Our strategy required us to act with both secrecy and haste. That same evening, my lady would steal away from her father's house and, under cover of night, meet me in a monastery where improvised ceremonies were known to be performed habitually. We deemed it politic not to share our intentions with any others, for we imagined the objections would be many, and the obstacles placed in our path, high and perhaps insurmountable. Furthermore, the urgent details of war, as the Turk continued to threaten, were fast consuming the affairs of state and we did not wish for our decision to be in any way affected by such matters. Clearly, I had been instructed to report to the Doge's Palace for additional information regarding this Turkish peril, but I was loathe to leave my lady, and she me. We held hands tightly and resolved to meet again at dusk However, before we bade each other a temporary adieu, we kissed once more, but this time with fervour.
Upon reaching the Doge's Palace, I was informed that the situation with the warlike Turk had indeed become critical. Intelligence had briefed the state that they were sailing towards Rhodes, but it was generally understood that their preferred destination was Cyprus. In addition to my position at the head of their army, the doge and his senators ordered me to assume command as Governor once I had secured Cyprus. They reminded me of the importance of this Venetian posting, implying that a great deal of faith had been placed in my abilities, for I would be replacing one of their own Venetian favourites, who, although competent, could not boast of my skills and experience. I was instructed by the doge to return to my place of abode and await the alarm. The next signal would be to advise me that I should immediately greet my army and depart for Cyprus. I thanked the doge, and his senators, and bowed low as I withdrew. As I did so, I thought to myself, I remain their General, and in a short while I will still be their General, save only for an increase in my happiness. I silently hoped for their understanding.
The late-afternoon light was feeble and it cast upon the wintry city an aspect of melancholic calm. The gondolier carried me swiftly, but silently, through the narrow back canals, where this great city appeared sluttish beneath her regal garb. I noticed a shabby row of balconies decorated with garbage and discarded furniture, beneath which flights of slimy steps led down from the now familiar battered doorways. The canal about this place smelt putrid, and I clasped a handkerchief to my nose and mouth. I had spent the latter part of the afternoon in great contemplation, much of it concerning my wife and son who remained in my native land. The word wife still gave rise to much private concern, but I tried to flush this anxiety from my mind. I continually reminded myself that my native wife was not a wife in the manner that a Venetian might understand the term, yet I wondered if this were not simply a convenience of interpretation on my part. The problem of whether I would ever return to my country, and my worries about how my new wife might be treated by my people were this to happen, distressed me greatly. As the afternoon drifted towards evening, I slowly discovered myself coming to terms with the fact that I might never again see the country of my birth. This proposed marriage did indeed mark me off from my past, and Venice, the birthplace of my wife, was a city that I might now have to consider home for what remained of my life. None of this had I hitherto seriously considered, and my winter's journey towards the monastery began to take on an aspect of finality that lowered my spirits.
The pale moon was illuminating the lagoon as the gondolier stopped in front of the small monastery. The bizarre and macabre light appeared to me a strange warning that I should quickly conclude the business of this day. I wondered if it were possible that, to this woman, a marriage to me was a mere Venetian whim that would soon be forgiven by her family. The stain of my smoky hand on her marble skin, a mark that might be washed clean in the milky basin of family love. I dared not dwell on these thoughts for too long. I looked up and realized that my bride-to-be was already present, for I could see her maidservant standing anxiously by the door to the monastery. She need not have feared. I have always been a man of honour. I disembarked and mounted the thirty or so stone steps which led from the sea, and I entered the gloomy building. As I made my way to the side of my lady, I could see that she looked exquisite in her silken dress, with her shoulders bare, and her long hair threaded with gold in the traditional manner. However, on closer inspection I noticed that her brow was furrowed with lines of worry, and I felt guilty that my delay had induced this suffering in her. The Christian man who stood before us clearly wished to dismiss this unusual ceremony as swiftly as possible. He asked if I was indeed a Christian, although he knew this to be the case, for an unbeliever could never be entrusted with the command of the Venetian army. I spoke softly and informed him that my journey to the bosom of Christ had taken place many years before my arrival in Venice. With this hurdle cleared, little remained to cause us delay, and the ceremony proceeded apace and resulted in our soon being declared man and wife.
Some hours ago, my wife and I journeyed back to my lodgings, where I now wait for the alarm. It was a gloomy moonlit evening and, as our vessel proceeded, we were lightly powdered with snow. Only the clumsy plash of an oar as we eased beneath a bridge, or the echo of a heavy foot in a hidden alleyway, disturbed our silence. Once back at my lodgings, I dismissed my attendant for the evening and conducted my wife to my bedchamber. I had, during our silent voyage from the monastery, contemplated whether it would be proper to wait a while before taking up my rightful place with my wife, but I determined that the passion that we felt for each other should not be dammed up. She proved, as I had hoped, an eager, if somewhat naïve partner, but what she lacked in knowledge she made up for in the softness of her touch.
