The Wolves of Venice Read online

  “Ciao? Come va? Aspetta un attimo.” A voice called out, a man opening the door seconds later. He was eating an apple, his eyebrows rising as he looked at Marina. “You are come to see Signora Zucca?”

  Surprised, she nodded. “Si.”

  “You are very small.”

  “What?”

  “And a woman. Can a woman really handle and shoe a horse of such size?”

  Marina shook her head. “No, I’m not here about a horse!” She looked round, wondering if she should leave, then hurried on. “I wish to see Signora Zucca on a private matter.”

  He bit into the apple again, tilting his head to one side. “I see, well you better come in.”

  Nodding she followed the young man, the gloomy daylight replaced by dark narrow corridor which lead to a vaulted, curtained and candlelit interior where a fire smoked listlessly in a brass grate. Dirty plates and glasses were abandoned about the room, some disguarded on pieces of ebony furniture, a painted harpsichord by the window and a velvet shawl Marina recognised thrown over the carcass of a cooked chicken.

  “Forgive this mess, there was a party here last night.” A woman said behind her, Marina turning. “Oh, Signora Castilano! Did I order something and forget to collect it?”

  Marina smiled apologetically.

  “No, not at all. This has nothing to do with the shop. And I apologise for arriving uninvited, Signora Zucca, but it is important that I speak with you.”

  The young man was still leaning against the harpsichord, eating his apple, his eyes fixed on their unexpected visitor.

  “Alone…” Marina blundered on, glancing at him.

  “Oh, very well.” he said idly, tossing the apple core into the grate and moving into the back of the house.

  Marina waited for a moment, wondering if she had made a foolish decision that she might well come to regret. Caterina Zucca was a known courtesan, and although she frequented Marina’s shop it was quite another matter for a respectable matron to visit the home of a kept woman.

  Uncomfortable, Marina hesitated, studying the handsome blonde standing in front of her. “This is a matter of some delicacy.”

  “I am an expert in dealing with matters of delicacy,” Caterina replied lightly, gesturing for her visitor to sit down. Without making a comment, she then pushed aside the shawl, and the cooked chicken, and took a seat beside her. “Go on, please.”

  “It’s difficult to know where to start.”

  “The beginning, perhaps?”

  Marina nodded. “Perhaps you remember a maid we had at the shop?”

  Interested, Caterina leaned forward in her seat. “Gabriella?”

  “Si, Gabriella!” Marina agreed, footsteps overhead making her pause.

  “It’s only my son, don’t worry.”

  “That was your son?”

  In reply Caterina picked up a candlestick and held the flame near to her face to illuminate her skin. Immediately the fine lines and wrinkles became apparent. “Candlelight is very forgiving - from a distance.” She smiled. “Personally I seldom go out in daylight, so cruel to a face that is no longer young.”

  “Yet you are still beautiful.”

  Caterina laughed. “I am a skilful and an amusing companion. I believe my cerebral wit will long outlive my bodily wiles.” She put down the candle on the table beside them and turned back to her guest. “I heard a rumour that Gabriella was missing.”

  Marina nodded. “She has been missing five days now. We don’t know where she’s gone, or why. When she was at the shop she seemed happy. She never said she wasn’t content…” Marina trailed off, staring at Caterina’s face, her instinct heightened. “How did you hear that Gabriella was missing?”

  “Venice has few secrets.”

  “Forgive me, but that’s something of a surprise. Gabriella Russo was a maid, she had no family, and in all the months she was with us she has few visitors at the shop. And yet apparently her absence has been noted by people such as yourself.” Marina paused, feeling her way along. “I wonder why it would be of interest to you, Signora Zucca?”

  “Or you.”

  “She was my maid.”

  “And you seem very concerned about a maid. Almost afraid, if you don’t mind my saying.” Caterina replied, “Have you reported her absence to the authorities?”

  Marina made a clicking sound with her tongue. “The authorities! No, I haven’t reported it to the authorities. It would be a useless exercise. Who would care for a missing maid?”

