A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  She passed a group of bystanders listening to a Franciscan monk. It was a common enough sight. The city had more than its share of fanatical preachers. The monk was a short, overfed man. Fat rolls creased his neck; his plump hand moved through the air as he gestured. He stood with his arm around a young chorister, a boy of about twelve with the fresh, clean look of the country and the brown, untroubled eyes of a fawn. The monk paused to make the sign of the cross over the boy’s head. “Should the blood of an innocent child be spilled to satisfy the heretic Jew?”

  People had gathered around the monk. Encouraged by the crowd, he shouted, “Drive the heathen from our city as our Lord and Saviour drove the moneylenders from the temple.” He brushed back his brown hood, exposing a tonsured head. “You there, Sister,” he called to Hannah. “Would not our fair city be a paradise on earth without the Jewish pestilence?”

  How these fanatics caused Hannah’s blood to boil! One would think a lifetime of hearing such rantings would have made her indifferent, yet she wanted to call back, Ignorant pederast, you know nothing of Jews. She took a deep breath. Calmness, she counselled herself. This is my first test.

  A few dozen paces away stood a group of Jews, their red hats vivid amid the collection of sombre grey- and black-garbed people; the Jews glanced at the monk then walked swiftly toward the ghetto. She should ignore the monk’s question and continue to the docks. But would her conscience allow her to stand cravenly silent or, worse, pretend to agree with him?

  She wanted to yell over the murmurings of assent from the rabble, Does not your Bible teach you to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”? Is that not the Golden Rule? The keystone upon which your religion rests? How would you feel if I preached against the Franciscan order? Would you want to be driven from Venice? But she made a fist, held it to her mouth and bit down. Rise above the petty insults of the world, her father would have admonished. Her mission was to find Matteo. Nothing else mattered.

  The monk chuckled, warming to his theme. “We all know the rumours of Jews poisoning wells. The plague was their handiwork, as well. With their incantations and dark ways, they summoned the pestilence. And who has not heard the stories of Jews snatching Christian babies and draining their blood to make their ritual bread? The city fathers have offered protection to this viperous lot, but the sooner they are driven from the city, the safer we Christians will be.” The throng pressed closer to him. In spite of her disguise, Hannah began to feel fearful. What if someone recognized in her features the stamp of Jewish blood? I must not toss oil on a fire that is already burning out of control. I must remain silent.

  A few drops of rain began to fall. You want to drive the Jews from the city? Rumours of evildoing circulate with special vigour when the moneylenders ask for repayment of their loans. How much easier to banish a creditor than to pay him.

  One brave soul in the crowd, a carpenter from the look of his leather apron and tool belt, called out, “ ‘Tis a cowardly thing to level accusations at a poor and defenceless people.” There was an angry rumble. A few men bent down to pry up cobbles from the street.

  Hannah felt like rushing over to the carpenter and throwing her arms around him. At least there was one virtuous gentile in the crowd.

  “Poor and defenceless?” the monk asked. “The Jews are the richest of us all.”

  A stone hit the carpenter on the forehead. He strode off, his broad back soon lost in the mob. If she opened her mouth, Hannah would be their next target. She gathered up the skirts of her habit and hurried on. The monk called out to her, “What convent are you from, Sister? Come back. You have a comely face.”

  Turning away, Hannah moved on through the throng, mouth dry, her cheeks burning with rage and self-reproach. How she wanted to run, but she could not without attracting attention. She had not succumbed to the temptation of shouting at the monk; she had managed to keep quiet. This should have been a source of pride. But she had for years listened passively to hateful diatribes against the Jews. Now she wore a nun’s habit, a shield from which she could voice her objections. Yet still she had not spoken out. She grew hot with shame. She knew she would relive this feeling of guilt many times before she could forgive herself.

  From a distance Hannah glimpsed the di Padovani palazzo on the Grand Canal. It looked sad and neglected. The last time she had seen it the window glass sparkled and the stone facade had shone in the sunlight. Now no sleek black gondola was tied to the dock. The mooring posts, paint peeling, stood leaning toward each other for mutual support, like drunkards returning home from a tavern. But glass and stone facades and mooring posts could be repaired. This was Matteo’s legacy—a grand palazzo and the life of a nobleman.

