by Laura Rahme
What did she know?
I was startled by shuffling footfalls on the stone. Catarina became aware of the same noise and she, too, stiffened. She draped herself in a mantle and stepped back, retreating from the bocca.
I deserted the wooden bridge just in time to glimpse two tradesmen returning from their long day at the Arsenal. Slinking into Calle Largo San Lorenzo, I hid my face and peered into my journal, feigning to be occupied with notes. The tradesmen traversed the fondamenta, ignoring me as they passed.
When they had gone, I regained my hiding spot behind the Ponte San Lorenzo. My eyes ran wildly to the cold wall where Catarina had remained standing. Had she seen me? What had passed a moment ago? Had she delivered her denunciation?
Now she stood perfectly still, one hand raised to her heart, almost as though she counted each beat. She kept her back turned toward me but I understood that she had not yet parted with the parchment.
Her fist tightened.
The force she had applied to suddenly crush that parchment, stunned me. There was in it the mark of reproach and self-loathing. Had I imagined it, or was Catarina scorning herself for having attempted to speak out? The reviled parchment had soon disappeared into her velvet mantle.
Catarina spun round and shuffled rapidly toward the bridge. As she neared, I feared that she might see me, but she merely stared wide-eyed into the emptiness surrounding her, as though she were lost and had suddenly woken from a nightmare. She raised a trembling hand to her face but though her mouth parted, though her hand remained to drown any noise, still, no sound came from her lips.
I was captivated by this strange widow, this distraught figure standing in a daze.
But as rain poured into the campo, the afternoon spell was broken. The signora gathered her train and made for a side calle, running as fast she could, away from the bocca, away from the Basilica and far from the torrential waters of Venezia.
Blackened skies smothered the church of San Lorenzo until the last pink light on the Istrian stone became charcoal and the lagoon waters turned to darkness.
Rolandino
Journal of Antonio da Parma
24 December 1422
The day after the storm, the lagoon waters had swelled and turned brown. Its levels, inflated as they were by the full moon, lapped fiercely onto the edges of the canal.
It was the day preceding Nativity and despite the upcoming festivities, a thick cloud of apprehension hung over the Rialto. About mid-morning, a commotion stirred near the Rialto markets. A disheveled youth ran in a sweat, brandishing a leaflet and calling out to all who would hear.
“Listen, gentle people of Venezia! The latest news! The latest news! One gazzetta for the news! Come listen to the news!”
I hailed the young boy and slipped a coin through his fingers. A crowd had formed round him to listen to his animated delivery.
“Rolandino Vitturi, broker, and partner of the late Giacomo Contarini, who he shamelessly murdered, has disappeared this morning from the Wells. The Consiglio dei Dieci have reported last night that he has gone missing. Listen, gentle people of Venezia, the murderer Rolandino Vitturi roams the calli. The Consiglio dei Dieci advises the gentle people of Venezia to remain vigilant.”
A horrified murmur rose from the crowd. Women crossed themselves while their husbands held them close. A coachman attempted to ward off the sudden surge of eager passengers. Pushing through the indignant crowd, I signaled to him and flashed my papers in his face.
“To the Palazzo Ducale! Make haste!”
“Si, Signor Avogadore.”
***
On my arrival, the Piazzetta thrived with gossipers. I stepped inside the palace, the sound of my boots resonating loudly in the entrance hall. I found Almoro Donato much occupied with two inquisitors. I pushed through, my eyes flashing with contempt.
“Ah! Signor da Parma,” he said, waving toward me. “One needs not ask the purpose of your visit. Unfortunate news, I know...”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Almoro noted my anger.
He quietly gestured to the other inquisitors who departed at once.
“Follow me into the Consiglio dei Dieci chamber, Antonio,” he said.
“When I met with Rolandino Vitturi, he lay in a holding cell on the third floor of the palace. He was never in the Wells.”
“That is so. But the Consiglio made a discovery on the night before and that discovery found him guilty.”
“Guilty of what?”
He lowered his voice. “The crime of sodomy.”
My jaw dropped. “Unthinkable. And according to what evidence?”
“Have you not read my last letter, Antonio? The Jewish physician gave us his final report. Balsamo Morosini had, it appeared, engaged in acts contra natura before his death. The Jew’s examination was confirmed by two of the best physicians in Venezia. Rolandino himself was then examined and found guilty. The rest, you know.”