She now lies alone, her body illuminated by the weak light that leaks through the shutters of the tall window. She sleeps deeply, exhausted by our love-making, but also by the tension and duplicity of the past few days. I now possess an object of beauty and danger, and I know that, henceforth, all men will look upon me with a combination of respect and scorn. I also know that never again will I be fully trusted by those of my own world, both male and female, but some of this I have already anticipated. For she who has now lain with me, and before her God declared herself to be of me, this will be her first taste of a bitterness to which she may never accustom herself. That she is entirely disposable to those who profess to love her will never have occurred to her. If she remains loyal to me, there will be many new and difficult truths to which she will now be exposed. However, I believe my wife possesses a soul that is strong enough to withstand the heat of future battles.
Venice remains silent, and my mind continues to wrestle with difficult thoughts. I look again to the bed and gaze upon the sight of my wife's body. If only I were privy to her Venetian thoughts, I might begin to help her make sense of her new circumstances. And then, as night gives way to dawn, I hear the raised whisper of a messenger calling to my attendant that I should immediately depart for the Doge's Palace. Finally, the alarm. My wife stirs, and then turns to face me. Again the voice calls to my attendant with an order that he should immediately rouse me. My wife's face softens into a bleary smile and she asks if I must go. I tell her that I have to leave, but she should not worry for I will soon return. Once I have received my orders from the doge and his senators, I will once more hurry to her side. My wife smiles at me with both her mouth and her eyes.
THE Venetian trial against the Jews of Portobuffole, to be heard before one hundred and fifty two Venetian senators, began on Tuesday 27 June 1480 and continued day after day, with only two interruptions: 29 June, which was the feast of the Saints Peter and Paul, and Sunday 2 July. The defendants were represented by two lawyers from Padua, who dressed in togas and were highly skilled in oratory. They quoted all of the passages from the scripture which affirmed that, for the Jews, nothing is more impure than blood – not just from animals, from whom the Jews drain the blood after slaughter, but even from their own women. How could they possibly have been able to feed themselves on blood? They reminded those present that Jews follow
ed the Ten Commandments, which declared that it was forbidden to kill, and the prophet Moses also specifically forbade Jews to eat blood. And then, of course, there was the cumulative evidence of the Bible. For instance, in Leviticus, chapter seventeen, verse ten, it is written: 'I will set My face against that soul that eateth blood.' The injunction is repeated some four verses later: 'Ye shall eat the blood of no manner of flesh.' The lawyers rejected as mere rumour the idea that it was traditional for rich Jews to give poor Jews Christian blood without charge, and they concluded their presentation by suggesting that the confessions obtained, which 'proved' that these Jews had sucked out the blood of a Christian child, had been elicited by excessive use of that dreadful engine of torture, the strappada.
The state prosecutor, on the other hand, knew the Venetian senators, and he was aware of which arguments would be most persuasive with them. He began by reciting a list of similar infanticides attributable to Jews in other cities and other towns, and provided such detail that one senator became overwhelmed and had to leave the chamber. The state prosecutor then pulled out a Hebrew book and explained that it was a Book of Prayers for everyday use. He made a doctor, who knew Hebrew, read and translate a prayer that the Jews said every morning, a prayer which contained a powerful and vengeful curse against apostate Jews who had become Christians. Servadio was asked to confirm that this prayer was directed against Jews who had dishonoured their faith in the first centuries of the Christian era, and to further confirm that the prayer had been repeated for over a thousand years. This he did. The state prosecutor concluded with the assertion that surely it was the devil himself who gave these people the idea to kill innocent Christian children, and now they must die. The lawyers from Padua did not respond quickly, but eventually mounted the weak argument that the Book of Prayers was simply a narrative text used principally for the study of the various dialects it contained.
By 4 July, the senators' levels of tolerance had reached their limit. Every day the sultry summer weather had become increasingly oppressive, and the fatigued doge had already withdrawn and left in his place an elderly councilman who, in common with the other senators, was quickly tiring of these proceedings. On the morning of 5 July, he tapped the ballot box that was before him, a sign that the discussions were over and it was time to vote. The Jews were taken back to their cells and their lawyers left the room, leaving only the senators behind. A secretary approached and began to read:
Does it seem to you, sirs, on the basis of what has been said and read, that one must proceed against Servadio and Moses, usurers from Portobuffole, against Giacobbe from Colonia, all of them wicked Jews who, by mutual consent, deliberately, and with the help, advice and favours of one another, killed a young Christian boy in the home of the above-mentioned Servadio, a boy of about six or seven, a beggar from the city of Treviso, from where he was taken by Giacobbe of Colonia, as was requested by Servadio, and afterwards was brought to Portobuffole by the same Giacobbe and by another Giacobbe? Then, at the end, they extracted the blood of the young boy mentioned above and put it in the unleavened bread that they eat during their Easter, according to their detestable habit, to scorn and dishonour our God, Jesus Christ, and his Holy Faith.
