by Gian Bordin
He hesitated and, when several waved to him, he answered: "I may see you later."
She watched him go toward the group and then suddenly veer away. Gaetano Salimbeni was among them, she noticed.
Taking a seat in the shade between two windows, she feigned being absorbed in her own thought, but listened intently to the discussion of three students in front of her. She wanted to profit of any possible source of learning. Their topic was the Roman law of inheritance. They were arguing whether uncles or even more remote ascendant relatives could inherit and their conclusion was ‘no’. So Niccolo was wrong when he claimed his father was the only one who could claim our property.
Suddenly, the talking in the room stopped and everybody rose, bowing respectfully to the white-haired man in a flowing black cloak who was standing at a raised lectern. Chiara copied the others and then studied the man carefully. She guessed that he was in his late fifties or early sixties. His posture was slightly bent. The high forehead seemed too large for his face. Two sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows scanned the assembly and briefly rested on her. It felt like they had penetrated her mind.
He invited the students to sit and immediately began his lecture, also dealing with the laws on inheritance. It took her a moment to realize that he spoke in Latin. She was thrilled and fascinated. Except for church Latin — and that had a rote character — she had never heard anybody speak the classical form fluently. His voice carried easily and he enunciated the words carefully. The development of his theme was precise. She admired its logical line of argumentation. How she would love to possess such mastery!
After the lecture, Stefano asked her to join his group. They discussed aspects of the lecture, but used the Tuscan vernacular. She was less than impressed by many of the comments, but this time wisely held her tongue. She did not want to get into an argument. Although she trusted herself to hold up the disguise while being a bystander, she feared that she might slip when getting into a heated argument.
* * *
Over the following weeks, Chiara was back in Via di Sapienza for the lectures of Professor Barbarigo. He completed his treatment of the Roman law on inheritance and its adaptations to modern times and then went on to discuss the law on contracts. One of the lectures covered legal redress by an aggrieved party for contesting the validity of a contract that had been obtained under false pretenses or duress. Did not her father sign the contract that ceded her rightful inheritance to Sanguanero based on their false allegations? At the end of Barbarigo’s lecture, as was his practice, he asked if there were any question. Since few were ever asked, he only briefly swept the audience, while putting his notes into an intricately embossed leather satchel. Secure in her confidence of her disguise by now, she rose and held up her hand. He did not see her and turned to leave the podium.
"With your permission, magister magnificentimus," she called out.
"Yes, honorable student, what is it you do not understand?"
"Esteemed Professor, a few weeks ago you covered the rights and obligations of heirs. In particular, you said that if heirs compiled a written inventory of the properties they inherited, then their contractual obligations toward creditors of the diseased could not exceed the value of their inheritance." She was thrilled by how well she mastered the Latin. It flowed effortlessly. "It seems to me that there is a corollary to this for contracts. Do heirs inherit the right to contest a contract signed by the diseased if they believe to have evidence that his signature was obtained under false pretenses or by coercion?"
His eyes lit up. "Ah, a highly pertinent question that straddles two different chapters of the law. What is your name?"
For a short moment, Chiara fought a panic when suddenly all eyes turned on her. "Anselmo Cavolta, esteemed Professor."
"Messer Cavolta, it is interesting that you have asked this question. It is an issue that has occupied me for some considerable time already, an issue that has gained much importance since the plague when so many people active in commerce died prematurely. Roman law says nothing on this subject, and there is no consensus among the legal fraternity yet. There are two main schools of thought."
He then went into a lengthy exposition about each. Practice up to recent times was that the heirs had no rights, since only the person who signed could contest a contract. However, a new school of thought favored that under certain conditions the right passed to the heirs. He concluded by saying: "As you can see, there are still a number of legal aspects that are in dispute which could fill several lectures on their own. So I will end it here. Messer Cavolta, if you wish to pursue this further, I invite you to seek a private appointment with me."
She rose again. "Thank you, esteemed Professor. May I ask another related question?"
"Certainly."
"Has the new school given any thought on limiting the time interval that may elapse between the signing of the contract and initiating legal action?"
"Ah, Messer Cavolta, that is another vexing issue which has raised much controversy but no firm conclusions either. In view of the hour, I think its discussion should be postponed to another time." His gaze returned to the audience in general. "Diligent auditors, this young novice has just asked two highly pertinent questions that will occupy legal minds for many years to come." He paused, briefly sweeping over the room. "It has been my experience that what sets a good lawyer apart from an average one is that the good lawyer knows to ask the right questions. Asking the right questions is causa sine qua non for advancing the truth. Providing the right answer to the wrong question, no matter how elegant the answer is, does not advance the cause." He turned back to her. "Messer Cavolta, keep it up and you will be successful."
He nodded to her and left the podium. She now hurried to make her own exit, but was thwarted by the other students who immediately surrounded her. Questions shot from all sides.
"Why did you ask these questions?"
"Are you in this position?"
"Do you want to contest a contract?"
"No," she answered. "I simply thought this was an interesting aspect that touched two different areas of the law."