  Hannah hurried on amid the sounds of halyards rattling against masts and the shouts of porters loading cargo. The smell of fish and seaweed grew stronger. At the wharf she found a boatman—an old man in a blue cap, with a mangy cat at his feet—who was loading a number of passengers onto his barge, about to cast off for the Brenta River. He tossed her valise into his wide-bottomed boat. Clutching her robes in one hand, Hannah climbed in, trying not to trip over the crates of turnips, cauliflower and beets lining the gunwales. She took a seat next to a large man with a silver-headed cane—a man far too well dressed to be travelling on this modest barge.

  Soon they were in the middle of the lagoon, the domes of San Marco growing smaller in the distance. At another time Hannah might have enjoyed the ride, but she was still shaking from her encounter with the monk. She sat gripping the side of the barge with both hands, tense with impatience to see her son. Her valise lay slumped on the bench next to her, where she’d placed it to keep it out of the water sloshing in the bottom. Inside the valise was a small, wooden sailboat with two masts, which Isaac had carved for Matteo when he was a baby.

  The boatman rowed from San Marco through the lagoon to Fusina, the first town on the Brenta; then he put up his oars and sturdy canal ponies took over the task of pulling the boat. The canal had a number of locks that raised and lowered the water so boats could pass. Each one had a small dwelling to shelter the lock keeper, who was obliged to be available at all times.

  Hannah fidgeted on the hard seat of the boat, her growing belly making her uncomfortable. She wanted to shift her seat from the sunny part of the boat to the shaded, but she could not rise to her feet with ease. Her hand tightened on the gunwale. Suddenly she felt unwell. A feeling of heat and then cold passed over her. She bent low, clutching her belly. The pain was like her monthly pains. Like the cramping she had felt when she suffered the miscarriage. This child must remain nestled inside the sturdy cage of her ribs and sharing bones. This baby must emerge—plump and pink and shaking tiny fists at the world, staring at her with Isaac’s black eyes and finding her satisfactory. The man next to her, noticing her distress, handed her a mug of water. Hannah nodded gratefully. She stroked her belly. Her muscles relaxed. I will tell you when it is time, my child. We have many more weeks together, you and I.

  If one is tired enough, one can sleep anywhere, even sitting upright on a boat, jammed between a large, well-dressed man on one side and a burlap bag overflowing with beets from Burano on the other. As Hannah dozed, gratefully aware of the baby moving within her, she heard a groan from the man next to her. He rocked back and forth, clutching his hand to his chest, moaning in pain.

  She wondered again why this prosperous-looking man was travelling in this uncomfortable barge when there were elegant burchielli to transport the wealthy back and forth on the Brenta. She was a little in awe of him. With his finely tailored waistcoat and jacket, he was clearly a man of importance, but he did not seem to be one of those haughty gentiles covered in velvet flounces and smelling of roasted meats and Malvasia wine.

  “Your hand is troubling you, sir?”

  He looked up at her—a leonine head of white hair and a face drawn with pain. “I was helping one of my masons position a stone lintel. Like a fool, I managed to smash my hand between lintel and jamb
shaft. My fingers have throbbed like the devil ever since.”

  “May I see it? I have knowledge of simple remedies.”

  Mutely, he held out his hand.

  Three of his fingers were swollen and red, the skin broken, the wound suppurating yellow pus. Gently Hannah moved the fingers back and forth. No bones broken, it seemed. “I will do what I can, sir, but you will not thank me for the discomfort I will cause. Left untreated, however, the wound will cause more mischief and your hand will never heal.”

  “You cannot make me feel any worse than I do now.”

  “Hold your hand over the side, sir. Let the water cleanse it.”

  He dangled his hand over the gunwale, creating a small wake alongside the boat. “I warn you I am a poor patient. The slightest pain sends me roaring in agony.”

  “The cold water will numb it.” Men could not tolerate pain, even vigorous, healthy ones like this man. It was clear why God had given the task of birthing children to women.

