The castle of theories he’d built was crumbling wretchedly. It was always like this: his imagination would gallop, creating plots and weaving threads that would then dissolve into nothingness. Still, Edgardo didn’t want to give in so quickly. “Are you trying to say that you do this just for the love of knowledge?”
“Do you think it’s fun for me to dissect corpses?”
“That’s the point: I can’t equate the sacred urge for knowledge with the work of a butcher.”
“You see, you’re making the mistake of seeing the world as a huge parchment: it’s only by investigating matter, testing, and experimenting that we can discover how the laws of nature are governed. It’s only through the study of organs that I’ve understood how diseases manifest themselves and how I can treat them.”
Edgardo stroked his beard. “I guess I must apologize to you.” He uttered the words softly, hesitantly.
“So you’ve decided not to report me?”
“Yes, but in exchange, I’ll ask you to help me,” Edgardo replied in counterattack.
“Again?”
“It’s for a noble cause.”
“You’re always chasing after noble causes, but without much success, it seems to me.”
“This time I can’t fail.” Edgardo stood up. There was a little demon lashing out obsessively in his head, sticking a peg right between his eyes. “Do you have some water?”
Abella handed him a goatskin. “It’s from the nuns’ well, so it doesn’t taste of salt.”
The scribe drank greedily, then rinsed his face.
“You look like a drunken toad,” Abella remarked.
“Thank you. Only you can highlight my qualities in such an appropriate manner.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“I’m convinced Alvise is innocent. There’s nothing to prove his guilt, that unexplainable operation on Costanza’s body cannot be his doing. Besides, I went to the foundry where he worked: there’s no trace of the natron found on her body . . . and also he adored her.”
“Perhaps that’s precisely why he abducted her and then . . . ”
“No, Alvise wouldn’t be capable of that. He’s a simple soul . . . I know him well.”
“So why did you come here?” Abella asked.
“The only authority figure who can guarantee a fair trial is Tommaso Grimani,” Edgardo continued.
“But he’s the accuser!” Abella replied.
“He’s blinded by grief, so he wanted to find someone to blame at all costs . . . And then I think his position forces him to prove to the people that the boni homines cannot let such horrific crimes go unpunished.”
“There’s certainly no love lost between that man and me . . .” Abella remarked.
“Magdalena trusts you, listens to you, has great respect for your opinions. If you could intercede with her . . . ” Edgardo’s voice was heartfelt and sincere. “The only person who can find her way into Grimani’s heart is, after all, his wife.”
A light, cold rain began to fall through the hole in the dome.
Abella remained silent, watching the pillar of water in the middle of her laboratorium. “Are you absolutely sure?” she suddenly said. “Magdalena is a strong, determined woman, at least she appears to be, yet she shows a compliance toward her husband that seems at odds with her personality . . . Something doesn’t quite add up in my mind.”
“It’s a wife’s natural desire to go along with her husband, perhaps you’ve no experience of that . . . ” Edgardo added with a dart of malice.
“As far as I know neither have you, and yet you pontificate about marriage feelings somewhat confidently. It’s not something you learn from manuscripts.”
“Anyway,” Edgardo interrupted, “will you help me or not?”
Abella examined the scribe carefully. His body left much to be desired: that horrible bulge on his chest, the crooked bearing, the excessively pale skin, and that untidy bush of red curls that blended with the scruffy beard, made him look like an angry hedgehog. And yet there was something about him, a kind of aura that suggested suffering, an age-old pain in search of redemption, a longing to free himself from the weight of matter, a quest for lightness, that made him worthy of attention and kindness.
“I can’t guarantee it’ll be a successful enterprise, but I’ll try,” Abella said.
“I’m very grateful. Your generosity will magnify your soul and your knowledge.” Edgardo hadn’t forgotten the teachings of the Abbey.
“You may be right about my soul, but I think my mind needs other nutrients.”
The quack always wanted to have the final word. Edgardo smiled.
“Come, let’s prepare something to eat. Would you like an eel pie?”
Abella went into the front room, followed by Edgardo.
It was a flash. He hadn’t paid attention before, but looking at the shelves in the laboratorium and then the living quarters, he noticed that there was no sign of any parchment, manuscript, or tables in any corner or closet; nothing that had anything to do with the work of a physician or the activities of a scholar. It was strange.
He watched Abella as she tried to keep an eel still so she could strike it: her build and manner were more akin to those of a hunter than a physician. Still, he had to admit that it was precisely what he liked about this woman.
He’d spent the early hours of the morning, from dawn to Terce, shut away in the pantry, asking not to be disturbed, so when Magdalena saw him come into the salon in an unnerving silence, she thought he looked like an apparition.
Tommaso was wearing the Oriental nobleman’s outfit he used for ceremonies: a jacket made of expensive cloth embroidered with silk and gold, held by a belt with a silver clasp. Over it, he had a cloak of fine wool trimmed with ermine, clipped with a golden clasp. On his head, he sported a mitre-shaped beret.
