The Wolves of Venice
THE WOLVES OF VENICE
Alex Connor
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in United Kingdom in 2020 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Alex Connor, 2020
The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781838932978
Aries
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Book One
The Puppet Master
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Book Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Book Three
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Book Four
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Book Five
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Book One
The Puppet Master
‘Do not be afraid;
Our fate cannot be taken from us;
It is a gift.’
Dante
Life is a toy made of glass; it appears to be of inestimable price, but in reality it is very cheap.
Pietro Aretino
Prologue
Venice, Italy 1548
A whisper is as dangerous as a trumpet call, they say, and in Venice a whisper remains within the Republic - for eternity. It shifts amongst the wooden poles that hold our city afloat. It clings to the agued steps and laps its tongue against the wet stonework. Sssh, it says, speak nothing, only whisper. Whisper it into the ears of the fish and the carcasses of drowned men.
I didn’t discover the truth until many years later; it was a matter about which my father never spoke. But I knew he hated me for it, for the scandal that clung to his heels, the murmurings that faded, but never completely ceased. My mother was eighteen when she gave birth to me and eighteen when she died. A week between giving birth and losing life. She was found hanged, her chemise stained with afterbirth blood. Her feet were only a hand span from the floor, the window open, church bells effusive in their Easter welcome as her eyes stared open, the whites blood spotted, her body swinging slightly in the draft. Milk that should have fed her son oozed through the cotton chemise, making plate sized orbs, and around her left wrist there was a bruise, indigo, darkening to the colour of molasses.
This is what they told me.
This is what I believed.
The physician said my mother had suffered a brain fever; ‘milk fever,’ some call it, a temporary madness. She had been so troubled that she had committed self murder and alienated herself from God whilst bringing disgrace on the Gianetti house. They said that she had regarded suicide as a blessing, a release from pain.
But in my dreams I hear her choking, see her hands scrabble at the cord around her neck, watch her feet jiggle and shudder, doggy-paddling in dry air, her bladder loosening as she suffocated.
It was my fault. Had she never given birth she would not have killed herself. I was the worm in her belly, the wasp in her head; I was the cause - and my father reminded me of it every day of my life.
Chapter One
St Mark’s Basilica,
Venice, 1549
The rest of his relations with the great is mere
beggary and vulgar extortion.
(Burckhart, on Pietro Aretino)
He was walking splay-footed, his gait typical of an obese man, his arms swinging at his sides like the oars of a boat, churning up the hot air as he crossed St Marks. Pietro Aretino, mountebank, confidante of Titian, whoremonger, literary pornographer and known across Europe as ‘the Scourge of Kings.’ As he entered the church he sensed someone behind him and, dipping his porcine fingers into the Holy Water, turned.
“Signor Baptista,” Aretino greeted the man, making a flamboyant show of crossing himself. “I heard you were away in Florence.”
“It was a short visit.”
“To see your family?”
“My family is Florentine, yes. But I was there on another matter.”
Aretino glanced at Baptista’s side, his sword’s gilded pommel catching the light from the high windows above.
“Did you find use for your ‘friend’, Adamo?”
“My friend is seldom lazy for long.” He replied, his oval face perfectly composed, clean shaven, the sloe eyes unreadable.
Cunning bastard, Aretino thought, waddling to his seat as the choir began singing. Immediately Aretino’s gaze moved from Baptista to the young boy soloist, then his attention passed to a stern faced man in one of the front pews. Almost as though he was aware of being watched, Barent der Witt glanced up, curtly returning Aretino’s effusive bow of the head.
“You said you had news for me?” Aretino whispered to Baptista as they took they seats at the head of the congregation.
Knowing that he could be seen by seen by everyone, Aretino’s presence worked as a reminder to those who feared him, which numbered hundreds in Venice. Every lie, every secret, every insult, Aretino took care to hoard. He had made his own personal abacus of sin; rows of petty spites, their numbers increasing into slanders, crimes, depravity, even murder. Blackmail was his peculiar skill; holding knowledge that was so damaging - that a man, or woman – would pay to keep such matters quiet. With impunity he bled
the coffers of the nobility. And those of kings.
