“Come now, Alvise. Remember, you’re speaking with your confessor. Is it true that two winters ago you worked as a garzone for a glassmaker?”
“Yes, Signore, it’s true.”
“Where’s the foundry where you worked?” Tommaso pursued.
“In Luprio.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Just for the summer.”
“And you haven’t been back to that foundry . . . not even recently?”
“No, Signore, the foundry closed down. The glassmaker moved to Amurianum.”
“So the foundry is abandoned, then?”
“I think so, yes.”
The silence in the room was disturbed only by the waters slapping against the fondamenta. Grimani took a deep breath, then continued. “Alvise, do you know what natron is?”
“I think it was used for melting the glass.”
“So there was natron in your foundry?’
“Yes, I think so, Signore.”
Tommaso slowly walked around the perimeter of the salon, and stopped in front of the gastald.
“You’ve heard.” His tone suddenly became forceful. “Once before I decided to trust this boy I consider a godson, even though irrefutable evidence, one of Costanza’s ribbons, was found in his boat . . . Then there was the lock of hair found in his room, and now there’s been a new, definitive discovery: Costanza’s body was covered in natron, and natron can be found in foundries. Alvise has worked in a foundry and that’s where he kept her prisoner until . . . ” he stroked his forehead, closed his eyes, then boomed, “Alvise, son of Nena, I accuse you before witnesses of having abducted Costanza with the intention of abusing her and, when she tried to resist, of killing her!”
The words vibrated in the air, silencing the deep gurgle of the lagoon. The accusation had been uttered. A member of the Great Council had spoken, and nothing would ever be the same again.
“I will ask the gastald to take the boy away with him and lock him up in the cells of the Doge’s Palace to await trial.”
With inhuman cries, Nena threw herself at her son’s body and pressed it against her. “No, no, it’s not true! It wasn’t him! Merciful God, help us!”
The servants were shocked.
Magdalena remained with her mouth half open, perhaps wanting to say something, but stunned by the speed of events.
Edgardo tried to search his master’s soul: the relaxed expression, the frank look, head high, as though he’d received divine investiture.
He’d just accused a boy of having committed a murder, which almost certainly meant a death sentence, and yet his face betrayed no emotion. For a moment, Edgardo felt envy, wishing he could have even just an ounce of Tommaso’s certainty, he, who was always full of doubts, of insecurities, and prey to emotion.
The only person who didn’t seem to realize what was happening was Alvise. He was looking around as though all this chaos had nothing to do with him.
Only when the gastald approached, took him by the arm, and dragged him away did he feel that this gesture contained his destiny, and that his life would be changed forever.
XIX.
INSPECTIO
The body of her beloved sister was coming back home. It was proceeding slowly, rocked by the soft waves of the lagoon, across Venice, to be reunited with its blood. Magdalena was waiting.
The Grimani household would receive her and get her ready for the final farewell before she was buried in the crypt of San Zaccaria.
Magdalena would wash her, dress her, and hold her in her arms one last time.
The body of her beloved sister.
The more time passed, the more she felt something growing in her belly, a feeling she couldn’t—didn’t want to explain because she was too ashamed. A feeling more invasive than the deep sorrow caused by Costanza’s death.
She heard the scaula bump against the steps, and men discussing how they’d organize the transport of the body to beneath the loggia.
The body had entered her home, the body of her sweet, tender, generous sister.
The feeling she didn’t want to see born was swelling her belly. It was stirring and pushing.
Why, merciful God? Why had such dark ghosts been let loose in her?
The footsteps resounded on the stairs. They’d already reached the upstairs loggia, just a few more seconds and they would lay the body on the virginal bed upon which she had spent so many peaceful nights.
Magdalena remained obstinately seated in the high-backed chair by the window and let herself be blinded by the sun reflected on the water. She should get up and go to her. Costanza’s body was waiting.
Instead, she was frozen, unable to move, and that feeling grew more and more forceful until it exploded and obliged her to name it: anger.
Anger, resentment toward her sister, as though her destiny had been her fault.
This body was carrying another sorrow, another death in a house devastated by mourning. Magdalena felt that this pain would dry up forever her belly that was incapable of conceiving, that the sight of Costanza’s body would decree the end of every hope, the impossibility of bringing into the world a new Grimani heir.
Why had they brought it into this house, what did they want from her? She had no more tears, no more pain to offer the world!
Enough of death, Magdalena wanted life.
Wracked with shame for having these thoughts, she mustered the strength to lift her fragile body and head to Costanza’s room.
When she saw her, her glowingly white face, her dusty hair, her long fingers protruding from the linen canvas in which she was wrapped, she momentarily recovered the outline of her sisterly sorrow, and the anger vanished.
She approached, kissed her forehead, and kneeled.
Nena was sobbing at her side. She hadn’t stopped crying since Alvise had been taken away. Now, the tears she was shedding for her son mixed with those for Costanza.
Magdalena’s prayer spread through the room: a soft, monotonous chant.
Edgardo paused at the door, waiting for a sign that would allow him to approach. Seeing the body threw him into an abyss: the sense of guilt and the confirmation that he had failed blended with deep sorrow for the loss of a young girl barely at life’s threshold.
