A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  “Foscari is the cause of your difficulty?”

  Hannah nodded, catching a glimpse of the Marquis several feet away.

  “His companion, Francesca, has urged me repeatedly to be guardian, but I have refused,” said Palladio. “I did not even wish to be in court today, but my wife insisted. She said it was the least I could do to honour the memory of the Conte and Contessa. I explained to Francesca I cannot act as guardian because—”

  Impulsively, Hannah grasped his hand. “If only you would, sir.”

  “I cannot. You see—”

  Just then the bailiff, resplendent in red and gold livery, entered and called for silence. The cacophony, amplified by the stone walls and marble floor and loud enough to mask the firing of a cannonball, ceased.

  Palladio gave her arm a quick squeeze and resumed his place.

  “Order, if you please,” shouted the bailiff. “The court of Judge Abarbanel is now in session.” The judge entered, leaning on a cane as he made his way across the dais. With some difficulty, he eased himself onto his chair of gilded wood set high above the floor. Hannah tried to shrink behind the soldiers. The judge was tall and spare. If they had been in Constantinople, people would have referred to him as a “walking minaret”—though not to his face. His beard was white and his fingers as crooked as twigs on a witch-hazel tree. He had the look of an aristocrat—the pampered air of a well-tended man aging with grace. Abarbanel was a common converso name, the surname of a Jewish family who had converted to Christianity. Was it too much to hope he might have compassion for Jews?

  Hannah turned her attention to looking for Matteo in the throng again. Occasionally, the flash of a red hat signalled the presence of other Jews. She spied Asher’s black beard and red cap. There was nothing reassuring in the sight of Asher’s familiar face. He waved to her. She did not wave back. Her brother was here to ensure she testified as Foscari wished. She had no illusions he had come to lend her support.

  Judge Abarbanel wore a robe of red silk, embroidered with gold thread, trimmed with sable. His boots—she had to crane her neck to see them—were of the finest kidskin. He had a thin Venetian nose, rather like a hatchet dividing his face in half. His ears were pointed, giving him the look of an intelligent wolf. His fingers curling around the arm of his chair, he appraised the crowd, as though calculating how long it would take to hear everyone’s plaints and render decisions.

  Abarbanel, in spite of his age, sat erectly, his ledger in front of him, his quill and ink pot neatly aligned with a hinged container of sand for blotting. He did not give the appearance of a judge who would overlook a serious offence such as raising a Christian child as a Jew. His mouth was as tight as the seam of a walnut. The clerk, wearing a blue robe and holding a sceptre, called the first case—that of a Jew Hannah knew by sight. The bailiff signalled him to enter the witness box. There the accused stood wiping his sweaty hands on his breeches.

  “Your name is Avram Foà?”

  “I am an honest moneylender,” the man said. “Ask anyone in the ghetto.”

  “You are charged with receiving and selling stolen property, to wit, a silver necklace. What have you to say for yourself?” asked the judge.

  Foà began a tortuous explanation of how he had come into possession of the necklace.

  The judge interrupted his recital and barked impatiently, “It is clear to me, sir. You were unconcerned as to the provenance of this piece of jewellery. You seized upon a chance to procure it cheaply then sell it for a profit. For your carelessness—or should I say your indifference to the true owner—you shall serve five years in prison and pay a fine of five ducats. If you cannot pay, you shall serve an additional year.”

  A Christian woman standing nearby—the rightful owner of the necklace, perhaps—smiled in satisfaction at the harsh sentence. Had the owner been another Jew, then likely the Rabbi would have dealt with the matter. Cheating a Christian made the offence a public affair.

  The judge motioned to the bailiff. “Call the next case, if you please.” In quick succession, dozens of cases proceeded—robbery, assault, disturbing the peace, whoring and sodomy.

  “How nice to see you again, my dear,” said a voice at Hannah’s side, diverting Hannah’s attention from the legal proceedings.

  Foscari stood with Lucca next to him. The boy smiled at her and touched her arm. “How convenient I was able to have you brought to court so quickly! Why, you were right across the Piazza San Marco in Pozzi Prison!” He smiled. “A few scudi to the bailiff. And poof! Che miracolo!”