But now Aretino was adjusting his clothes, the damson red of his cape voluminous against the black garments beneath. It irked the writer that Baptista was so well muscled and lean; seemingly incapable of gaining poundage from the sweetmeats and the glacied fruits that Aretino ate so greedily. He was envious of his imperviousness to heat too; in the midst of a Venetian summer Baptista remained composed, his clothes never marked by sweat patches. The same sweat patches Aretino would struggle to conceal under layers of the finest linens from Egyptian merchants.
People might go in fear of Pietro Aretino, but Mother Nature remained unimpressed.
“You have news for me?” Aretino repeated. “Is it concerning the Dutchman being back in Venice?”
“No, this is not about der Witt.”
“Then whom?”
“Gilda Fasculo.”
Aretino shrugged his thick shoulders, his head almost touching Baptista’s otter sleek hair as he bent to reply. “Who is Gilda Fasculo?”
“A usurer in the Jewish Ghetto.”
Aretino blew out his lips, his eyes fixing on the priest for an instant before moving back to the solo choirboy. “Usury is forbidden in Venice.”
“She does not call it usury.”
“A cat is a cat if it meows.”
“Unless someone has taught it how to bark.”
Aretino laughed, a low sound, at the back of his throat. “A woman, you say?” He thought for a moment; the ghetto - which had been established in 1512 – had not initially interested him, but as the Jews had become more established Aretino was curious to know more about their legendary business acumen. “So have all the Jewish men suddenly become eunuchs to let some hag run their business?”
“Gilda Fasculo is very skilled and she has support.”
“Not from the Republic —”
“The Republic, signor, is as supple as a new whore.” Baptista replied.
“And this new whore, who are her protectors?”
“Her sons, Federico and Angelo—”
“Children!”
“Men in their twenties. Newly come from Florence with their mother...” Baptista’s voice rumbled underneath the singing of the choir, Aretino following every word as he continued. “... Their father died and they came here – to the ghetto - for sanctuary.”
“Was the father a usurer?”
“A merchant who died suddenly —”
“And left his family penniless?”
“He owed money and goods, that was why they fled Florence to escape their creditors.”
Aretino tapped Baptista’s knee; an action his knew the younger man detested. “And you, my dear Adamo, do you know who these creditors are?”
“I believe I do.”
“And I believe you do.” Aretino replied. “And naturally these poor creditors would be grateful to know where – and from whom - their money and goods might be recovered. Of course, if the lady – this Guida Fasculo - is so adept with money there’s a possibility I might make an allowance. Forget my duty to the state in return for a little commission. After all, this poor family should be granted a new beginning.”
Baptista shifted his position in the pew, brushing away Aretino’s hand. But his dislike of the pederast was superseded by his liking of being Aretino’s closest ally and spy. Besides, he was vaccinated against the writer’s spite because of his usefulness; Aretino might hope to control him, but he was never sure of Baptista’s loyalty, aware that the Florentine’s skills might be employed elsewhere by a higher bidder.
“Perhaps I should speak with the lady?”
Aretino’s eyebrows rose. “But not in the presence of her sons.”
“No, a meeting alone would be better for all us.” Baptista replied, inclining his head and sliding out of the pew.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Aretino said softly, gripping the man’s wrist with one beefy hand. “Find out why the Dutchman’s back in Venice. I don’t trust that dour apothecary.”
Chapter Two
Venice had been the greatest trading power on the globe, their wealth accumulated by Venetians merchants who took advantages of the Crusades to increase their precedence. Politically adept, the Crusaders were persuaded to overthrow rivals merchants in Constantinople, and, as a reward for this ruthless attack, they were granted transportation to the Middle East and the Arab Empire.
The Venetians’ wealth escalated, but their monopoly did not hold and when the Portuguese discovered the riches of the Indies the Venetians lost their stranglehold on the spice trade. And so the Republic’s days of magnificence as a trading nation were curtailed, but the ever resourceful Venetians soon expanded their other methods of money making. Chemical industries were established to produce sugar and scented soap and despite the fame of Florence’s silk trade, during the sixteenth century Venice’s production increased six fold, together with their own manufacture of textiles. Developing secret – and infamous - methods of dyeing, the Republic’s fame grew, especially as it was accompanied by the famed glass makers in Murano.
Yet for all the skilful advances in industry and despite their continued – if limited – overseas trade, the Venetians developed a reputation for opulence and brilliance. In a matter of a few years the shift had taken place and the Republic had compensated for their losses in goods, by asserting their supremacy in art.