He took courage and kneeled near Magdalena, who didn’t let that distract her from her prayers even for a second.
“I humbly beg you to forgive me, Signora. I’d made you a promise and I failed,” Edgardo whispered.
“I can’t forget that Costanza was abducted because of you.”
“You’re right to hate me . . . I also hate myself, I hate my ineptitude, and my weakness. If you wish me to leave this house, I will respect your decision.”
Overwhelmed with grief, Magdalena tilted her head slightly. “What purpose would that serve?” Edgardo thought he saw a hint of compassion in her eyes. “You’ve been a cleric. Can you explain to me why God is raging against me so?”
Her tone sounded cold and detached. Edgardo said nothing, searching for an answer he couldn’t find, then, almost without realizing it, replied, “The ways of Our Lord are unfathomable.” And an image suddenly flashed through his mind: he remembered those very same words spoken by Ademaro, his friend and a monk at the same abbey, on the top of the tower, after he’d dissuaded Edgardo from seeking his own death.
Magdalena gave him an angry look. The same reaction that he had once had. It’s too easy to attribute everything to the mysteries of God’s will.
“Tomorrow we’re going to bury her . . . and I will never see her again,” Magdalena whispered.
Nena’s sobs turned into a hoarse cry.
“Quiet! Enough! You’ve no right to weep,” Magdalena suddenly railed. “Your son has taken her life and now I have to put up with your sniveling on top of everything else!”
Nena prost
rated herself on the floor. “No, no, it’s not true. Alvise is innocent. It wasn’t him.”
“Quiet. Don’t speak.”
“He respected her. He never, never would have touched her.” Nena dragged herself to Edgardo. “You tell her, I beg you, for the love of God, you know Alvise is innocent.”
Edgardo had stood up for him once before, but now it would seem disrespectful and cowardly to go against his master’s decision again. “Alvise will have a trial, and if it’s as you say, the judges will acknowledge his innocence.”
He immediately felt ashamed of having spoken so insensitively.
“What do the judges know? Tomorrow, Costanza will be buried and Alvise condemned.”
Edgardo searched for Magdalena’s gaze. He had to try, then she could go ahead and throw him out.
“Have they investigated the cause of death?” he asked.
Magdalena said nothing.
“They said Alvise killed her because he was trying to rape her, but it’s not true!” Nena cried.
“Has rape been established?”
He took the slow lifting of her chin and the glow in her eyes, which seemed to emit incandescent scales, as a sign that his question had made a breach in Magdalena’s mind.
“No,” she replied harshly.
“Don’t you think, Signora, that before making such a serious accusation, it would be fairer to find out the truth? How can we say that Alvise raped or killed Costanza when we don’t even know how she died?”
“And how can we have the certainty that the accusations are founded?” Magdalena asked without betraying the slightest emotion.
Taken by surprise, Edgardo ventured further. “One would have to get the body examined now, right away, before it’s buried.”
Magdalena slowly got up. Nena stopped sobbing, as though aware of a chink of hope, and followed her lady with her eyes as she went to stand pensively by the window.
“Send someone to fetch Magister Abella immediately,” she suddenly commanded Nena. Then she looked at Edgardo defiantly. “She’s an illustrious physician. She’ll be able to give us an answer.”
This was an unexpected and unwelcome conclusion for Edgardo, but he raised no objection. Alvise’s life was at risk.
Nena was already on her way, glimpsing a favorable outcome in that decision. “She must come as soon as possible,” Magdalena added. “Tommaso won’t be back before nightfall, and he mustn’t find her here.”
She sought the scribe’s gaze, openly requesting his complicity. He lowered his head.
When he saw her come in, Edgardo couldn’t help noticing that Abella’s face had acquired a new glow that made it unexpectedly amiable. The ruby-red robe hugged her curves, and her hair cascaded softly over her shoulders.
Why was he noticing these details? It was an ambiguous attraction, since his doubts about her had certainly not been dispelled.
Abella greeted him with a nod and approached Magdalena. With an unexpected, irregular gesture, and without a word, she pressed the lady of the house to her in a rough, masculine hug.
As though this hug had untied a tight knot that pressed on her chest, Magdalena abandoned herself, unrestrained, to desperate weeping, resting her head on the Magister’s shoulder.
At that moment, Edgardo sensed that the pale, puny feelings of a man were nothing in comparison to the immeasurable, powerful universe of female emotions.
“You must tell me how she died but, above all, I want to know if her virginity is still intact,” Magdalena whispered through sobs.
With a wide, regal gesture, Abella tossed off her cloak. “I will proceed according to the rules of the illustrious master Galen, following the teachings of my guide and mentor Trotula de Ruggiero, magistra mulier sapiens.”
Her display of knowledge always irritated Edgardo, and made him suspicious as well.
“I’ll begin work immediately. I wish to spare you an unpleasant sight,” Abella added, addressing both. “I’ll send for you as soon as I’ve drawn some conclusions.”
A polite way of sending them out, Edgardo thought. Abella wanted to be alone while examining the body. Why?