"Brother Anselmo, it was very clever of you to ask these questions. I have never heard Professore Barbarigo praise a student like this before," remarked Stefano in a tone as if he had had a hand in it.
"Maybe our clever black frock knew that Barbarigo was studying this issue," Gaetano interjected.
"Oh, thank you, Gaetano, for pointing this out. What an ingenuous idea for ingratiating myself with our professors!" she replied laughing. "Can you recommend a good spy?"
"Eh Gaetano, you have met your match too," cried Stefano.
This sudden prominence made her uneasy. She felt the need to get away.
"Friends, I must leave. See you next week."
She hurried away, leaving a disappointed group behind. Part-way toward the Campo, Gaetano caught up with her.
"Ah, Anselmo, what’s the hurry."
She slowed her stride. "I promised to meet somebody."
"You must be pleased to be in the good book of Barbarigo."
"Why?"
"A word by him will open many doors."
"I prefer opening my own."
"Anselmo, I can’t make you out. Somehow, you don’t fit my ideas of a novice. Not only are you far too clever, but there is nothing of that silly piety about you. Frankly, if you ask me — "
"But I don’t!"
"I’ll tell you anyway. A clever fellow like you could have a great career as a lawyer with a merchant house like Casa Salimbeni."
"Is this an offer for a job?"
"No, but I wish I were as quick with my responses as you."
"Gaetano, didn’t you listen to what Professore Barbarigo extolled us to do?" she replied with a laugh. "It’s not the answer that’s important, but asking the right question." She was enjoying this banter.
"See, there you go again," he said, with a sigh. "But really, what attracts you to the Church?"
"Oh, isn’t it o
bvious? … The black frock."
He exploded laughing.
"Anselmo, I like you. Put in a good word for me with Barbarigo. I may need it. See you."
He turned toward Banchi di sopra, while she crossed the Campo. I like you too, said an inner voice. He had a light-hearted streak, nor did he seem to take himself that seriously or up himself, as many young nobles would. And besides, he was rather good-looking with beautiful dark brown eyes and a lush set of curls, not to speak of belonging to a rich family. Oh, forget it, Chiara! she admonished herself, as she walked on to Via delle Cerchia. But maybe she could learn a few things from him about how merchants work.
* * *
After the outing on the day of their first performance on the Campo, Antonia had never left the house again. Occasionally, she had visitors wanting to have the cards read. But Chiara observed that the spark had left her. She spoke little and when she did it was, more often than not, to complain about something or other. Her remarks had a bitter edge of sarcasm to it.
Chiara doubted that she would be capable of taking to the road again and worried what to do about her. She felt responsible. Alda shared her worries, but could not think of a solution, except the poor house. Chiara approached the abbess of the Convent of Dominican Nuns. When the latter heard that Antonia was an itinerant fortune teller, her manners turned distinctly hostile. Even Chiara’s offer to pay for Antonia failed to sway her. The abbess of the Ospedale di Santa Maria della Scale was more approachable, but Chiara had a bad conscience to even contemplate abandoning Antonia in this way.
She finally plucked up the courage to talk to Antonia when the latter seemed to be in a contented mood while enjoying the meager winter sun in her chair by the window.
"So you’re all scheming of how to get rid of me. I should have known that’s what you would do. I was good enough for you when my art brought people to the shows, but not anymore."
"Antonia, that’s not true. We’re all fond of you and worry about you."
"Yes, worried that I would be a burden. I know you lot. Washing your hands the moment there’s trouble."
"Antonia, you are unfair. I have always stood by you and you know it."
"Then prove it by taking me along when you leave."
"I would love nothing better than that, but it would kill you. You wouldn’t be able to sit on the donkey for hours or stand the rain and the cold. Whereas if you stayed with the sisters at Santa Maria, they would look after you and you could enjoy the last years of your life in peace. I’ll pay for you, so they will be good to you."
"I’m not staying with a bunch of frustrated spinsters who lick the arse of the bishop. You just want to get rid of me. I insist that you take me along. You owe me that. You wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t asked Lorenzo to take you."
No matter what arguments Chiara raised, the old woman was not budging, and Chiara gave up, hurt by the unjust accusations. The time of their likely departure was still two months off. She would try again another time and much could happen until then.
* * *
By the time lent came and the city slipped into abstinence and piety, they had settled into a relaxed routine of offering two private shows per week, including one to the wool weavers’ guild, although the take from that was only a fraction of the purses they collected from the noble houses. Alda claimed that the two months in Siena had netted them more than they had earned in several years under Lorenzo’s leadership.
Prevented from performing for the next forty days, Chiara began to sit into more lectures. She particularly enjoyed the ones on philosophy. The work of Aristotle had received renewed interest from the philosophers in universities, after having been forgotten and neglected for almost a thousand years. She was fascinated by the complex arguments about humanity, its relationship to the cosmos, things, both physical and abstract. After hearing the theories of Socrates, she was convinced of their truth, only to find them replaced by Plato’s and his by those of Aristotle. It confused her. If these great minds disagreed with each other, how could an ordinary woman like her make sense of it? Maybe there was no unique truth, but many truths, or if there was only one it was beyond man’s ability to discover it. Attending these lectures made her both happy and sad at the same time — sad that she could not share them with her father.
