They say Aretino attacked his mother and was forced to flee his birthplace. They say he was exiled from Rome for scurrilous libels and sordid writings. They say the Kings of France and England cosset him to quieten his pen. They say Aretino has many women in Venice. And more boys. And still the painter loves him.

Titian is growing a longer beard now, which suits his features. Wealthy, sleek but not cruel, he raises his hand in greeting to someone out of my line of sight. Aretino laughs with the painter then blunders off, his feet flat from the burden they carry, his hair cotton white at the crown.

Aretino does not know me. Would not have noticed me once over the years, though I have watched him avidly. His arrogance would dismiss me out of hand, his ambition would count me worthless. While he parades his talents, I hone mine. For it is a special talent to go unnoticed. An art to pass unseen, to be a watching, listening shadow. A vengeful, unexpected shade.

I have seen the influence Aretino has on the painter. I have watched the genius Titian take this cancer to his breast. He lets the writer speak and plead for him, flatter and cajole his patrons, travel overseas as his ambassador. And – he would have the world believe – Aretino does it all for nothing. In the name of friendship.

I know otherwise …

He will never realise how I await the opportunity to strike.

I know his weakness. For all his bombast, he looks to Titian as a cripple to a cross. The painter is his Saviour. His apologist. His ally. His womb of gold, his entrée to the elite, and the one true friend he will come to betray.

But for now Aretino has no premonitions. He has no intimation of his downfall, nor presentiment of doom. He walks likes a man loved and protected and never sees the shadow always one step behind him.

5

Venice

The tour guide was wondering why anyone, even a tourist, would want to visit Venice at the beginning of November. He certainly wouldn’t be coming back; he’d stick to working the London tours instead. Fuck Italy … Pulling the hood of the plastic raincoat over his head, he felt the seeping damp curling around the boat, the sick bobbing of the tide drubbing his insides. He would, he promised himself, get a brandy as soon as he had finished the last lap of the tour. Not that the passengers on the launch could see that much anyway. The high tide had brought in the sea mist and only brief glimpses of Venetian landmarks flickered intermittently in front of them, like a Victorian light box manned by a drunk.

Lurching over to one side of the launch, the guide righted himself and reached for his microphone again. Swallowing a queasy reflex, he started to talk.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your right you can see St Mark’s.’ He peered blankly into the mist and the passengers struggled to see anything. ‘Here are the famous lions of St Mark’s Square, and the famous …’

His lips were moving automatically, going through the drill he had perfected. He could do it in his sleep, he had told his wife; the patter was second nature now, he had said it so often. In fact, he admitted, he could peel off yards of tourist information without engaging his brain at all … You should see them lapping it all up, he said to her. Thinking they’re cultured … Cultured, my arse! They all piled back to the cruise ship quick enough afterwards, hustling their way to the 24-hour bars.

‘… and if you look in the distance – I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll have to take my word for it today – you can see the Lazzaretto Vecchio, the island where they used to put the plague victims. Recently they’ve dug up over two thousand bodies …’ A thrill went round the boat. ‘… About five hundred people a day used to die in Lazzaretto Vecchio. The Venetian chronicler Benedetti wrote, “Workers collected the dead and threw them in the graves all day … Often the dying ones were taken for dead and thrown on the piled corpses.”’ The guide paused automatically, to add some extra emphasis. ‘“Manotti – literally vultures – were hired sextons who carried the dead from the streets to the massive graves. By night, however, the manotti broke into homes, threatening to haul the healthy to the lazzaretto if their demands were not satisfied.”’

‘My God!’ someone said in a hushed whisper as the launch made its choppy progress, the guide continuing his patter.

‘Of course the Venetian courtesans were famed for their beauty and their learning. Titian – the great painter – immortalised many of them, including Veronica Franco. But although she had been a great beauty and a favourite of the nobility, she died in poverty.’

He paused again. Hell fire, the guide thought, it was getting even colder, and the mist was turning into a fog. He felt a momentary pity for the honeymoon couple on board. Then, watching them giggling, he reckoned that even a swamping fog could hardly put them off their stroke. Oh, what he’d do to be back in London, in bed with his wife. Their honeymoon had been a belter …

‘Titian’s beautiful models were famed for their colouring, hence Titian hair.’ He continued, then paused, waited for the nods of agreement, the sharing of a well-known fact. ‘But what most people don’t know is that at the time it was fashionable for women to wear—’

A sharp knock against the side of the launch made the vessel shudder and the guide grabbed the side of a seat to steady himself.

‘Jesus!’ a passenger said. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Looks like a package or something,’ another remarked, as the guide moved over to the side and looked down into the deep water.

Grasping the handrail, he leaned out. What was going on now? he thought irritably. Bloody hell, not trouble with the boat again? … The mist was obscuring his view, then – for an instant – it lessened and he strained forward to look deeper into the water. But he could see nothing. No debris, no dead birds, no wreckage and certainly nothing big enough to cause the boat to shudder. Leaning a little further out, he looked again, almost losing his grip as a bulky object suddenly lurched upwards with the current. Shaken, the guide stared, transfixed, as it turned slowly in the murky water just as the mist cleared. Then the woman’s body was momentarily illuminated in a spit of sunlight. Her skinned face glowered like a mad angel from the water, her body flayed from the neck down.

Seraphina Morgan – once Seraphina di Fattori – had been killed only a hundred yards from the apartment she had shared with her husband. She had died within the echo of the bells from St Mark’s, and within sight of Angelico Vespucci’s old home.

6

Grand Central Library, New York

Between Lexington and Third Avenue stands the New York Grand Central Library, as doughty and solid as a battleship. Through its corridors, stairways, reading rooms and storage, thousands of students, reluctant school kids, lecturers and professors have passed. Some have returned; others remember the building as they would school: to be avoided at all costs. But for many the New York Grand Central Library is comforting and endlessly fascinating, the lure of the books a sop to the hustle of the world outside, the pages a balm to the troubled mind.

Seated on his own at one of the smaller tables was Reginald Oscar Theodore Jones, known to all in the art world as Triumph Jones. The sobriquet would suggest a man of some hubris, in keeping with his ridiculously victorious reputation, but the keeper of the nickname was, in fact, a reserved, middle-aged, six-foot-tall African–American. Slender as a reed, bald as a sheet of glass, his face lean and intelligent, Triumph Jones was, at that moment, hunkered over the book he was studying intently. The loud crashing of a library cart against one of the nearby tables did not force an irritated look or a curt remark. His whole attention was fixed on the page to the extent that he jumped when touched lightly on the shoulder.