A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  Her lie would have no consequence, she told herself. Two people in the courtroom knew the truth. One of them would surely step forward to expose her falsehood. Yes, the judge would vilify her, perhaps send her back to prison forthwith, but as she watched Matteo teeter thirty feet above the cold marble floor, she knew she had no choice.

  “This child,” she said, touching Lucca’s head, “is the boy I delivered of the Contessa. This is the heir to the di Padovani fortune.”

  The bird flew at Matteo’s head. He stretched up his hands to catch it, just as Cesca swept him off the balustrade and into her lap, her arms safely around his waist. Before Hannah could let out a breath of relief, the abbess lumbered to her feet.

  “Your Grace, may I address the court?”

  The abbess came forward and stood before the judge, puffing out her chest and smoothing the folds of her habit, looking rather like a self-important pouter pigeon.

  “Of course, Abbess. Tell me what you know of this matter,” said the judge.

  “Your Grace, the tale you have heard from this Jewess is very different from the one she told me when she tried to steal a boy from my convent.” The abbess repeated Hannah’s story of her being a nun in Malta. “This boy—” she gestured to Lucca “—is not the child this midwife claims she raised as her own.” She flung a hand toward the ceiling. “I suspect the di Padovani heir is that little scallywag up in the balcony, calling for her.”

  “Somebody bring that boy down here,” the judge ordered, “so that I may take a closer look at him.”

  Cesca stood at the head of the stairs and placed a hand on Matteo’s shoulders like a mother cajoling a child into a river to bathe. Matteo bounced down the steps. Cesca started to follow him; then, apparently thinking better of the idea, resumed her seat by the balustrade.

  “I’m here, sir,” announced Matteo when he arrived on the bottom floor. He marched over to the judge, hands on his hips, and stood squarely in front of the judge’s high-backed chair. “All by myself.”

  “So you are,” said the judge. “Come closer, young man, so I may get a good look.”

  Matteo moved a few feet closer. He stood head cocked, regarding the judge’s quill and pot of ink with interest.

  “Yes, I see a resemblance to both your parents. You have your mother’s red hair and your father’s eyes.”

  “My ama does not have red hair,” said Matteo. “She has black curly hair, as you can plainly see.” Matteo ran over to the witness box and tried to scramble in. He had just thrown a leg over the gate, when one of the soldiers grabbed him and carried him back to the judge.

  The judge picked up the blanket lying crumpled on the table next to him and held it up. “Is this your blanket?”

  In answer, Matteo tried to jump out of the soldier’s arms. “Yes! Where did you find it? I have been so sad without it.” The judge handed it to him. Matteo rubbed the grimy square of fine wool against his cheek and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  “I am grateful to you, Abbess. Thank you for clarifying matters.” The judge turned to Hannah. “You have lied to me about the identity of this child. What else have you lied about?”

  She felt the soft kick of her baby, but it gave her no pleasure. Perhaps it would have been better if the infant had suffocated months ago. Hannah would be giving birth on a soiled prison pallet. She had saved Matteo but had failed to save herself.

  If only Isaac were here, to hold her in his arms and tell her all would be well. But he was not, and when he did arrive, it remained to be seen what his feelings toward her would be. “Your Grace, I had no choice. Francesca, Foscari’s accomplice, had the boy in the balcony and would have hurled him to his death if I had not lied.”

  “You, signora, have proven to be a most unreliable witness. I do not believe you. I do not believe Foscari. I have the difficult task of appointing a guardian. Do I have reliable witnesses to guide me in this decision? No, I am surrounded by liars and mountebanks.”

  “If I may, my lord,” interjected a voice. “I wish to address the court.”

  A chair scraped the floor. From the front row Palladio crossed the room. He paused in front of the judge, waiting for permission to speak.

  The judge smiled at him and nodded genially.

  “My lord, I am Andrea Palladio, the architect.” He removed his hat and bowed.

  “I know very well who you are, sir. I am honoured to have you in my courtroom.”

  “I did not step forward earlier because I wanted to give Foscari a chance to put his head in the noose. Now that he has succeeded in doing so, I would like to address your lordship.”