  “You do.” Caterina replied, curious to know more. “Which means that Gabriella meant something to you. Or her disappearance does.” She could see Marina flinch and pressed on. “Please confide in me. You have chosen to talk to me, so there is little reason to hold back anything, Signora Castilano, I am well used to keeping secrets.”

  Marina’s hesitation was brief.

  “Do you know the Dutchman, Barent der Witt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “I know him intimately,” Caterina replied, amused to see the shopkeeper blush. “But I also know him as a friend.”

  “I’ve heard strange things about him. Of course everyone knows he’s an apothecary, but some say he makes cures and others say poisons.” Marina was uncomfortable. If the Inquisition discovered she was even talking about such things she would be watched, perhaps interrogated... The room was closing about her, the scented candles overwhelming as she gripped the bag on her lap. “Der Witt came to my shop and asked about Gabriella. He said she was afraid of something and he had wanted to help her. He seemed frightened.”

  Caterina leaned back in her seat, her arms folded. She was suspicious and took no care to disguise the fact.

  “May I ask why you are really here, Signora Castilano?

  “I am here about Gabriella!”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I? My interest is genuine. Forgive me for troubling you, Signora.”

  Angered, Marina stood up to leave, Caterina catching hold of her wrist.

  “Excuse me for doubting you, but I am wary. It pays to be so in Venice. Gossip can cause tragedy, or so I’ve found. Yes, I know the Dutchman, as I say, we are old friends. And yes, he also asked me about Gabriella. He said he had failed her.”

  “How had he failed her?”

  “They were due to meet and she was going to tell him something, but the meeting never took place. He never saw Gabriella again.” She watched Marina retake her seat, noticing how she gripped the bag on her bag. “It tortures him that he let her down… He thinks she is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Caterina nodded. “He visits the morgue every day to look for her body. I try to convince him that Gabriella could still be alive, that she could simply return after some indiscreet dalliance with a man. But Der Witt is sure she is dead.” Caterina could see Marina pale. “Are you ill?”

  She shook her head, then reached into her bag and pulled out a package wrapped in a soft cloth. After pausing for a moment, she passed it to Caterina, watching as she opened it.

  “Dear God…” she said, turning over the shoes and seeing the dried blood on the soles. “Are these Gabriella’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I remember them well. She replaced the pink ribbons for pale blue ones... I found them in my shop, hidden amongst all the other shoes I store there.” Marina replied, whispering. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “If she was hurt, surely Gabriella would have come to us for help. Or gone to the hospital. We would have known she was injured. But if she was… if she was killed, who hid the shoes? She can’t have done. It would not be humanly possible.” Marina glanced around, her voice faltering. “So who killed her? And who came into my shop and hid the shoes after her death? And why?”

  ‘You must be careful…

  I wasn’t careful’


  She was crying quietly, looking around her.

  Rich clothes over her arms, the gilt buttons of a tunic catching the sunlight.

  ‘There are four of them. The Wolves of Venice.’

  Looking round, listening

  Ready to move on

  ‘Four . You hear me?

  Four . Don’t let them tell you less’.

  In silence, Caterina re-wrapped the shoes then repeated, word for word, what Gabriella had told her.

  Marina stared at her. “But what does it mean? Wolves of Venice?” she said, unnerved. “What was she talking about?”

  “I don’t know. And I’ve told no one about it other than Barent der Witt - and now you.”

  Marina stared at the parcel in Caterina’s hands. “Only you know about the shoes.”

  “Good.” Caterina said crisply. “Signora Castilano, no one else must know about any of this...”

  She noticed the shopkeeper flinch.

  “… you’ve told someone?”

  “No, but when der Witt came to my shop he asked me about Pietro Aretino and Adamo Baptista, just before he asked about Gabriella. I kept wondering why. And now I’m wondering how much they knew; if they’re involved in some way...I asked der Witt, but he wouldn’t say anymore.”

