“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 But his dislike of the pederast was superseded by his liking of being Aretino’s closest ally and spy.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 his 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.