A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  Hannah wished she could stay and rub warm oil into Bianca’s painful-looking fingers or, better still, some of Tzipporah’s salve, if only she had some left, then sheath them in cotton gloves, but now was the time to escape. The birth cake would fall out of its own accord by morning.

  More than an hour had passed since Guido had left. Hannah’s ducats clanked as she knocked against a wall on her way to the makeshift door. She must leave this poor, dangerous district. She would hug the sides of buildings and scurry under the sotoportegi to avoid the gangs of young men who roamed the street. No woman, not even a pregnant one, was safe at night.

  Once outside, she gathered her legs under her to dash into the darkness. The rain would obliterate her muddy footprints. Guido would not be able to track her. She was halfway down the street when she felt a tug on her arm.

  “Signora! Signora!“

  It was one of Bianca’s girls, a pale, sad-eyed creature.

  “You must come back. Mama is having more pains.”

  “I must continue on my way.” I have been imprisoned in a hellish jail. My son is with a woman who will likely kill him either deliberately or through neglect. My husband no longer loves me. I am scant weeks from my own confinement. “You must take care of her now. You’re a big girl.”

  If Bianca died, would it be so terrible a fate? The pitiable creature would find rest for the first time in her life. To conceal Hannah’s escape, Guido could tell the head jailer Hannah had died in the night and he had disposed of her body before the rats ate it. As for the newborn and other children, Guido would soon find another woman foolish enough to raise his brood.

  “There is so much blood. Please!” The girl pulled on Hannah’s arm, her eyes wide with fright.

  Had Hannah looked so terrified when, as a young girl, her mother had died giving birth to her sister, Jessica?

  Reluctantly, Hannah followed her back to Bianca’s hut, pushed aside the burlap and entered.

  From a corner, Bianca moaned, “Something is wrong. I am still in so much pain.” Her children stood in a semicircle watching, eyes as round with fear as those of colts in a stable fire. No doubt the children wondered if they would soon be motherless.

  Hannah reached into her bag. Her hands touched the reed; she removed it and placed it on the floor next to her in order to get at the opium paste at the bottom of the bag. After lifting Bianca into a sitting position, Hannah held a mug of water to Bianca’s lips and helped her to swallow the ball of paste. She waited a few minutes for it to take effect.

  “I will never forget your kindness. As soon as I am able, I will send food to you and urge Guido to treat you with kindness.”

  “Never mind that now. Try to relax and let the opium do its work.”

  Opium sometimes slowed the mother’s heartbeat. Hannah positioned the reed on Bianca’s chest to listen to her heart. For several minutes, she moved the reed from above to below the umbilicus, afraid of what she was hearing. Bianca’s heart beat strongly, but Hannah also seemed to hear a reverberation. Please God, may I be mistaken. Hannah moved the reed to the other side of the umbilicus. There it was again. A soft echo. She shifted the reed higher up. Again she heard it—like the fluttering of a barn swallow’s wing in a snare.

  It was the too-rapid heartbeat of another baby.

  Hannah reached between Bianca’s legs. Instead of a head well descended into the sharing bones, she felt the baby’s buttocks. The first twin had been an easy birth, but this second birth would be fraught with every difficulty. The child must be rotated within the womb, or else it could not emerge and Bianca might struggle for days until she died of exhaustion and loss of blood.

  “Bianca, there is something I must do.”

  Bianca lay groggy from opium. Hannah thought Bianca had not heard her, but Bianca turned her head. “Will it hurt?”

  “It might be uncomfortable. You must help by relaxing. Breathe deeply. The opium will help.”

  Hannah spread several drops of oil on the white hillock of Bianca’s belly. Then she pressed, massaged, searching. Her hands were her eyes, reading what was going on within the womb. Yes, the head, soft and symmetrical, was just below Bianca’s heart. Hannah rotated her hands in tandem, thumb to thumb over the belly, as though compelling forward the stubborn hands of a clock. After a number of these rotations, the head was persuaded into position. “Good, Bianca. The baby is ready now. Now you must push.” But Bianca’s head lolled to one side. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and shallow. The opium was too powerful for her, worn down as she was from too many children and too little food.