  *

  Caterina looked away, remembering. Adamo Baptista. Yes, she knew him. She had been hired by him as a courtesan, asked to remain dressed but to lift her skirts and walk around the room in front of him, her genitals exposed. Amused, she had done so, smiling. But he had reacted with irritation, instructing her to remain silent, her expression blank. After a little while of her parading he had suddenly uttered a loud whistle. Curious, Caterina had wondered if he wanted her to act like a dog – such play acting was not unknown to her - but instead the door of Baptista’s study had opened and the exotic Nikolas Volt had entered.

  The youth had walked over to Baptista, allowing the older man to whisper in his ear. Nodding, Volt then moved to Caterina and kneeled down, instructing her to ride him like a horse. Well used to the sexual proclivities of men, Caterina obeyed, Baptista taking out a small, ivory handled whip. At first she had thought it was for her to use on Volt. Nothing too perverse, nothing too unusual, nothing she had not done before. But instead Baptista had taken off his own doublet and began to flagellate himself, coming to a climax as he whipped his back and shoulders, his impenetrable gaze never leaving Caterina’s face.

  When he had finished, Baptista had dismissed Volt and handed her a purse of money. An ornate, black mesh purse, tightly woven. A purse she had emptied of its contents and then thrown into the Lagoon, watching as it had twisted and writhed, jerking on the tide before finally descending like a dead bird.

  “You must be very careful,” she said, looking intently into Marina’s face. “And you must say nothing to either of those men about this. Not one word.” she pressed the shoes into Marina’s hands. “Take these and destroy them —”

  “But they might be important!”

  “To whom? To Gabriella?” Caterina waved the suggestion aside. “She needs them no longer. If she does, she will return for them. But I doubt it. You – and I – must pretend ignorance. The maid is missing, we know no more.”

  “But she confided in you —”

  “Yes, and I wish she had not!” Caterina said bluntly. “I have had enough trouble in my life not to want more. Listen carefully to me, please. Avoid Aretino and Baptista. They are wolves. I’ve thought about what Gabriella said to me many times and I think she was referring to them when she spoke about The Wolves of Venice.”

  Marina frowned. “But she said there were four. ‘Four, don’t let them tell you less...’”

  “All the more reason for us to forget everything we have seen or heard. Two wolves are dangerous, four would be lethal.” She dropped her voice. “Men like that come on the tide to scavenge. Aretino is clever and ruthless, but beware Baptista. For all of Aretino’s reputation, the Florentine is the more dangerous of the two. Aretino fears a loss of power. Baptista fears nothing.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Venetian noble women were virtual prisoners, kept in clausura, their homes – however sumptuous - their gaols. Their identity was dictated by their male relatives; a woman was a mother, a wife, a daughter, even short undertakings outside the home watched and restricted. If a woman travelled in Venice, she travelled by private gondola to attend church or social events, always chaperoned and always heavily veiled. So confining was their existence that unless they had female relatives they could soon find themselves trapped in a male orientated world that had little time, or interest, in the female life.

  A woman’s duty was to domestically manage her family and her home, which she left infrequently. Her outfits were extravagant, gloriously detailed, often imported, her jewels magnificently rich. Her home was also extravagant; decorated with Turkish carpets, Italian marble, French fabrics and a plethora of Dutch still lives, in the newest fashion. Hog-tied in luxury, many Venetian noble women relished their existence; others rebelled, envying the freedom of the whores.

  The very whores who could walk about Venice alone. Dressed exquisitely, they were on a par with the noblewomen, except for the fact that they were free. A courtesan with beauty, wit and learning could enchant the most influential minds in Venice. These were no slatternly whores, but elegant women debating with scholars and academicians, their salons attended by the richest men in Venice.

  Barent der Witt had access to noblewomen and courtesans. Although against the laws of the Republic he undertook abortions, unwanted foetuses left to the crabs at the bottom of the Lagoon. His secret entree to the highest in society had been forged by apothecary skills imported from the lowlands of Holland. Exiled from Amsterdam, der Witt had found a niche in the island city and a number of noblewomen had sought out his services via their maids.