He had a luminous, peaceful expression she hadn’t seen for a long time. She was even more surprised when Tommaso asked her to stop what she was doing and go with him on an important visit.
Following the Biria canal, which linked the Rivus Altus and Olivolo, the gondola crossed a city in the grip of hunger, at the mercy of muddy waters that drew closer, like an army of Barbarians, dragging into the abyss the Venetians’ attempts to build on this mushy, treacherous land.
Moreover, in recent days, despite the freezing weather, some purple aquatic plants had multiplied, stifling canals with a gelatinous mass that smelled like rotting hay.
Once they’d passed the church of San Biagio, Magdalena realized that the boat was taking the canal that led to the Arzanà—the Arsenal.
Even though she was the wife of one of Venice’s most powerful merchants, it was a place she’d never visited.
Everything looked grand and awe-inspiring to her.
There were crenelated walls surrounding a pool as large as the brolo of San Marco. On the east side was erected a watchtower, and a wide canal connected the Arsenal to the open lagoon.
The first isolated shipyards gathered around the parish church of San Martino had multiplied, and were now all within the protective walls, in the bay dug out on one side of the lake of San Daniele.
Carpenters, specialist workers, sawers, oar makers, and blacksmiths were working hard around the hulls of various ships in the process of being built. It was hectic work, and Magdalena was surprised by the large number of men engaged in this activity.
The main shipyards produced the larger ships: galleys, chelandions, dromons; from the minor ones came the smaller vessels, such as scaulas, gondolas, and sandolos as well as all the flat-bottomed boats used in the muddy sea.
At one of the shipyards, Tommaso invited Magdalena to step out of the boat. The workmen stood aside to let them pass.
Grimani had abandoned the older, more renowned arsenal of Terranova, which looked over the bay of San Marco, ne
ar the Calle dei Fabbri, putting in charge a new foreman whom everyone praised and who also cost much less.
“Look at the new galley that’s going to make the Grimani fleet even wealthier,” Tommaso said proudly. “There is no ship as large as this in the whole of Venice.”
Magdalena looked up and, for a moment, was blinded by the milky whiteness of the sky.
What she saw before her looked more like a floating fortress than a ship. A galley three times as long as its width, with two masts almost as tall as the vessel itself, armed with lateens. It had two decks, a quarterdeck at the stern, and one at the bow as well as a warship crow’s nest.
The sails that came down from the poles and interwove with the hawsers created a kind of forest with crystal reflections.
“It must be ready for the spring convoy,” Grimani added, giving a nod of greeting to Romano Marzolo, his associate, who was talking nearby with an odd individual dressed in Oriental clothes, with sunburned skin and a shiny skull.
It was Marzolo who would take on the responsibility for the journey, putting to the test his skill as a sailor at the risk of his life. Suppliers, such as Tommaso, would invest the capital and remain safely in Venice.
The ships would leave, loaded with timber, iron, and salt, then, once they’d sold them and reinvested in spices, silk, gold, and slaves, would—wars and pirates permitting—return home, where the earnings would be split equally among the partners.
“I want to call it Luca, like our son,” Tommaso announced, seeking his wife’s eyes. “It will travel to the ports of Acre, Tyre, Alexandria, and will venture down new routes beyond the Pillars of Hercules. We’ll increase our trade until we become the wealthiest, most powerful family in the Dogado.”
For a moment, dazzled by her husband’s dreams of power, Magdalena found herself imagining fleeing toward the Orient, far from the slime of the lagoon that clung to her and kept her prisoner.
“I’ve brought you here so that you may see the symbol of our rebirth.”
Tommaso took her hand and pressed it to his chest. It gave her a start, since it was a gesture he’d never made before.
“We must remain united and start living again. The season for mourning will give way to fruitful times. God will grant us peace and fertility. Let’s throw grief and dark memories behind us.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “Are you ready to come with me on this new path, and follow my advice with trust and hope?”
Magdalena wanted to give in to the impulse of embracing him, since never before had he uttered such words. “Yes, my lord, with all my heart and soul, I am ready to follow you, and begin anew.”
“As you see, this vessel has wide, capacious hips, and can contain grain, salt, wine, oil, everything our generous soil yields . . . It’s therefore just like your womb, which will soon give life to our new heir.”
“I wish that above everything else,” Magdalena whispered.
“You needn’t be afraid anymore, trust me, we’re close. In a few days’ time, the miraculous medicine I promised you will arrive, and you will once again have the joy of motherhood.”
Magdalena remembered Abella’s advice, but she was ready to do anything in order to have a child.
“God willing,” she replied.
“God is willing. I must give you some important news that proves it,” Tommaso announced, pressing Magdalena’s hand to his chest.
XXIII.
