A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  Tzipporah was lying on a rush mat, Elijah nestled against her. Both were sleeping.

  “I have come from the villa in San Lorenzo,” said Hannah. “They were keeping Matteo there, but now he is in an orphanage here in Venice. Once I find him I will sail back to Constantinople and never bother you again.” Hannah spoke in a quiet voice so as not to wake Tzipporah and Elijah.

  “Why is Matteo in an orphanage?”

  “I suspect because Cesca is hiding him from Foscari. Matteo has proven too stubborn for them.” Good for you, Matteo. “They found another boy they want to use in his place.”

  Asher said nothing as he brushed a skiff of dried mud off the cuff of his breeches.

  “Foscari claims the judge will not have me arrested if I testify, but I am frightened, Asher. Frightened of being in prison when my baby is born.” Hannah willed him to look up, to put his arms around her.

  “So you want to find Matteo and simply flee to Constantinople?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “Hannah, you must do as Foscari wishes. If you find Matteo, for the love of God, hand him back to Foscari,” Asher said.

  “You don’t understand. Foscari is asking me to lie in court.” Hannah told of Foscari’s insistence she identify Lucca as the di Padovani heir.

  “All the better! Testify this other boy is the heir then take Matteo back to Constantinople. Isn’t that what you want? To have your precious son returned? Spout whatever lies Foscari wants and be done with it.”

  “But I would be committing perjury.”

  “Since when do you care for the courts of the gentiles? Say whatever is required to get your son.”

  “It is not that simple,” Hannah said. “Matteo is heir to a great fortune. Is it right for me to deprive him of a life of privilege and wealth?”

  “You must choose. Either take him back to Constantinople and raise him as a Jew, or let Foscari have him.”

  “But—”

  “I am weary of arguing with you. First you tell me you want Matteo back. You want to raise him as a Jew, even though such a criminal act, if discovered, would bring harm to me, to Tzipporah, to our sons, to all the Jews of the ghetto. Now you want him to have his estate.”

  “It is his right.”

  Asher’s face grew dark, as it always did when he was angry. “Why did you come if you don’t wish to take my advice? If all you want to do is debate? Are you a Rabbi that you are so all-knowing and wise? Can you read? Can you write?” He waved a hand impatiently. “Go away, grow a beard, read the Talmud. Then come back and we’ll argue about whether you should perjure yourself in the Christian courts.”

  Hannah had never seen him so irate. “I had hoped for your sympathy. Matteo is my son, yes, but Foscari and Cesca are criminals. I cannot let them steal Matteo’s estate.”

  “I might as well tell you, Hannah, I lent a great sum of ducats to Foscari. If he does not get the order for guardianship, I shall be ruined.”

  “Oh, Asher, no. Tell me you are not serious.” But there was no jest in his face. “How could you have been so foolish?” She nearly asked the amount of the loan but decided she did not want to know.

  “For my sake, do as Foscari says. He has another boy to serve his purposes? Perfect! You shall have your son back. I shall have my loan repaid with interest.”

  “I don’t feel in my heart that is right.”

  There was a change in Asher’s face, a shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible turning away from her. “I did not want to say this to you, but it seems I must.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know what you did.”

  Five innocent words when uttered separately. A five-pointed star in her heart when spoken together. Hannah knew exactly what Asher meant. “How? How do you know?”

  “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake Tzipporah.” He bent his head to her ear. “I was visiting a woman that night. Her name does not matter. Let us just say she was a married woman. Long after midnight I was walking home across the campo when I saw a man carrying a basket with a tiny fist waving above the sides. There was mewling from the basket. It was a strange sight—a well-dressed man, a nobleman I guessed from his fur-trimmed cloak—carrying a baby. A gentile in the ghetto long after the gates had been bolted and locked aroused my suspicion. I followed him, keeping well out of sight. I guessed this high and mighty nobleman had got his Jewish mistress with child and wanted to abandon the baby to her relatives.”