  Hannah took a pouch of salt from her linen bag and sprinkled some into the mug of water she had been drinking from. With her finger she swirled the salt around until it dissolved. She leaned over toward the man. “Place your fingers in here. It will sting, but the salt will drive out the poisons.”

  “Grazie mille,” he said, grimacing as the salt bit into his wound. “I should introduce myself, Sister. I am Andrea Palladio.”

  “I am Ha—Sister Benedicta.” His name meant nothing to her, although he said it in a way that suggested she should recognize it. “Do not thank me too soon. The worst is yet to come.”

  She opened her valise, picked up her linen bag and removed a sewing needle.

  “I shall distract myself by looking at the scenery, studying the lovely villas with their graceful willows arching into the water. Very soon the most beautiful of these villas will be mine.”

  Hannah took his hand in hers. It felt like the paw of a lion’s, rough and covered with wiry hair on the top of his fingers. Her needle was still threaded with the black silk she had used to sew her habit. “I will stitch the edges of the wound together then bind it tightly. You must keep it clean and dry for several weeks until it is healed.”

  He groaned but did not struggle. Soon the task was done. In the bottom of the bag was a round tin. She fished it out and pried off the top. The smell of pine pitch and coltsfoot drifted in the air. After covering his wound liberally with the black salve, she bound his hand in a clean square of cloth from her bag. “There you are. If we had been on dry land, I might have made a neater job of it, but this will have to do.”

  Palladio said, “You have a gentle touch. I am grateful.”

  They settled back on the bench of the barge and soon he was asleep, his elbow propped on his knee, his hand resting lightly on his cheek. Most encounters with gentiles made Hannah anxious, but this one with Palladio did not. He had a calm, reassuring demeanour.

  At last, on the third day, just as the shadows of dusk were lengthening, she was awakened from her doze by the bargeman shaking her. “Here is the Villa di Padovani, Sister. The finest in the district.”

  The barge bumped against the dock. Seated next to her, Palladio dozed.

  Hannah glanced up the lawn to the dwelling. This neglected edifice was not the fine villa she had expected. The facade was streaked green with algae. The horseshoe-shaped arches were in need of repointing. Once cristallo must have sparkled in the windows, but now many of the windows were as empty as the eye sockets of a blind man. Rubble lay scattered on the ground, covered with weeds and vines.

  The boatman, who must have noticed her expression, said, “It’s fallen on hard times. But it was the most magnificent estate on the river when the Conte was alive. And the largest. Twenty or so tenant farms, hundreds of hectares of land, dozens of outbuildings, barns and stables.”

  The main entranceway to the house faced the Brenta and was close enough to the canal that anyone in a boat could be seen. Which meant she might be able to see inside the villa from the boat. Hannah scrutinized the windows, looking for any signs of life. A tall, stooped figure seemed to pass inside, but she could not be certain.

  Voices floated from a distant field, an indistinct mumble. Gleaners, perhaps, bringing in the winter wheat. Doves circled overhead, cooing to one another. She had forgotten how sounds carried in the country, unmuffled by the clatter and jostling of carts and people.

  Surprise would be her greatest ally. Foscari and Cesca would be watching for her. She did not want to knock on the door and confront them. She was alone. They would have servants standing by if she caused difficulties. She had no idea what condition Matteo was in. If Isaac was right and their son was in perfect health, she could steal in when night fell and take him away on the next boat back to Venice. If he was ill, she did not know what she would do. “Please let me disembark farther along the shore. I want to surprise my cousin.”

  “As you wish,” the boatman said.

  They floated along for another few minutes until they were well past the villa. The boatman pulled ashore, took her valise and helped her out. Solid ground. How lovely. She resisted the desire to fall to her knees and kiss it as she had when she and Assunta arrived in Venice.

  The boatman stood in front of her, his head bowed. Hannah rummaged in her bag for a coin. She smiled at him and pressed a five scudo piece into his hand. “Thank you for your services.”

  He continued to stand there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he said, “Your blessing, if you please.”

  Of course. “‘In nomine patris et filii…’ ” Hannah placed her hands on his head and intoned the prayer that Assunta had taught her. “Go in peace,” she said, feeling as fraudulent as a conjurer at a fair.