  “Come on, cara. You can do it. I know you are tired, but you must try. The baby must not linger too long in your passage.”

  It was no use. Bianca lay motionless; not even her eyelids flickered. Hannah took out her birthing spoons from her linen bag. She fitted them together so that they resembled the jaws of a small silver dragon. “I will pull the baby from you.” When Bianca made no response, Hannah repeated her words, but Bianca was long past hearing.

  One of the children, a girl of about eight with Bianca’s pale hair and eyes, began to cry. “Go back to bed, all of you. Your mama will be fine.” But whatever strength Bianca had once had was gone. Her legs flopped open. Hannah applied oil to the birthing spoons and inserted them into Bianca’s passage. She fumbled for the baby’s head. Once she found it, she cupped it with the spoons. The head seemed small. She pulled with a steady pressure, trying to harmonize her tugs with the birth pangs, but no ripples moved across Bianca’s belly. The pangs had ceased. Hannah continued. A head emerged, then shoulders, then torso and legs, all blue and unresisting. It was another girl. She lay slack, not breathing.

  In the poor light Hannah could not make out the baby’s features, but by running her fingers gently over the face, she could feel that the nose and mouth were disfigured. The lips connected with the nose in a way that made it impossible for the poor infant to suckle. Even if Hannah could revive her, this baby would not live beyond sunrise.

  There was a shift in the air, a slight current, not strong enough to be a breeze, although the candle flickered. Lilith, the Angel of Death. Do not pass by. Stop here. We are in need of you.

  A moment later, Guido reeled into the hut. Hannah wrapped the baby in a cloth and thrust it at him. “I did my best, Guido, but it was no use.”

  He grabbed Hannah, and with her in tow, he lurched out into the night, the dead baby tucked under his arm like a loaf of bread. They followed a pathway alongside a canal back to Pozzi Prison. When there was a splash of something hitting the water, Hannah did not look.

  CHAPTER 24

  Pozzi Prison,

  Venice

  GUIDO—SOBER, CHASTENED, eyes red rimmed—slipped a piece of chicken wrapped in a greasy cloth through the slot in the door of Hannah’s cell. How shocked he had been last night to have his daughter’s corpse shoved at him, and to hear the vigorous cries of the surviving twin, not in the least dismayed to find herself born into such wretched conditions. This twin was promptly named Hannah by the weary Bianca.

  It had been well past first dawn by the time Guido escorted Hannah back to Pozzi Prison and locked the door of her cell. Throughout the morning, as she tried to get some sleep, Hannah tossed and turned, berating herself for not fleeing when she had had the chance. If not for her hollow reed and the second baby’s weak, irregular heartbeat, Hannah would be a free woman, somewhere safe and dry, perhaps eating roasted peppers and sheep’s cheese on crusty bread.

  Hannah felt her baby stir within her and was grateful. When she went for long periods without feeling the child move, she became fearful the infant had died. She dozed, trying not to think of the dampness of her cell, its musty smell that permeated everything, her despair so profound she felt boneless. She tried not to think of Isaac. Divorce. Before she was fully awake and had the consciousness to push the word away, it rose in her throat.

  She awoke to footsteps on the stone floor, one set brisk, light and decisive,
the other with a slight hesitation. The latter must belong to the other jailer, Sergio, a gangling man with one arm shorter than the other, who leered at the female prisoners.

  “There is a lady to see you,” Sergio called through the door.

  The door creaked open and there was Cesca, a green bonnet on her blond head and a smile on her face. Hannah glanced around for Matteo, but Cesca was alone.

  Cesca’s teeth, as white as the inside of an apple, gleamed. She looked every bit as lovely as she had in the abbess’s parlatorio. Hannah could not reconcile the absolute prettiness of Cesca—her unblemished skin, her blond hair like a nimbus of sunshine around her head, the grace of her figure—with her wickedness. Hers was a face made lovely by its animation—the widening of the blue eyes, the raised eyebrows, the rosy cheeks bunched in a smile. Without an audience to perform for, Cesca’s face would be as blank as a hen’s egg, Hannah thought spitefully.