“Examined? Rolandino? Under my inquisition? Why was I not advised?”
“The matters of the Council remain with the Council. Hold yourself together, Antonio! Have you gone mad? Rolandino was initially sentenced to death as befitting his crime. We had him moved immediately to the Wells. The prisons are overflowing and unfortunately he had to be transferred to an older cell. The storm…”
“Signor Donato, this bears no relation to the murder of Giacomo Contarini. And why move Rolandino to the Wells without consulting me?”
“Antonio. Antonio, your behavior is improper. Now, I have been on your side with this. I have let it be known that you would see Rolandino’s treatment with the wrong eye. I made many attempts to dissuade the others but…” He pursued in a whisper. “You have no case. Rolandino has twice confessed. And now, you must calm yourself.”
“Calm myself? Almoro Donato, you have pressed upon me to hold an inquest and solve these murders. But I find that every course I have so far undertaken, is not only stifled, but you and your Consiglio, you all come at me, yes, at me, in the shadows, without my knowing and you set out to direct matters in another course!”
“I have understood you, avogadore. But in the light of this new evidence, you have no case. I have made it clear, in my previous letters, as to how the deceased came to their ends. As for Rolandino, it ought to be evident why we should suddenly consider this matter closed. Sodomy is a serious crime! It is proliferating in the Republic at an unfortunate rate. There are certain clergy men who consider it the very cause of the plague epidemics we are still battling. All those inculpated in sodomy are to appear before a trial run by the Consiglio dei Dieci. In these circumstances, the Consiglio dei Dieci takes precedence and there is no more for you to say.”
I could scarcely believe what he was telling me. “Forgive me, Signor Donato, I have further to say on the subject. The methods you have employed have shed little light upon this case. Do you deny that you have tormented Rolandino? You’ve applied The Question, forcing him to confess a crime that arose out of nothing but malicious gossip against another man. And now you scorn me for my fanciful delusions? How do you explain all this, Signor Donato?”
“You are wrong. Rolandino was not tortured. No sooner was he confronted by the physician’s findings, that Rolandino confessed his crimes against man and against nature. Do not find this improbable. His guilt bears down upon him. You saw it yourself. He lay in sorrowful state. We feared that he was losing his mind. We deliberated over the matter and saw to it that he was pardoned by commuting his sentence to life imprisonment. Don’t you see? In our decision to cast Rolandino to the lower dungeons, we spared him from the flames. Do you forget that sodomites are burned alive?”
“He lied. He feared for his life. You ought not to have admitted his confession.”
“How is it that you, of all people, would presume to reproach the Council for the work it has pursued for over a hundred years? Look to the facts, Antonio. In 1354, long before you were born, a man going under the name Rolandino Roncaglia was
tried and sentenced by our judges to die for the crime of sodomy. Roncaglia was also a merchant. He used to trade in the Rialto. But! He had a secret. He was known for dressing as a woman, hiding his member as though he were a woman and going in the backs of other men to be with them for carnal pleasure. Like a mere prostitute! Profiting from his vile crime. He did this for seven years until he was brought to justice. And much as our Rolandino did, this Signor Roncaglia also confessed to his sins. He did not even do this under torture! Guilt, Antonio. Guilt delivered him to justice. And he was burned for his crime. You should study these precedents.”
I sensed my frustration grow with every word he spoke.
“Almoro Donato, I do not presume to reprove the Consiglio dei Dieci. But as a member of justice, I must be heard. You say that I am wrong, yet I believe that the Consiglio has made a grave mistake. Rolandino is being arrested for a crime he has not committed while all along, you are choosing to ignore his real crime–the crime of murder and the reasons for this murder! You are closing a case that has not been fully understood!”
“Do not abuse of your privileges, avogadore. Remember your place. By law, the Council will not enter into discussion of its decisions. You know this well. And for all your concerns for our prisoner, you seem to have forgotten one thing. Where, pray you, is he now? He’s escaped.”
“I do not believe it, Almoro. Just another tale you have spun to conceal his murder.”
Almoro gave a regretful sigh.