  “Signor der Witt?” He turned at the voice, tipping his black hat to the slight figure approaching him. He knew the girl, delicate, with red hair and skin the colour of sea ivory. A maid who worked for one of Venice’s most neurotic Contessas and also for Caterina Zucca. Something he knew Paolo kept secret. A maid who worked for a Contessa and a whore? Che scandalo...

  “My mistress would ask a favour of you.”

  A favour. The word often used. And abused.

  “What favour would that be, Paola Larioni?” he asked.

  “The Contessa requests a little of your tincture. The tincture you gave to her last week.”

  “Surely she cannot need more so soon?” he asked, taking off his hat and feeling the damp mist settle on his hair. “I cannot —”

  She smiled, heart shaped face surrounded by the blazing hair. Not beautiful, but sweetly appealing. “The Contessa insists.”

  “The Dutchman refuses,” he replied, his tone brusque as he moved away from her.

  She ran after him. “Please, signor, my mistress is suffering.”

  “No, Paola, she is not suffering.” He stopped walking and looked at her. “The glass workers are suffering in crowded rooms, in dim light, in heat that would suffocate a bull. They do not have workbenches, but create their marvels sitting on the floor, their backs bent over double. In winter these women appreciate the warmth that the glass making affords them. In summer, they sweat with the inescapable heat, their skin breaking out in sores.” Sighing, he turned his hat around in his large hands, a habit he had brought with him from Amsterdam. “No, your mistress does not suffer… Tell her I will come to see her in a few days.” He touched the girl’s shoulder briefly. “And you. Are you recovered?...”

  She nodded, flushed.

  “… Call by to see me again soon, Paola, I will give you something the Dutch whores use to prevent pregnancy. Sometimes that works well. But being careful works better.” He turned to move away, then turned back to her. “Your mistress uses the Castilano shop, does she not?”

  “Often. There are always new clothes and fashions coming into Venice” Paola’s face dimpled
with amusement. “and she is very vain.”

  “And you always go with her to the shop?”

  “Of course. The Contessa cannot go alone.”

  He hesitated for a moment: “Do you know the maid who works at the Castilano shop? A girl called Gabriella?”

  Paola thought a moment longer, then shook her head. “No. I never saw a maid there. There was never one in the shop. Perhaps in the house behind... Is it important?”

  “No, no. It is of no consequence, it counts for nothing.” Der Witt replied, preparing to move away. “Remember to visit me, Paola. Do not forget.”

  The girl watched him go, wondering how she would communicate his refusal - and how much her mistress would then rail at her. Without the tincture the Contessa would feign illness, lie down in her bedchamber and Paola would have to bathe her feet, massaging the hooked toes until her mistress’s breathing altered and she fell asleep.

  Paola was still watching the Dutchman as he crossed the bridge, heading for... Where she could not guess, but rumours about his dealings always accompanied him. Like the glass vial around his neck; the hair bracelet, and the U shaped mark on the inside of his elbow which Paola had glimpsed once when his sleeve had been rolled up. People also gossiped about garden he had created seemingly overnight. Rows of potent herbs, low growing fruit and pungently scented flowers unlike any seen in Venice before. He would – so the story went – pick the blossoms at night and take them back into his house, the house which always had its shutters closed.

  Paola didn’t know if the Dutchman was a poisoner. If he had added to the Italian skills by bringing toxins from his homeland. She didn’t know if he was an occultist, although many claimed knowledge of it. She didn’t know if he was a killer, or if the Inquisition would follow on the heels of the rumours and seek him out. Paola Larioni only knew that in amongst his affluent clients the Dutchman treated the wretched; that as he entered the back gateways of the rich he also attended the dank dwellings of the sick: people to whom he showed kindness without seeking – or accepting - any reward.