  Those who are starving do not smell just food—they also smell the perfume given off by those well-fed. With all who crossed her path, Hannah—stomach growling—played a guessing game. What did they eat? Beef? Venison? Oranges? How often? How much? How recently? Hannah inhaled. Cesca had a basket of food tucked under her arm.

  “Hello, Hannah,” she said. “You look like a cat after a pack of dogs has savaged it.”

  The remark did not sting. Hannah was far too dispirited to care what Cesca thought of her appearance.

  Cesca held out the basket, which emitted a heavenly aroma. “Before you rail at me, I have a peace offering—a blanket, and wrapped inside, some baked fish and slices of beef joint and fruit. Eat and be well.”

  “An unexpected kindness, coming from you.”

  “I am a true Christian and the Bible teaches us charity for those in need.” Fluttering her hand, she giggled, giving a self-deprecating grin. “Oh, and Foscari and I must keep you alive until the trial.”

  To Hannah’s mortification, she could not stop herself from grabbing the basket from Cesca. “How is Matteo?” she asked, tearing the blanket open.

  “As difficult as ever.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With a woman who takes in children. You need not worry about him. Her husband is teaching Matteo to read and to form his letters. You must approve of that. You Jews set such store in that kind of thing.”

  At least he was not in the oespedale. There was comfort in that. Hannah bit into a slice of beef. It was juicy, and still warm; here and there a clove of garlic pierced its flesh. Strength flowed into her body. Cesca picked up the blanket from the floor where Hannah had dropped it in her haste to get at the meat and draped it over Hannah’s shoulders. “Why are you here, other than to assure yourself I am still alive?” Hannah asked between more mouthfuls of beef. She chewed, trying to slow down, wanting the flavour of the meat to last as long as possible.

  “I feel some responsibility for your present circumstances. If I hadn’t denounced you to the abbess, you would be walking the streets of Venice a free woman.”

  “In other words you are here because you still need my testimony.”

  “Don’t we both want what is best for Matteo?” Cesca said.

  “If you wanted what was best for him, you would never have left him with the abbess.”

  “Do not take that tone with the only friend you have.”

  “We have never been friends.”

  Cesca glanced around the cell, looking for a place to sit. Seeing none, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “Let us be allies then, if not friends.”

  “You betrayed Isaac and me. You stole my son. Now you come here to mock me. I do not trust you any more than I would trust a serpent.” Hannah peeled an orange—so ripe and succulent she thought her heart would break. Her fingers grew shiny from the fragrant oil of the peel. She wiped them on her blue skirt, hoping the scent would linger.

  “Calm yourself. I would not allow Matteo to come to harm.” Cesca drew a vial of smelling salts from her pocket and held it to her nose. “The stink of your waste bucket is making me feel faint. Doesn’t the guard empty it from time to time?”

  Good. Now you know what it is like for me. “All I want is to take Matteo back to Constantinople and live in peace.”

  “Once you testify. Our trial is next week. After that you may take him anywhere you please,” said Cesca.

  “I may be dead by then. You see the appalling conditions in which I live. This is the first decent food I have had since my arrest. And I cannot see why they would release me after your trial.”

  “Then we must get you out,” Cesca said.

  “Don’t you think I have tried? I offered the guard Guido a bribe, but he refused.” No need to mention her foolish decision to return to Bianca and assist with her second delivery. “Guido said my crime was too serious. That he would be hanged if I escaped.”

  The memory of the night she had killed Niccolò resurfaced. It was the night she feared the Prosecuti, with their network of informers, would discover during their investigation. The night Asher had witnessed everything and done nothing to help.

  “I just had a little talk with another guard—Sergio, I believe is his name—as he walked me to your cell. For a price, he will leave your cell door ajar. Then, little canary, you need only to fly out.”

