens of rooms, corridors, passageways, the cellars themselves reach like tentacles into the Lagoon.” She smiled wryly. “No, I do not suspect you, Marco. I know you did not kill Rosella, but I am not convinced that Ira did.”
“He had a reason to kill her. He was ashamed of her.”
“An honour killing? Rosella had brought disgrace on her family and he was obliged to make restitution? If that is so, why did he not kill you? You seduced her, Marco, she was carrying your child. You were the reason she was disgraced —”
Cornered, Marco moved to the door. The arrest of Ira had become a scandal once it was known that Marco Gianetti had been due to marry Rosella Tabat. The Jewess from the ghetto, the woman who had been carrying his child. And when Ira was charged with the murder of his sister the city clamoured for news. On the rare occasions Marco left the palazzo he was approached and followed, the Doge requesting a meeting – Aretino’s intervention ensuring that any suspicion concerning Marco was summarily crushed. In the shadow of the malignant Behemoth, Marco was shielded and whilst Ira was imprisoned he walked Venice a free man.