They voted first on the three who had confessed: Servadio, Giacobbe and Moses. A ballot boy gave a small piece of white fabric to each senator. Then three ballot boxes were passed around – one red, one green and one white – and each senator dropped his ballot into one of these three boxes. They counted the votes: fifty-five were undecided, three voted no, ninety-four voted yes. And so it was decided, and the secretary announced the following:
Tomorrow at the usual hour, the three will be led to a barge with oars and tied down with three iron balls. In this fashion, they will be transported along the Grand Canal, from St Mark's to the Church of the Holy Cross, preceded by a town crier who will call out their names and why they are guilty. From Holy Cross, they will return by foot to St Mark's Square. Upon their arrival, they will be made to climb up on to three high pieces of scaffolding that will be erected between two columns, and all three prisoners will be secured with a long chain; thereafter, a fire will be set under them, reducing their bodies to ashes.
The decision regarding Donato, the family servant of Servadio, now a Christian called Sebastian, was then put to a vote. Thirty-one were undecided, twelve were against and ninety in favour of condemning him. It was decided that he would be sent to prison for a year, followed by eternal exile. Solomon, the son of Giacobbe and servant of Moses, newly accused of having helped his master burn the cadaver of the child in the oven, was condemned to six months in prison and six years' exile, with eighty-two votes in favour, twenty-seven against and twenty-three undecided. Fays, Servadio's son's teacher, who was accused of collaboration in making the unleavened bread with the child's blood and then eating it too, was condemned to a year in prison and ten years' exile, with thirty-five votes undecided, ten against and eighty-seven in favour. It was decided that no charges would be proffered against Sara, the wife of Servadio, or Rebecca, the wife of Moses. As soon as the sentences were announced, the state prosecutor went directly to the prison to pass on the sentences to Servadio, Moses and Giacobbe. He then ordered that they be taken directly to church and given prayer books so they could prepare themselves to die.
In Venice, on the day of an execution, it was customary for the doge to send the same lunch that he intended to eat to those who were condemned to death. However, these Jews were fasting to atone for their sins, and their leader, Servadio, had also begged his companions not to drink, despite the fact that they were tormented by thirst. Although he did not tell them, he was also thinking that their bodies would burn more easily if they were dried up, thereby reducing their suffering and maintaining a more dignified image. At noontime, from the bell tower of St Mark's, came the echo of the last chord. It was immediately followed by another that struck mournfully, for this was the bell of the Cursed that customarily accompanied the walk of the condemned. A chamberlain appeared in front of the Doge's Palace, followed by a bodyguard who escorted the three men, who were now naked to the waist and chained together. They marched between two cordons of soldiers to the barge that was waiting for them. In the middle of the barge were three iron balls. Once the condemned men were tightly secured and chained to the iron balls, the barge departed along the Grand Canal, approaching first one bank, then the other. A herald on the barge bellowed in a loud and monotonous voice: 'Here before you are Servadio, Moses and Giacobbe, Jews who killed a Christian child, dishonouring our Holy Faith.' Both banks of the canal were lined with people who, on hearing these words, shuddered and made the sign of the cross. Having passed through all of the Grand Canal, the party descended from the barge at the Byzantine column of the Church of the Holy Cross. The spectators who had arrived in great numbers protested when they realized that the condemned would not be immediately tortured, but would instead return on foot to St Mark's Square attached to a line of horses. They were being deprived of an afternoon of festivity.
Between the columns of St Mark and St Todaro, three pieces of scaffolding had been erected with very little distance between them, and on each one was placed an iron stake and a pile of wood. A cordon of soldiers held back the quickly forming crowd, while another two cordons of soldiers kept open a path for the imminent procession. While the crowd waited, they ate, drank, played cards and looked at all of the important people who showed themselves off on the terraces of the houses near the columns. Ambassadors, dukes, poets and many elegant ladies had made themselves available to view this spectacle. The setting sun began to animate the mosaics on the basilica, and then, once more, the slow tolling of the bell of the Cursed could be heard. At the far end of the square, figures appeared dressed in sacks of black cloth that went down to the ground and with large crucifixes embossed on their chest. Before them, they held long black staffs which were crowned with double candlesticks. These were the Brothers of Good Death, and they were followed by the thre
e condemned Jews, whose faces were fixed to the ground. Before arriving in the square, the condemned had been exorcised in order that they might be ready to receive the Holy Rite of Baptism. However, the three Jews rejected this last-minute offer of conversion, preferring to die as sinners. As they approached the scaffolding, the Jews began to walk more slowly. At their side was a priest who held a crucifix with both hands, and who murmured into their ears words of resignation and comfort that were usually used in situations of disaster and calamity.
The Nature of Blood Page 15