  “Please do,” said the judge.

  “I was studying the ceiling—vaulting is one of my passions, and quite extraordinary in this building—and yes, Hannah Levi is quite correct. Matteo was balanced most precariously on the balustrade. I was about to send my valet—” he gestured to a young man in red livery, standing nearby “—to intervene, when the young woman, Francesca, secured him on her lap.” He placed a hand on Matteo’s shoulder. “In fairness, I think the signora Levi must be forgiven for lying. Had she not done so, there is no doubt in my mind Francesca would have sent the child to his death.”

  “Thank you for your observation. Is there anything else you wish to say?”

  “Yes, my lord. I would like to assure you of the good character of Hannah Levi. Conte di Padovani was a dear friend. He was a just man. His wife, the Contessa, a worthy woman. Shortly before her death, the Contessa confided in me that this midwife had saved her life. She said most emphatically that without Hannah Levi’s skill both she and her baby would have perished. She felt deeply indebted to the signora Levi.”

  “For performing a criminal act,” said the judge.

  “And was not the Conte equally culpable? Consider this, my lord. All parents do desperate, sometimes foolish things. The Conte went to the ghetto at midnight and bribed the guard to gain admission. He promised Hannah an extraordinary amount of money, two hundred ducats, if she could save his wife and child. He broke the law. I did the same when my eldest son lay dying of scarlet fever. I summoned a Jewish physician.”

  How kind Palladio was to step forward on her behalf. He was a prominent man, a man of influence.

  The judge said, “Il signor Palladio, thank you for your evidence. I am prepared to accept that Hannah Levi lied under threat of harm to the child.”

  “I can further vouch for her character,” said Palladio. “I first met Hannah Levi when we travelled together on a barge along the Brenta—”

  “With all respect, signor, I have your point. I have heard enough about the midwife and her character. We must press on or we will be here all day and night. Now I wish to hear the details of the abbess’s denunciation.”

  The abbess stepped forward with an agility Hannah had not thought her capable of.

  Foscari cut in. “May I speak, my lord?”

  “No, I will hear from the abbess first. Then you shall have your turn.”

  Foscari sat back down in his chair, a bad-tempered look on his face.

  The abbess swore her oath on the Bible and the judge said, “Proceed, Abbess. What can you tell me in this matter?”

  “I believe, my lord, that Hannah Levi is a procuress of Christian babies. The Hebrew practice of using Christian blood is well known. Who can forget the story of little Saint Simon of Trent, who was kidnapped and murdered by Jews on the eve of Passover in 1475? They crucified him upside down. The boy’s flesh was pierced with needles. His blood was drained to use in making unleavened bread and for unnatural rituals. The Jews’ lust for Christian blood is boundless.”

  Hannah had heard these slanders many times, spouted by idlers in the campo or ranting priests in stained robes. But the abbess was a respected and educated woman of the Church. If she persuaded the judge of the rightness of her allegations, he could order not only Hannah’s execution but also the destruction of the ghetto.

  “And who is better positioned to steal babies t
han a midwife?” The abbess paused to let her words settle in the judge’s mind. “But this was Hannah Levi’s blunder. In her thirst for Christian blood, thought by the Jews to possess curative powers, she grew careless and greedy. As her people clamoured for more children to satisfy their blood lust, she needed to search more aggressively. And so she dared to enter my convent in the middle of the night, disguised as a nun.”

  The abbess spoke with absolute conviction and the judge nodded intently. At first Hannah felt nothing but fury and blind panic. Then she thought of Isaac, the old Isaac, the rational Isaac, the one who still loved her, and her mind raced to cobble together a rebuttal.

  “My lord.” Palladio stepped forward. “I know something of the customs of the Jews. I am acquainted with a family of brick makers who used to be Jews but who converted. This I learned from them: there is nothing in the Jewish Bible that would make Jews desirous of human blood. On the contrary, they scrupulously avoid contamination with any type of blood, human or animal.”