  Foscari smiled anew at Hannah, his silver nose in position, his eyes shining with an unhealthy moistness—the irises too blue, the whites the yolky yellow of a man too fond of drink. He did not look half so well as when she had seen him at the villa.

  “What a busy place this morning. See those men there?” Foscari pointed to a group of coarse-looking men slouched near the prisoners’ box. “Those are the bo’s’ns from the galley boats, seeking criminals to row their masters’ ships.” He lowered his voice. “You are ready? You will not disappoint me?” The parchment document in his hands trembled. His skin was an unhealthy grey. “We shall be called very soon.”

  “Where is Matteo?” asked Hannah.

  “All in good time. First, you must do your part.”

  “Is he with Cesca?”

  “Lucca has been well schooled. He knows everything down to the smallest detail about his past life in Constantinople. All you need to do is to tell the judge he is the rightful heir.”

  “And the judge’s promise of leniency for my offences? Do I have your assurance on that?” Not for the first time she felt this judge had the look of a man who would delight in sending a witness to the gallows, even a pregnant woman. There was no clemency in his eyes, or in the set of his shoulders, or in the pale fingers stroking his white beard. With nothing more than a flourish of his pen he could order her death.

  “Of course, my dear. It is all settled,” said Foscari.

  Waves of contempt roiled off him—for her, the judge, the courts, everyone who would thwart him. It was evident in the curl of his lips, the arrogant set of his shoulders, the swaggering manner in which he strode away. He trailed behind him the odour of greed—a pig’s greed to consume everything in its path, the greed of a scoundrel for the wealth of a little boy who had done him no harm.

  “I will say nothing until I see Matteo,” she said.

  Foscari and Lucca melted into the crowd.

  People came and went. After the shorter cases were disposed of, the crowd thinned out. At last the clerk called, “In the matter of the di Padovani estate.”

  Foscari stepped forward. In a voice like syrup dripping over fresh berries, Foscari reminded the judge he had been before the court months earlier and been ordered to produce Matteo for the judge’s inspection. Foscari nodded and pranced like a shopkeeper displaying a bolt of cloth to a rich nobleman. Showing his perfect teeth, Foscari answered the judge’s questions with a bow and a flourish. The judge took up his quill and made notes in the red book in front of him. Was he deceived by Foscari, who gestured with his plumed hat, or was the judge as wise as his profession demanded? Who could divine the workings of the gentile mind? With Jews you knew where you stood. If a Jew did not believe you, he would tell you so straight out. Jews had none of the misleading civility of Christians, who said one thing while thinking another.

  Lucca stood, eyes darting, as if he, too, were looking for Matteo. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his street-wise blue eyes taking in everything: judge, vast high-ceilinged room, crowd, Hannah. His hands were clasped behind his back, in a sweet imitation of how he must imagine a high-born boy should act. Hannah remembered how callused Lucca’s hands were that night he had crawled into her bed in the villa and gripped her hand under the covers. Now they appeared smooth. That night he had looked as wan as if a barber had bled him. Now his cheeks were pink and round.

  The judge interrupted Foscari’s recital of the assets o
f the di Padovani estate with an impatient wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, I have a note of all that from the last time you were before me. Proceed with your witnesses.”

  Foscari nodded at Lucca. The boy marched forward, appearing touchingly adult for his age, the very picture of noble smartness in his blue satin breeches and matching rabbit-trimmed waistcoat. Silver buckles adorned the breeches. From a distance Lucca seemed the scion of a vast fortune, but his costume would not stand up to nearer inspection. The jacket was frayed and threadbare at the elbows. The buckles on his shoes were not silver but some baser metal. Lucca’s finery was probably rented. In the ghetto were second-hand clothing dealers capable of dressing an entire army.

  The judge peered down. “This is the boy you claim is the di Padovani heir?”

  “I shall prove he is, Your Grace.”

  “And what is your name, lad?” asked the judge, leaning forward to better see Lucca. “Matteo, sir.”

  The little boy blushed and glanced around the room, as though searching out Matteo to beg his pardon. Hannah followed his gaze but saw no child resembling her boy.