TATARO
She had decided to meet her in the crypt of San Zaccaria, where she would go and pray at the tomb of her beloved sister. Tommaso wouldn’t object and the conversation with Abella would take place away from prying eyes.
Magdalena kneeled and began reciting her prayers.
Gusts of icy wind filtered through the slits, making a gloomy sound, like the screams of the nuns who’d been burned alive down below, during the fire that had destroyed the church several years earlier. The souls of those wretched women were still wandering around in search of some peace.
She turned around when she heard the rustling of footsteps behind her. She thought that, in her scarlet garment, Magister Abella projected a luminous, almost holy aura. For a moment, she regretted having agreed to meet with her.
“My most esteemed lady,” Abella said, “I asked to see you urgently because I cannot ignore the desperate call of my conscience.”
Magdalena interrupted. “Come here and kneel with me at the grave of this innocent.”
Abella obeyed.
“I have the highest esteem for you and I trust your knowledge,” Magdalena continued. “Sometimes, however, there are events and misfortunes that call for definitive, quick choices, and we cannot afford to please our hearts. I promised to follow your instructions to cure the sterility that has taken residence in my womb, and wait. Now I must be honest with you . . . I can’t, and will not . . . since Costanza’s death, my husband has been closer to me with feelings of love I’d thought vanished. I don’t want to disappoint him, nor do I wish to antagonize him.”
The Magister listened without displaying any sign of anxiety.
“Tommaso has assured me that the miraculous medicine arriving from the Orient will enable me to conceive once again. They say many women in those countries have benefitted from it, and I have no reason to doubt my husband’s words. I have therefore decided to make him happy. I wanted to let you know, out of honesty and because I respect you.”
“And I thank you for your consideration and understand your reasons. Even so, please be careful. I know of many cases where, in order to reach their goals, women have undergone treatments that have endangered their very lives.”
“Don’t worry, my husband cares about my health above all else.” Magdalena reached out for her. “Help me stand up, I’m feeling so weak.”
Abella lifted her with a determined gesture. It seemed to her as though that fragile body had been totally drained of the will to live.
“You must eat and go out, you must rebuild your strength.”
“It’s what my husband says. To be reborn, to rise again . . . perhaps if a new life were to blossom inside me . . . ” Her words remained suspended, as though broken off by a premonition.
“Signora, as I was saying, I asked to meet with you because of a question of conscience.” Abella searched for the right words. “I do not claim to cast doubt over the decisions of those who have the authority and skill to make the judgement; and it is precisely because I believe that the government of the city of Venice is recognized in every foreign country for the wisdom with which it administers justice and for the fairness of its trials that I must intercede for the fate of your servant Alvise.” Abella took on a scholarly tone. “The study I conducted on your sister’s body and the investigations on the substance found on her skin have triggered many doubts as to the boy’s guilt.”
Magdalena raised her hand in front of her eyes, as though to stop the sound of these words. “Enough, say no more. It’s all useless. Have no concerns for his fate: Alvise has confessed.”
“Confessed?” Abella repeated, astonished.
“My husband brought me the news a few hours ago. It’s been a heavy blow. We’ve treated that boy like a son. We would never have imagined him capable of such a horrific action.”
“Confessed,” Abella muttered to herself, as though unable to make sense of the word.
“He’ll pay for his crime with his life. He’ll be blinded, hanged and quartered. The execution will take place outside the Doge’s Palace, in the presence of the people of Venice, as soon as the sentence pronounced by the judgement court is confirmed by the Great Council and the Arengo*.”
“So there’s nothing to be done?” Abella asked naively.
“Nothing. Only a new confession could annul the first sentence. God’s will has been done, and Costanza will be avenged. Alvise will pay for his sin.”
“They’ve extorted a confe
ssion under torture, I’m certain of it.” Edgardo couldn’t find peace. The news brought by Abella had opened an abyss: there wasn’t much time left, and if they wanted to save the boy, they had to find the real murderer and prove to the judges who was the guilty party.
They didn’t have many tangible elements and could only rely on a few unexplained facts.
“Let’s follow the natron,” Abella suggested. “Costanza’s body was covered in this substance. If we find out who uses it, or where it’s kept, perhaps we’ll discover where the body was hidden. We must track down all the glassmakers who use it, and that won’t be easy.”
“There’s only one person who knows all the secrets and workings of our master glassmakers, and that’s Maestro Tataro,” Edgardo exclaimed. “I don’t suppose he’ll welcome me as a good friend, but we must try. Let’s take a boat to Amurianum and question him.”
Abella was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of futility. Why should she follow the scribe? Why did she always allow herself to get involved? Her mission was to cure the sick, not save those who’d been sentenced to death.
At the same time, she felt she could not leave Edgardo alone in that impossible struggle to save a garzone who had perhaps been chosen by the authorities as a scapegoat. She could smell the stench of injustice and, as a magister mulier sapiens in constant war against superstition and prejudice, she was ready to fight.
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