  “You are lying. You were home in bed that night curled up next to Tzipporah. Any other night of the week, yes, you might be out seducing married women, but not the Sabbath.”

  Asher continued. “When I saw you pursuing the nobleman, I was even more curious. You were so intent on keeping him in sight you didn’t notice me. The nobleman entered the butcher’s shop and you followed. In a trice, I heard shouts and screams. I peered in the window and watched as the man set the baby on a table and grabbed a filleting knife hanging on the wall. He held the knife to your throat then raised it above the baby’s head. You and the nobleman fought, yelling, shoving each other. You wrested the knife from him. You tucked the baby under one arm and stabbed the nobleman. I watched you drag his body to the canal and heave it in.”

  Asher was telling the truth. All the details, from the filleting knife to Niccolò’s upraised hand, were just as he had described. “How I could have used your help.” Embers of anger glowed within her and threatened to burst into flame. “If you had come forward, together we could have overpowered Niccolò and I would not have his death on my conscience.”

  At first Hannah wanted to spring at her brother and rake her nails down his face. Wanted to feel his blood on her hands. Then a terrible sadness took hold of her. This brother she had loved and protected for so many years had deserted her. “You witnessed me being attacked and you did nothing?”

  “We had quarrelled. I was angry with you.” Asher drew out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. “I turned on my heel and hurried home.”

  “I cannot think anyone, even you, could be so cruel.”

  “I am not proud of myself.”

  And yet, were his actions so out of character? Whereas their father had been kind and gentle, her brother had always been quick to take offence, slow to forgive. He was a man who preserved ancient wounds in a brine of imagined offence and insults.

  “You may think me heartless, but I was furious with you. I rejoiced in your trouble. Later that night, though, after I had had time to reflect, I was consumed with guilt. I rose before dawn, before even the fishermen were out. I returned to the butcher’s shop. I was afraid the nobleman’s body would be found floating by one of the Christian guards patrolling the island ghetto by boat.”

  Asher’s mouth was dry. Hannah could tell by the tone of his voice.

  “I borrowed a boat and searched the Rio del Ghetto until I found the corpse. I fished him out, stripped him naked so he could not be identified. I tied a burlap bag filled with cinder bricks around his torso and rowed out into the lagoon. When I was nearly to Burano, I pushed him out of the boat.”

  “So you concealed my crime.”

  “Yes, until now.”

  “Speak plainly.”

  “You tell whatever falsehoods are required. If you do not do everything in your power to help Foscari obtain his blasted order for guardianship, I will go to the Prosecuti and denounce you.”

  Before Hannah had time to react, she heard Tzipporah stir and the baby begin to fuss. Their quarrelling had awakened them. Tzipporah sat up, yawned and stared at Hannah in surprise. “You came back,” she said.

  “I am just leaving, Tzipporah,” said Hannah. She felt ill. Needed fresh air. Needed to be away from Asher. Needed to be free of everything that reminded her of him.

  Tzipporah rubbed her eyes. “Where will you go?”

  Asher folded his arms across his chest. His face turned so red he looked as though he was being spit-roasted. “Hannah is not welcome here.”


  “Yes, she is for one night.” Tzipporah put Elijah, who was beginning to cry, to breast.

  “Another woman telling me what is right and what is not.” Asher shot Tzipporah a furious look. He went to a cherry wood box with a hasp on it. “By the way, I have something for you, Hannah. A letter from Isaac, delivered yesterday.”

  He handed it to her with a look of satisfaction. The letter was unlaced; he had already read it. She recognized her name on the outside of the letter, which was addressed in Isaac’s broad, confident strokes. She clasped the parchment to her breast and stroked it as though it was Isaac’s back. He had touched this very paper with his hand, perhaps pressed it with a kiss before sealing it. Warmth seemed to radiate from the parchment as she tried to divine the contents. Words of love and forgiveness first. Then the news that he was coming to Venice. He might even be on a ship right now.

  Relief swept over her. Kissing the letter, Hannah forgot Asher’s threat for the moment. If it pleased God, may Isaac arrive in time for the baby’s birth. She handed the letter back to Asher to read.