  “How old are you, my son?” asked Judge Abarbanel.

  “Five, but big for my age.”

  The judge spoke to Foscari. “He is too young to understand the meaning of an oath, so I cannot swear him in.” Turning to Lucca, he said, “You know what it means to tell the truth?”

  Lucca nodded.

  “You know that boys who tell lies are consigned forever to the fires of hell, where they remain for all eternity?”

  Again Lucca nodded.

  “Very well. I am satisfied he is a bright lad and will tell me the truth.” The judge bent toward him and smiled, cupping a hand around his ear. “You will have to speak up if I am to hear you. I don’t eat little boys—at least not during Lent.” He nodded encouragingly. “Do you know why you are here?”

  “I am to be an heir.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means I shall have my own boat, a trireme with a battering ram, and a bow-mounted cannon and a—”

  “What else?”

  “I shall never have to eat turnips again—”

  “I quite agree. Turnips are fit only for swine.”

  “And everyone must be kind to me because I shall be so rich. If they are not, I shall chop off their heads.” Lucca’s hand flew up to cover his mouth. “Or maybe just make them oarsmen on my galley then free them if they promise to be good.”

  The judge laughed. “And it means you shall live with the Marquis Foscari in your villa.”

  Did the judge believe Foscari’s version of Lucca—a young nobleman, well dressed and confident? Or did the judge see Lucca as she did—a child of the streets, his bones freshly buttered with a layer of flesh, second-hand fur trimming his cloak? Out of the corner of his eye, Lucca looked at Hannah, at the soldiers on either side of her standing about ten paces away. “And can I live with Hannah, too? I like her very much.”

  Despite her anxiety Hannah smiled. There was a lovely earnestness about the child, a desire to please and be pleased that charmed her. Assuredly, some kind woman had once loved this boy. It was a comforting thought, if true. Lucca did not smile back but looked questioningly at Foscari.

  “He refers to the Jewish midwife who attended his birth, my lord.”

  The judge nodded.

  “And your parents—do you know who they were?” asked the judge.

  Lucca’s shoulders tensed. “My father was Conte—” his voice wavered “—di Padovani and my mother was—” He frowned, for a moment, glancing at the floor. “The Contessa Lucia. They died when I was no bigger than a two-week-old shoat.”

  Foscari shot the boy a look of approval.

  The judge said, “I was acquainted with both the Conte and Contessa.”

  The remark did not surprise Hannah. High-born gentiles all knew one another just as Jews in the ghetto all knew one another, at least by sight.

  “You seem to have inherited your mother’s red hair, though I do not see much else of her in you,” said Judge Abarbanel.

  The judge’s memory of the Conte and the Contessa Lucia would provoke him to be harsh to one who had, in his eyes, stolen Matteo and raised him as a Jew. Here was yet another reason for Hannah to despair.

  With a flourish, Foscari reached into a bag at his side and, like a magician pulling a coin out from behind a child’s ear, produced a well-worn blanket. He held it up, a corner in each hand, then waved it about for the judge to see. “This, my lord, is the child’s christening blanket. You will notice the di Padovani crest embroidered in gold thread.”

  “Yes, you showed me that the last time you were before me.” The judge turned to Lucca. “Is this your blanket?”

  Lucca hesitated. Foscari cleared his throat to regain the boy’s attention and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Yes, it is,” said Lucca.

  The judge said, “That is all I need to hear from this young man.” He opened the large red book in front of him and flipped back through the pages. He dipped his quill in ink, made a note and then sprinkled the page with sand. He reread his notes. “The midwife who delivered the boy? I asked that she be brought before me.”

  “She is here under unusual circumstances, Your Grace.” Foscari cleared his throat. “She is currently a prisoner in Pozzi Prison.”

  The judge frowned. “So I must base my decision on the word of a criminal?” Irritated, he gave a wave of his hand. “What is her offence?”

  Foscari said, “I do not know, Your Grace.”

  The judge beckoned to the clerk. “Can you assist?”

  “One moment, my lord.” The clerk flipped through the pages of a large red book.