  He nodded. “Thank you, Sorella.” He climbed back into his boat and cast off.

  Hannah walked up the towpath, carrying her valise, grateful the sun was setting. She paused for a moment to study the ruin several hundred metres away. Somewhere in that vastness was Matteo. What would Isaac do in such circumstances? He would be stealthy, remain calm, reveal nothing, gather information, then act.

  And so would she.

  CHAPTER 14

  Villa di Padovani,

  San Lorenzo, the Veneto

  HANNAH WOULD NOT change out of her habit and into her blue cioppà and shawl. Soon it would be dark. Her black habit would render her invisible, allowing her to sneak into the villa, find Matteo and abscond with him, a will-o’-the-wisp with a small boy tucked under its wing.

  But if he was ill, how could she take an ailing, fretful child on a journey of three days back to Venice? She would need a place to hide—a nearby farmhouse, perhaps—where she could nurse him back to health. Unless God had forsaken her, as He had every right to, He would provide. Hannah walked up the bank of the canal to a stand of arching willow trees well concealed from the villa. She lay down, feeling as vulnerable as a small bird, ready to take flight at the sound of a twig breaking on the footpath. The long trip had exhausted her. She dozed, using her valise as a pillow, for once grateful for the warmth of her habit. When she awoke an hour later, startled by the hoot of an owl, the countryside was bathed in moonlight. From the Brenta came the shuffling of the canal ponies’ restless hooves and the animals’ gentle snorting.

  Hannah stood and stretched, considering what to do. The moon was full, or nearly so. She walked around the villa. At the back was an uneven pathway with a plank thrown over a muddy, mosquito-ridden ditch. It led to a set of makeshift steps. Balancing on a tippy board, trying not to look down into the effluvia flowing underneath, she proceeded across, trying to imagine the elegant Contessa, with her ermine cloaks and velvet dresses, living in such an unhealthy place.

  She climbed the steps and entered an area that appeared to be for the use of servants. She was grateful she wore shoes, not boots. Everything was still except for the lapping waves from the Brenta. She cocked her head to listen for sounds inside the villa. Echoing hallways and high-ceilinged
rooms greeted her. The villa seemed deserted. No servants, no tenant farmers, no Cesca, no Foscari. This was as it should be. Most people, unless they were very rich and could afford candles, went to bed with the sun.

  Hannah knew of the customary layout of a villa from the Conte’s palazzo in Venice. The main floor would be devoted to commerce: workers hauling sacks of grain, peasants arriving to settle accounts, merchants selling seed for the spring planting. The second floor would be for family. The attic was the preserve of servants.

  Hannah passed a small room filled with mouldy cleaning cloths and broken furniture. She felt hot and unclean. Her gabardine skirts mocked her, tangling around her legs as if trying to trip her. She proceeded along a hallway, through a dusty drawing room with high ceilings and a huge painting of an immodestly dressed castellana peering down. The woman had the imperious look of a wealthy Christian. The fine velvet of her square-cut bodice revealed an unseemly amount of pink flesh the colour of intestines. Mercifully, there were no paintings of Christ’s Crucifixion or the Annunciation of the Virgin. Hannah crept along, staying close to the walls, avoiding open spaces.

  The drawing room might once have been elegant but was now scattered with chicken droppings. A hen roosted in the cornice above the door, clucking softly to herself. Sacks of wheat and barley slumped against the wall. The broad staircase at the far end must lead to the family quarters. She shoved her valise behind a sack of wheat, kicked off her shoes and, carrying them in one hand, began to climb the stairs. The house remained silent. Had she ventured all this way only to find she was too late? Had Cesca and Foscari already left, taking Matteo with them?

  Hannah paused to catch her breath on the stair landing—and heard from somewhere above her the scrape of a wooden chair on a terrazzo floor.

  She continued upward. At the top of the stairs was a long hallway with three rooms on each side, all with closed doors. Little moonlight penetrated from the window at the far end. She glanced around, hoping to see a taper on the walnut table in the middle of the hall, but there was none. Perhaps it was just as well. Candles had a way of casting menacing shadows from the most innocent of objects before they smoked and sputtered out, leaving one to imagine the worst.