“Signora,” Edgardo butted in rather daringly. “Please allow me to assist our illustrious physician. My duty to you demands that I represent your eyes during this painful moment.”
“A scribe, and former cleric on top of that, seems like an unusual . . . and useless assistant,” Abella immediately replied.
“Far be it from me to want to interfere with your work. It was simply my intention to write down, under your dictation, your comments about the body. I think they will be useful in view of the trial.”
Taken by surprise, Abella couldn’t find any argument against Edgardo’s point.
“Unless, illustrious one, you would rather write down your comments yourself,” Edgardo added smugly.
“That is not how I normally work. I have a prodigious memory.”
“Verba volant, scripta manent. As Caius Titus said in the Roman Senate.” He bit his lip: he too had shown off his useless knowledge.
“You may stay,” Magdalena said abruptly, putting an end to the ongoing tension.
“Thank you, Signora, I’ll get the necessary writing tools immediately.”
“Please be gentle,” Magdalena added, caressing her sister’s face. Then, realizing the absurdity of her words, she said, “Do whatever you need to.”
Edgardo came back with parchment, a quill, and a horn filled with ink. He brought the lectern closer to the bed, took his precious eye circles out of his pocket, and adopted a waiting pose, flashing a provocative, defiant smile.
“I can’t see what you’re hoping to achieve,” Abella said, getting ready.
“I only wish for Alvise to have a fair trial,” Edgardo replied.
That wasn’t all and Abella knew it: the scribe harbored a suspicion, a distrust toward her, which she couldn’t account for.
She bent over Costanza and removed the canvas from her body.
The underdeveloped breasts, the narrow hips, and the long, skinny legs: naked, she looked even more frighteningly white. She’d examined countless women, many of them victims of rape, others already ill or about to leave this world.
Costanza was different. Even though at least two nights had passed since her death, there was no sign of decay.
“It’s natron,” Edgardo explained when Abella noticed the veil of white dust. “Glassmakers use it during the melting stage. Her whole body was covered in it. That’s why they’ve accused Alvise. He’s worked in a foundry.”
Abella picked up a small amount of the mineral with her fingers and placed it in a handkerchief which she put back into her pocket.
“Alright, let’s begin the inspectio. In primis, we’ll analyze the top part,” she announced with authority. Then, with a skilled gesture, she took the head between her hands and bent it right and left, examining the insides of the ears, feeling the nape, and checking the neck.
“Write down: nullum signum of strangulation, nor of a blow with a rod, a sword, or a club. Calva intacta est. There is no smell of decay from the flesh, so she can’t have been dead for more than three days.”
She prized open her jaw, parted her mouth, stuck two fingers in, and rubbed inside, going down to the throat. Then she took the damp fingertips up to her nose and breathed in deeply, before licking them with enthusiasm.
“It smells of lamb suckling meat, thick, slippery humors, a slight scent of . . . ” she paused thoughtfully, “ . . . I’d say of juniper. There’s no trace of venomous vapors, or of toxic herbs, or deadly substances. So I’d rule out poisoning.”
“You’re going too fast,” Edgardo interrupted. “My hand can’t keep up with your voice.”
“I didn’t ask you to write down my words, and I thought you were more skilled. Instead, I see you are slow and boring and,
besides, that strange contraption to help your eyes is slowing you down. You’re not much of a scribe.”
“At Bobbio, I was considered one of the best.”
“Perhaps that was many years ago.”
Edgardo decided not to respond. She was right. His season for writing was inevitably heading toward a long, harsh winter.
Magister Abella’s hands went up the shoulders, lifted the frail arms, tapped on the breastbone, rose up to the heart, then went down to the abdomen. The physician looked, pressed, kneaded.
“There’s an unusual, unnatural swelling and hardness in the area where third-region organs reside, such as the liver, bile, stomach, spleen, and intestines.” She paused and looked at Edgardo. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s almost as though the organs are swollen.”
“What can it mean?” Edgardo asked.
Abella did not reply and carried on with her inspection.
“And now let’s move to the fourth region, to the genital organs.” And, with a decisive gesture, she parted the girl’s legs.
There was soft, luxuriant hair sprouting over the pubis. Abella bent down, searched for the entrance to the collum matricis and delicately inserted two fingers into the vulva.
She pushed, felt, turned, took them out and raised her fingers to her nose and mouth, tasting it as she’d done earlier.
“It smells of eel skin dried in the sun, a slightly salty, crackling taste of strong spice.” She looked up at Edgardo, who kept writing, holding the goose quill with one hand and the eye circles with the other. “I can say for certain that there has been no penetration . . . pulcra illibata est.”
The scribe stopped writing and drew a deep breath of relief. “So the hypothesis that Alvise may have raped her before or after her death is not plausible. Moreover, there are no signs of struggle.”
“You’re right, but what makes me perplexed is that I’ve found nothing that would have caused her death . . . except for the strange swelling in the third region.”
“Maybe she was suffocated,” Edgardo said.
There was a shared look of understanding that surprised them both . . . they were working together, and it was as though they’d decided that at the same time.
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