Culture was the preferred trade. By the early sixteenth century Venice was famed for its books and printing works, Hebrew tomes published and distributed across Europe, some to the very places where the Jews had been forced to leave. Accepting their loss of power as a marine nation, Venice flourished in alternative ways, the government lifting the ban on theatre. Actors and musicians were suddenly free to perform for the nobility, and charge for their amusements, and before long patrons invested in plays and musical displays.
And, as ever, sex was a commodity, as valuable as spices or gold thread. Having always flourished in a city that enjoyed the flesh, the whores fell into distinct categories. The common street walker; the kept mistress of a merchant; and the upper echelon of the cultured whores. The women who counted musical talent, artistic appreciation and a brilliant wit as sidepieces to the banquet of their sexuality.
With the lavish and demanding appetite for beauty came the genius. Titian was already famed in Venice - as had been the Bellini brothers before him - but the younger painters were sensing an opportunity, and with that opportunity came the clash of the giants.
*
House of Tintoretto
‘Fondamnta dei mon’
The torchlight reflected obliquely off the water as Tintoretto pulled the door closed behind him and glanced down the side of the canal. He could smell the Adriatic, its sting of ozone strong, but better that than the stagnant water in the long summer swamp months. Raising the rush light higher he moved towards the bridge as the evening mist made curls against the stonework, the damp air creating an aureole around the torch. He was relieved that it was so quiet, long before Venice had warmed up, the sulky fogs reluctant to let go and keeping people indoors.
Above his head, coming from an apartment high up, he heard a sigh of music. Tintoretto didn’t know what kind of music, fancied that it came from a lyre, but wasn’t sure. He didn’t really have time for music or the pleasures of Venice. And he knew that he would never be a favourite with the Doge or flattered in court circles. The nobility might one day favour him, but only by proxy, due to his having once been Titian’s student. Titian’s temporary student.
Tintoretto paused, listened, then crossed the bridge and headed for the hospital, taking a short cut to the back entrance. A woman glanced at him curiously as he passed, Tintoretto making a muted greeting and hurrying on.
“I was wondering if you were coming,” a weary voice said as Tintoretto pushed open the double doors, the wood warped, riven with graffiti. “You are so very late.”
“I forgot the time, caro dottore” the artist replied, placing h
is rush light into an empty wall bracket and glancing at the doctor.
His face was as dark as a mole’s, engrained over eighty hot Venetian summers, his cheeks concave, his eyes drooping behind black rimmed glasses. Although dressed sombrely, he sported a ruff in the Spanish style, the white speckled with flecks of dried leaves, heavily scented with sandalwood. It was a legacy of the plague: when doctors had worn nosegays and masks to prevent infection – and in a vain hope of killing some of the stench.
“Medico Norillo,” the artist began, keen to continue. “I have something for you —”
“In return for something from me?”
Tintoretto wasn’t certain what the old man meant, and continued. “ – I have the frame for the portrait of your wife.”
“Which is not the same as money.”
“You asked for a portrait!” Tintoretto replied, infuriated. He had known the old doctor for many years, but his increase in prestige made no impact on Norillo.
“But a portrait is not lira, is not a bag of gold.”
“You will not be disappointed.” Tintoretto replied, abashed.
“I am already disappointed. My life is a continual parade of disappointments.” the doctor replied, taking hold of Tintoretto’s rush light and passing it to him. “Come on, come with me. Come on!”
Moving behind the old man, Tintoretto replayed the conversation in his mind. Was the doctor teasing him? Was he serious? Was he disappointed?... Tintoretto found himself floundering – a feeling that was familiar to him and had been all his life. As usual, he was unable to decipher the doctor’s real mood. He cursed his own stupidity, thinking of Titian and how he and his cronies were so socially adept, so skilful at reading between the words and picking out the kernel of truth.
Following the doctor, Tintoretto’s thoughts returned to the past, to the time of his apprenticeship. His father, although not an artistic man, had noted his son’s talent and taken him to see Titian, the greatest painter in Venice. They had hurried through the Venetian streets, over camel-humped bridges and steaming summer canals until finally they reached an impressive villa in the Cannaregio district of the lagoon.