  “Yasher koach—may you have strength! You will not like what Isaac writes.” Asher unfolded the letter and smoothed the parchment out on his knee. He ran an eye over it, as if to assure himself the contents had not altered since he first read them, then cleared his throat and began. By the time he had read half of it, Hannah was begging him to stop, tears streaming down her face. The only bright words in Isaac’s letter were “I pray every night you are well and that the baby will be born safely.” The rest were hurtful, stinging; words that did not sound like anything Isaac was capable of thinking, let alone committing to paper. Were it not for the baby, Isaac wrote, he would divorce her for disobedience. He would come for the baby’s birth. Then they would discuss their future. And the most hurtful sentence: “Since it is clear you no longer wish to be my wife and act as a wife should, I will release you from the bonds of marriage if that is what you wish, although it will grieve me. I have never loved anyone as I have loved you.”

  She hated Asher for reading this detestable letter in a quiet, solemn tone, taking pleasure in her grief. She hated him for having a handsome, fertile wife. Hated him for his healthy sons. She snatched the letter from his hand and tried to shred it, but the parchment was too strong and she managed only to smear the ink with her tears.

  Tzipporah tried to put her arms around her, but Hannah shrugged her off. What did Hannah’s anguish matter to Tzipporah? Why did she have that look of pity on her face? She had Asher and her sons. Hannah turned her face to the wall so they would not see her weeping.

  Divorce? It was not possible. Isaac loved her. He had promised always to love her. They had met and married within a month. Isaac had taken her without a dowry. His love had never faltered during her long years of barrenness—the sad little cycles of hope and despair that followed the courses of the moon. He loved her still. He must.

  She wanted to run from Asher’s apartment and fling herself in the Rio di Ghetto Nuovo. And then she remembered the baby growing under her heart.

  CHAPTER 19

  Villa di Padovani,

  San Lorenzo, the Veneto

  FOSCARI WAS A TALL, ill-natured gander, neck extended, hissing at the sky, spitting and stomping back and forth on the lawn. His thin lips opened and closed. From the kitchen, Cesca heard him shout “Slut,” “Whore,” “Treacherous bitch.”

  Cesca marched outside.

  “For the last time, where is Matteo?” Foscari demanded, as Cesca descended the steps of the portico.

  “I’ve sent him away. Far from here, far from you, you double-dealing son of a pig.”

  “What you are playing at?”

  How heartwarming to see his face contorted in rage, his silver nose dangling on a single thread. Cesca had never seen him so agitated.

  “I need Matteo,” Foscari said, “as you well know. How can I force Hannah to testify if he is nowhere to be found? She is not an imbecile. She will insist on seeing him before she gives evidence. And she will want a share of his fortune. You know what greedy creatures Jews are.”

  “You should have thought of that before you decided to sell my villa.”

  He laughed. “Your villa?” He spoke in a tone he had never used—harsh and loud and vulgar. Then he recommenced pacing. Finally, after several lengths around the garden, he came to a halt in front of her, tired and panting. Cesca braced herself for a long tirade or even a blow, but he surprised her by taking a deep breath and saying, “I am sorry, my dear.” He continued more calmly. “As a matter of fact, I have been to the notary.” He patted his waistcoat pocket. “Here is my letter promising the villa will be yours once I am guardian.”

  Soon he had adopted his customary bantering tone. “For your happiness I would pluck the very stars out of the sky and tumble them into your lap. I would rearrange the constellations in the sky to better suit you. I would alter the beat of my heart.”

  All nonsense, of course, but how instructive to hear Foscari go on so, his elegant hands fluttering this way and that, tapping his breast to show his sincerity, pausing, then tugging his earlobe. He put so much effort into his performance the exertion seemed to weaken him and he had to lean against one of the pillars holding up the portico. “I know how you love this estate.”

  She nodded, waiting, admiring his self-control.