  Hannah found her voice. She stood, Lucca’s hand in hers. “My lord, Jews believe blood contains the spirit of living beings. We are forbidden to taste blood. Our dietary laws are strict. We take great care in the preparation of meat to avoid eating blood. Slaughtered animals are drained of their blood. Any blood that remains is removed by soaking or salting the meat. If I crack an egg and it contains a speck of blood, I am obliged to throw it out.”

  “Nonsense,” the abbess said. “Jews have for hundreds of years considered blood an elixir. Herod, king of the ancient Jews, bathed in blood to preserve his youth. Jews use blood to bring down divine vengeance on we Christians.”

  The abbess paused, from the look on her face clearly about to deliver the crushing point of her argument. “The Jews have another use for Christian blood. Jewish alchemists and sorceresses take the blood and turn it into gold.”

  Palladio spoke. “My lord, you and I are rational men, men of wisdom and learning. We do not believe such superstitions any more than we believe in the ability of wolves to speak or fires to ignite themselves.”

  The abbess was undaunted. “Who better, my lord, to understand the perfidy of the Jews than a member of the Church?”

  The judge held out his hands, palms forward. “I accept your eloquent submission, Palladio. I do not believe Hannah Levi guilty of stealing Matteo di Padovani for ritual purposes. Like you, Palladio, I am not prepared to brand the Jews with the notion of blood libel. I have heard all the stories from years ago. Saint Simon of Trent, Little Saint Hugh of Lincoln who was murdered by the Jews, his body stuffed down a well, and so on. To me, these tales have always seemed nothing more than self-serving gossip put about by those who wish to pillory the Hebrews and thereby expunge their outstanding debts.” He coughed into a silk handkerchief. “But the fact remains that Hannah Levi acted in a suspicious manner. She stole into the orphanage in the habit of a nun and would have taken Matteo di Padovani if the abbess had not intervened. La signora Levi gives no explanation for her actions. I dismiss the charge of procuring the child for ritual purposes. But as to the rest, I would like an explanation.”

  Hannah spoke. “I shouldn’t have stolen in to the convent, but I did it to protect Matteo. I feared for his life. Do you not see it, my lord? If Foscari had succeeded and Lucca had been designated heir, then what further use would Foscari have had for Matteo? He would either have left him in the orphanage or killed him.”

  Foscari said, “That is a terrible slander, my lord. Shall I tell you what this midwife has been plotting for years? She is biding her time, waiting for the boy to reach his majority. Then she will come forward to claim his fortune. With God’s help, I perceived from the first what she has in mind and intervened.”

  “I hardly think you have the right to make accusations against the signora,“ said the judge. “You presented to me a counterfeit boy. A boy with no connection to the family whatsoever.”

  Foscari was undeterred. “I can explain. I am not to blame. I was misled by my maid servant, Francesca, into thinking this boy—” he pointed to Lucca, still on Hannah’s lap “—was the heir. I now see my mistake, a mistake that does not detract from my suitability to act as guardian.”

  The judge looked at him, a pained expression on his face. “I think you knew very well what you were about, sir. Now that I have had a chance to study you and this boy, Lucca, I believe I see a family resemblance between the two of you.”

  “With all due respect, my lord, you are wrong.”

  “Sir,” the judge said, “I charge you with submitting a false case with the intent of deceiving the court. I find nothing credible about you, sir. The midwife says she feared you planned to kill Matteo. While there is no evidence to support her claim, you deliberately deceived this court. I sentence you to ten years in prison.” The clerk made a note in his ledger.

  “Show some mercy,” said Foscari. “I am an old man, and my health is failing. Prison will mean my death.”

  “I am being lenient, Foscari. Any other judge of this court would order you put to the strappado.“

  “And my partner, my lord? What of her?” Foscari gestured at Cesca, who was leaning over the balustrade. “I had the able assistance of that lady in the green velvet dress.”

  The judge beckoned to Cesca, who then picked her way down the stairs on her chopines. When she reached the main floor, she curtsied to the judge and said, “My name is Francesca Trevare.”

  “How are you involved in this lamentable affair?” the judge asked.