  “I don’t believe you. Guido said the risk was too great.”

  “Then you approached the wrong guard. Sergio promises an unlocked cell and a ladder against the wall. He says you must flee at midnight this evening.”

  “How much will this unfastened door and ladder cost?”

  Cesca said, “I suspect every ducat you’ve got. Give them to me. I shall act as your go-between.”

  “You, my dear Cesca, suffer from a disease for which gold is the only cure. I remember only too well how your eyes lit up in the abbess’s parlatorio at the mention of my ducats.” Watching Cesca now pace back and forth in the small cell put Hannah, already light-headed from eating too rapidly, in a daze. The pendant around Cesca’s neck moved in time with her breathing. The longer Cesca talked, her voice rising and falling with sincerity, her blue eyes wide, the more alone and abandoned Hannah felt. Weeks ago, swallowing her pride, she had smuggled out a message to Asher, begging him to come, but she had received no reply.

  Cesca said, “This guard Guido—how much did you offer him?”

  Hannah hesitated, not wanting Cesca to know how much money she had.

  “Well?” Cesca said.

  “A few ducats.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “No wonder he would not help you.”

  “I offered him five,” Hannah amended.

  “The money is still here?” Cesca raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer. When Hannah did not reply, she went on, “Sergio will cooperate for—” she paused a second too long “—ten ducats, not a scudo less.”

  Guido must have told Sergio of her offer to him. “Please, stop talking so I can concentrate on this delicious beef.” The meat was giving her strength. She no longer felt so disoriented and weak.

  “Hannah, give the money to me. I’ll arrange everything.”

  “If Sergio will accept ten ducats from you, he will accept them from me.”

  “Not unless you are prepared to offer him a little dish of something his wife refuses him at home.” Cesca rolled her eyes and giggled. “He’s not a bad-looking fellow. I am willing to oblige him for your sake. I will close my eyes and think of my lovely villa and consider whether I shall plant roses or dahlias in the jardinières on the north portico. By the time the Marangona rings again, you shall be free.”

  “How can you be so casual about such matters?”

  “Bah! You Jews are such a stiff-necked race. What do you say? Are you prepared to have a frolic with our friend Sergio, or shall I?” Cesca opened her mouth and waggled her tongue.

  “It’s unthinkable.”

  “Such acts not only avoid a pregnancy but firm the jaw-line.” Cesca tapped the top
of her hand under her chin, turned her head sideways and pursed her lips. “A remarkable profile, would you not agree?”

  Desperation could make the worst scoundrel credible, but Cesca had no reason to help Hannah escape. What better way to secure Hannah’s appearance at trial than to keep her in prison? She shook her head.

  “At least pay me for these victuals I brought you.”

  “You owe me a great deal more than a few morsels of meat,” Hannah said, turning back to the food.

  “I guess there is nothing more to be said, then. I shall see you at the trial,” said Cesca.

  “God willing.”

  After Cesca departed, her skirts swishing on the stone paving, Hannah dozed, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in what seemed like years. A few hours later, she awoke to a lewd chuckle. Her eyes flew to the cell door. Sergio peered through the bars. “Your friend is a pretty filly. She’ll be back soon.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because we have an understanding. She told me to fetch something from you and I am a man of my word.”

  “Leave me in peace.” Hannah glanced around the cell for something to protect herself with. She had nothing but mouldy straw and her valise with the nun’s habit rolled up in the bottom. Her ducats were still in the blue cioppà she wore, as snug as unborn eggs in the passage of a laying hen.

  “Aren’t you a high-spirited little thing?” Sergio selected a key from the collection at his waist and unlocked her door. “Cesca gave me what she called an ‘advance on our understanding.’ That isn’t what they call it down by the docks, but a duck by any other name quacks the same.”

  He stepped into her cell then turned back to lock the door, even testing the handle to make sure it was securely fastened. Satisfied, he strode over to her valise.

  The baby within her gave her a kick, as though telling Hannah to tread cautiously. “Please, get out.”