  “And so,” he went on, “my letter of intent.” With thumb and forefinger, he dipped into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a folded piece of vellum. “This simple piece of paper shall seal our bargain and put your mind at rest. I shall sign it when you tell me where Matteo is.”

  Cesca took the vellum from him and studied it, feeling his eyes on her as she grew red with humiliation. She squinted at the vexing black squiggles, which to her looked like beetles chasing each other in circles across the page.

  Foscari sighed and snatched the paper from her. “I am the son of one of the oldest and most noble families in the Veneto, the centre of my mother’s universe, a graduate of the University of Bologna, a humanist and a lover of Petrarch’s poems. I cannot believe I have fallen in love with a woman who cannot, even if a musket were held to her head, sign her own name other than with a sooty thumbprint.”

  His words had their desired effect. Cesca stared at the ground, hands clenched at her side, as she tried to conceal her mortification.

  Foscari said, “Look, here is your name and there is the line for me to sign on. It’s all very legal and proper. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She glanced at the document. Yes, she could see his name at the top and there was hers. But the rest was a puzzle. She took the document back from him and continued to stare at it until she surprised herself by recognizing a few words—beef and lamb and chicken. Such words appeared on butchers’ signs over shop windows along with crude sketches of the various animals. Her eye ran down the page. There were a few numbers. This document must be a contract for the sale of livestock. She studied it for a moment, squinting anew at the dancing, inky marks. Then she set her face in a smile, revealing nothing of her discovery. On the bottom right-hand corner was an impressive-looking blue ribbon, fixed in place by a red wax seal.

  “Very kind of you, Foscari. I knew I could trust you.” At long last she understood the true value of literacy: being able to read allowed you to cheat and rob those who could not.

  “Now, where is Matteo?” asked Foscari.

  “He is with my aunt’s cousin in Venice. Her house is Calle Balastro, 54, Dorsoduro.” It was the first address that sprang to mind. “You need not worry, Foscari. He is well tended to. I will bring him to court so Hannah can see him. Use Lucca, if you wish. Hannah will cooperate.”

  “I am glad you have come around to my point of view.”

  “But what if the judge has Hannah executed for raising Matteo as a Jew? Have you thought of that? Then we will have two boys on our hands.”

  “Only one.”

  “Which one?”

  “The obedient one,
of course.”

  “Whatever you say.” Their easy agreement seemed to please Foscari, who went upstairs to his study and returned with a pen and inkwell. He dipped the quill. With a flourish, he signed his name to the vellum document. “There you are,” he said, waving the vellum about to let the ink dry. “I shall give you this letter once I have Matteo.”

  Foscari was an ass; he was a babbler. In signing the bogus document, he had signed his own death warrant.

  CHAPTER 20

  Oespedale della Pietà,

  Castello, Venice

  THE ARSENALE WAS the most heavily guarded shipyard in Europe. Nothing was familiar about it—not the sweet fragrance of fresh-cut timber, or the scent of pitch used to caulk the ships, or the crackling of the caulkers’ fires, or the thud of axes bouncing off oak, or the smell of turpentine. Flames shot like the unearthly claws of the devil, staining the sky in shades of orange, red and yellow. Hannah walked past sail makers hunched in front of their huts, sewing by the light of candles, their palm cushions blotchy with patches of blood.

  The Oespedale della Pietà must be close. Hannah strode on until she came to a convent with a grey, forbidding aspect—a blank facade with a roundel like an eye embedded high on the wall, which depicted the figure of a nun. Tall gates, grated windows. No generous, embracing portico; no graceful arches; no ample loggia. Hannah glanced up at the roof. Sure enough, just as Lucca had said, stone gargoyles stared down as though to eat her. Assunta had described such places, so Hannah could imagine the chapel within—the shrouded Communion windows and the open mouths of nuns at Mass, parting their lips to receive Christ’s body in the form of a wafer slipped though a slit in the curtain by an unseen priest. Then the whisk of skirts and the dusty odour of dried flowers as the nuns filed back to their bare cells.