After one of them, she deliberately waited for Gaetano to leave his friends and then followed him. She wanted to milk him about business affairs.
"And how are your father’s affairs going?" she asked, as she joined him.
"Ah, Anselmo, have you changed your mind about serving God?"
"Does a merchant not also serve God by increasing his bounty?"
"Anselmo, you are such a slippery fellow; always answer a question with another question, and don’t remind me now that asking the right question is the most important thing."
"Fine, but tell me about business. How does a merchant go about it?"
"Buying goods where they are cheap and selling them where their price is high."
"Yes, even a simple servant of God like me can figure that out. But seriously, say, I have a thousand florins, how can I make them grow?"
"You could open a small shop, hire a few workers and produce wool cloth. A thousand florins would probably just be enough to buy a dozen looms and a house big enough to put them in, a few dozen pokes of wool, and pay a dozen workers until you can sell the bales of cloth to buy more wool and start over again. Or you could join a group of merchants who finance a shipload of goods for sale in, say, Constantinople, with the proceeds reinvested to buy another shipload of goods there to be brought back here. That’s much more profitable, but also much more risky."
"Do you mean risky in the sense that the ship could be lost at sea?"
"Yes, or fall prey to pirates, although several galleys usually go together for added protection."
"Is Casa Salimbeni involved in such business?"
"Sometimes, but mostly we only loan funds to other merchants for such ventures. A full shipload is easily worth ten to twenty thousand florins."
"But isn’t that equally risky for you?"
"We get guarantees. First, the loan agreement specifies that we get paid first from the sale of the goods and the merchant may even have to pledge other property, such as land and houses he owns, as guarantee. And then Casa Salimbeni never advances funds to somebody we do not know or for whom we don’t get testimonials from a reputable source."
"Is that similar to being a silent partner?"
"No, a silent partner does not secure the funds by getting guarantees."
"So, why would anybody want to be a silent partner?"
"Because he participates fully in the profits of the venture. Just his name is not officially listed as part of the group."
"I see. And who owns the galleys?"
"Siena merchants use mainly galleys run by Pisa."
"I thought that Casa Sanguanero owned ships. Aren’t they from Siena?"
"How do you know?"
"Oh, I overheard somebody talk about Signor Sanguanero having lost an eye in an attack by pirates."
"Yes, and he lost the other eye about two years ago when a girl they rescued off the coast from Porto Pisano stabbed him."
"You say they rescued her and she stabbed him? Why would she do that?"
They had reached the Campo and were standing in the meager winter sun.
Gaetano grinned. "I can only guess. Maybe he wanted to be paid in kind and she wasn’t willing to oblige and instead penetrated him in the eye, but then I should not mention things like this to a novice who has foresworn all such earthly pleasures." He clearly enjoyed himself.
Chiara smiled. "There are others we may indulge in without being hauled over the coals — gluttony, pride, conceit, sloth, laziness. But how do you know that he did not rape her and that she stabbed him in revenge?" She was just barely able to control her voice.
"Yes, that’s a thought, but we’ll never know. She jumped back into the sea, and I gues
s she drowned. Pity, she must have been quite a wench."
"Poor girl. Who runs Casa Sanguanero, now that the old man is blind?"
"His son, Niccolo Sanguanero, together with Filippo Baglione da Camerino, the husband of Niccolo’s sister, Lucia, but I guess Massimo Sanguanero still has a firm grip on things. Lucia is quite a beauty."
"So she is, I’ve been told. Do they still have ships?"
"Yes, but they are smaller, merchantmen, not galleys, and run mainly in the Western Mediterranean, to Sicily, and Spain, Valencia, Barcelona."
"These trips must take weeks."
"To Spain? About two to three months, depending on whether they also visit the Barbary Coast."
"And to Constantinople?"
"The Venetian galleys take about six months or more to return."
Didn’t Niccolo mention that the Venetian galleys leave in May? So they must only make one trip per year.
"Which cities are involved in the sea trade, besides Pisa and Venice?"
"Genova, they are almost as big as Venice. Pisa was big a hundred years ago, but no longer now. There are a few ships based in Naples, but again nothing compared to Venice or Genova. Why do you want to know all this?" queried Gaetano.
"Curiosity… One never knows. It could be useful to know."
"Anselmo, if you ever change your mind about your career, let me know. See you tomorrow."
* * *
The end of lent and Easter — early that year — came and went. Siena followed the Florentine calendar with the Annunciation on the 25th of March, the Church festival commemorating the incarnation of the Virgin Mary, as the beginning of a new year. The festive celebrations for the New Year were the occasion for I Magnifici to resume performing. The time to go again on the road was approaching fast.
Neither Chiara nor Alda had made any progress in convincing Antonia to remain in Siena. Chiara even offered to pay the rent on the house they stayed in and have a woman come in once a day to look after Antonia. The old woman was adamant that she was coming along with them.