  Before Cesca could reply, Foscari said, “The entire plan was her idea. She had the absurd notion she could be the castellana of Matteo’s villa. She forced me to sign a letter of intent promising that when I was appointed guardian, I would transfer title of the child’s villa into her name.” Foscari riffled through the stack of papers in front of him. “I apologize, my lord. I cannot seem to lay my hands on the document, but I assure you it is clear evidence of her culpability.”

  “Step forward, signora,” said the judge.

  Cesca, dimples and velvet flounces, and bodice pulled low, approached the judge. “Foscari is a scoundrel,” she said in her clear, lilting voice. “I was a simply a nursemaid to Lucca and Matteo. I know nothing of the law and have no understanding of what a guardianship order is. Foscari used me shamefully, and threatened to turn me out into the street if I did not comply with his every wish. Since I have no friends, no family, no money, I had no choice but to continue in his service.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “If you will take the time to read this so-called letter of intent, you will see it is nothing more than a contract for sale of livestock.” She removed a piece of parchment from her pocket and held it out.

  Foscari grunted in surprise. “She has stolen that document from my personal papers. She has absolutely no right to—”

  “Proceed, signora,” said the judge.

  “—I knew very well which of the boys Matteo was since I was the one who rescued him in Constantinople. It was Foscari’s idea to substitute his own son as heir.”

  At the word son, Foscari sputtered indignantly.

  The clerk took the parchment from Cesca and presented it to the judge with a bow. When the judge finished reading the letter, he said dryly to Foscari, “You offer the lady a good price on the veal but not such an advantageous one on the mutton.” There was a murmur of protest from Foscari, but Cesca ignored him.

  The judge’s face softened as he regarded Cesca’s blond hair, caught in a chignon at her nape and snared in a gold net; her breasts, as shapely as wine goblets. How childlike men are when confronted with the parts of females that glisten and glow and flash and are as fragrant as nectar, mused Hannah.

  Cesca said, “Without me, Matteo would have died.” She glanced at the judge from under her eyelashes. “I sent him to the abbess for the sole purpose of protecting him from Foscari.”

  “I do not entirely believe your protestations of innocence, signora. But I am loath to send you to prison. I w
ill show clemency. I order you banished from the Republic of Venice. You will have a fortnight to put your affairs in order and depart.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Cesca walked out of the courtroom, looking neither left nor right, back straight, head held high. A newcomer who had not heard the exchange might think she was departing after winning a great victory.

  Foscari watched her go with a look of loathing on his face as two soldiers dragged him out of the courtroom.

  The judge turned to Hannah. “As for you, signora,” he said, “I find your behaviour in this matter foolish, misguided, reckless and impulsive to a degree that steals my breath away. However, I do not believe you were evil intentioned. If you were a man, I would not hesitate to sentence you to a galley for six months. Because you are a woman and carrying a child, with some reservations I find you not guilty of the charges brought against you by the abbess. You are free to go.”

  Hannah stepped out of the witness box and took a seat in the public gallery.

  The judge scratched a note in his book. “I shall now proceed in the matter of Matteo di Padovani’s guardianship. It appears the only choice left to me is to make an order for the Office of the Public Trustee to manage Matteo’s considerable fortune.” A long moment elapsed as the judge, clearly unhappy with such an alternative, studied the courtroom.

  “I would like to put myself forward for the position.” Palladio rose to his feet. “My wife, Allegradonna, and I will raise Matteo as a Christian. I will manage his estate and oversee the repairs to his villa on the Brenta.”

  “I think you would be an admirable choice,” said the judge, with evident relief. He pounded his gavel on the table in front of him. “I shall so order.”

  Hannah should have felt joy at Palladio’s appointment. She knew from her encounter with him on the boat ride up the Brenta that he was a benevolent man and a kind man, if the crinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling were any indication. He was a man of dignity and a defender of the Jews. She wondered what manner of woman his wife was. Would she be kind to Matteo? Treat him like a son? Comfort him when he awoke from nightmares, cook his favourite foods, not force him to eat victuals he considered disagreeable? Or was she a woman who found the company of young children irksome? Hannah wished to meet her to assure herself of the woman’s character, but of course she could not.