  The offence that weighs most heavily on my conscience is one the Prosecuti know nothing of. Yes, I acted in self-defence. Niccolò would have killed me with no more thought than he would have given to shooting a pheasant. But even when one does the right thing, the only possible thing, one cannot escape the guilt of taking another person’s life.

  What the lagoon swallows, it also vomits back. Suppose Asher betrayed me? Or suppose Niccolò’s remains were found? He would not be the first richly dressed corpse to be snared in a net of silvery sea bream. Murder of a nobleman is an offence so grave not even my belly would protect me from being hanged forthwith.

  CHAPTER 27

  Doge’s Palace,

  Law Courts,

  Venice

  WHY HADN’T CESCA stabbed Foscari when she had had the chance? She had refrained because, to her regret, she had not been able to enlist Palladio. The greatest architect in the Veneto had proven mulish. Any judge in the world would appoint such a distinguished and well-liked man, but Palladio continued to refuse her entreaties.

  How her fingers itched to wrap themselves around Foscari’s throat as he danced attendance on the judge, waving about some bogus document purporting to prove he was a first cousin to the late Conte. Thanks to the peach kernel infusion, Foscari looked frightful. Even from the balcony she could see his skin was as grey as river clay. Sweat dripped from his cheeks.

  Foscari led Lucca by the hand out of the witness box and patted him on the shoulder.

  The boy looked smart in his finery. Rented, of course. Foscari was not one to squander money on rapidly growing urchins. The boy had told his tale well. He was a wonderful little liar, and had spoken in a strong, clear voice from which the harsh vowels of the gutter had been erased, thanks to Foscari’s tutoring.

  The judge ruffled Lucca’s red hair as he left the witness box. “Good luck to you, my lad.”

  How could the judge believe this undersized, overdressed little guttersnipe was the son of nobility? Foscari slipped a caramel from his waistcoat and slid it into the boy’s mouth. Foscari seemed to feel genuine affection for the child. Matteo annoyed him, but Foscari had patience for Lucca. Now, seeing Lucca and Foscari from this distance, their heads bent at the same angle, their hands gesturing with the same airy motion, t
he details of their forms blurring together, she wondered if what she had told Palladio was true. Perhaps Lucca was Foscari’s bastard son.

  Not that it mattered a fig. The important thing was Foscari had no idea Palladio had met Matteo. No idea Palladio had chucked Matteo under the chin and told him how much he resembled his lovely mother, the Contessa.

  Cesca pushed Matteo from her lap and smoothed the wrinkles out of her velvet skirt. He should have been grateful to her for rescuing him from the orphanage and that ogre of an abbess, but instead he had been demanding and fretful, asking for soup and then, when she brought it, shoving the bowl away with an ill-tempered grunt. Now on the balcony he kept stepping on her skirts and asking a dozen pointless questions. The orphanage might be an appalling place—Hannah had been aghast at it—but the pious sorellas understood how to keep children quiet, obedient and out of sight.

  Matteo propped an elbow on her shoulder and leaned into her, staining her dress with a blob of the porridge she had prepared for him this morning. “See what you have done?” She set him a few paces away, behind a pillar. “Stand there and be a good boy.”

  Of course he did not obey. He leaned over the railing and, spotting Hannah below, waved gleefully, before Cesca jerked him back. “Not just yet. Let us surprise your mama. You may wave to her later.”

  There was Palladio, useless as a barnacle on the hull of a boat. He must understand the farce unfolding in front of him. To her frustration, rather than being horrified by the lies pouring out of Foscari’s mouth, Palladio, seated in the front row of high-backed chairs reserved for dignitaries, was gazing at the ceiling.

  Cesca studied his upturned face—the heavy, fleshy nose; the sensual mouth; the massive chest; and the strong fingers wrapped around his walking cane. She waved, trying to catch his attention, but to no avail.

  In supporting Foscari’s plan to use Lucca as heir, Cesca was certain she would force Palladio to act as guardian. Why did he do nothing? The architect had met Matteo, seen the resemblance to the Contessa and knew Lucca was an imposter. Now he had a sketchbook open in his lap and was drawing with a stick of charcoal. Some capital had caught his eye. Damn him! The time had come for him to toss down his sketchbook and spring to his feet.