“No, Antonio, we have not murdered Signor Vitturi. I had thought you were master of your senses and did not give weight to rumors about the Consiglio dei Dieci. I repeat. Rolandino cannot be found. Ah, but on the evening before his mysterious disappearance...he left something for you. A confession, I believe. It changes nothing of his sentence. In fact, it only strengthens it. His confession is beyond our jurisdiction. It lies in the hands of the priest. You may see him downstairs. It is a gruesome admission, as you will find. But there is nothing we can do in the daylight. There is enough gossip in this city as it is. The signori di notte will be dispatched, tonight, to ascertain the facts in Rolandino’s admission. You will see for yourself, what I speak of. And now…”
He moved to his drawers and retrieved a sheet of rough paper whose purpose I knew well.
“I believe this is the last we convene on this matter, Antonio. I will have you sign this deposition. After all, as avogadore you are assigned to oversee that all lawful procedures have been duly followed.” He presented the paper to me. “If you are satisfied...”
I shook with all my being. I could not believe the audacity of the Council. Satisfied? Not one ounce of justice had been applied. My arms had remained bound from the beginning of this inquest and right to the end. I had been fooled and now, the only remaining witness to this case had been take away from the hands of justice. I fumed from within.
Almoro’s black pupils constricted as he noted the flash of anger in my eyes.
“It was I who demanded you look into these murders. I take responsibility for your vexation. But if you inhibit the Consiglio’s work, Antonio, your future role as avogadore di commune will not see the light. Help me, help you. Sign here.”
I had reached the limits of propriety. I could pretend no longer. I stormed out of the Consiglio dei Dieci’s chamber and ran downstairs. Behind me, Almoro’s voice rose in indignation.
“Antonio!”
I ignored his calls. I raced out to meet the priest. I would not sign a paper so vile.
***
Before my visit to the Contarini estate, I unfolded Rolandino’s confession. To my surprise, I realized that he had addressed it to me.
And I shuddered at the mad tale he recounted.
Antonio,
I am broken man, Antonio. I tried to keep her away from me. But she is there, always.
She watches me.
At night, I pray to the crosses on the wall. I press my head to them. They are my salvation. But what salvation is there for a man who has killed?
Will you be my confessor, Antonio? You were there, remember, on that day and no one will know of what I speak, save for you. No one will understand.
They are all dead now. And I am the last. I was doomed ever since I looked upon her face.
I tremble as I write. The light of day seeps into my cell, but soon, the Consiglio dei Dieci and their familiars will drag me down to the Wells. They will take me to the depths of Hell.
Oh, but I welcome it. I welcome being with others.
No matter how many of us cramp in the damp cells of Venezia’s underworld, I will have company there. May my body rot with every ebb and flow of the canal waters in the lower dungeons. She will not find me.
Antonio, when I lashed out at Giacomo, it was anger I felt for what he had done to her, to his own daughter, my future bride. I confess my rage. But since my imprisonment, I have thought about this rage and about what else gave rise to it. And you know how I once told you that Rolandino does not like to be played for a fool? Well I have been played for a fool. But Francesco Visconti never played a part in it. Giacomo did. It was Giacomo who tricked me.
It is too late now. The deed is done. And I have suffered for it. Because she has haunted me since.
You want to know what happened, Antonio, when Giacomo’s relatives dragged you away from Santa Croce? And when you left us there? You want to know what we did to the old man? You remember the old artisan? Francesco Visconti, the Milanese.
We killed him, Antonio.
Every ruse and defamation that his old body could withstand, we applied. We defiled his naked body and set out on his face and eyes. We used the blood sputtering from his severed limbs to paint on his plastered face and...Antonio, there is much worse. What we began, out of mockery and anger, Giacomo urged further and soon, I tell you that I began to loathe this old man. I wanted to wreak misery on him. And with every protest, every sob that he uttered, I felt revived.
What did we not do to Francesco Visconti on that evening?
Nothing.
The atelier became a chamber of murder and torture. We defiled and savaged, until our masterpiece–the torn, shredded, bloodied mass that was left of Francesco, lay there, at our feet.
I now remember that I stood in my bloodied shirt, panting and sweating. What had I just done? Ubertino had sunk his mass on a stool. He had dug his fingers in a jelly of glittering sequins and he gazed at it with cloudy eyes. Guido had punched a hole into the wall and he stood still with his face against it. And Giacomo… Giacomo was scribbling notes in his diary with a quill dipped in blood.
I stood there. I was horrified by it all.
I stumbled back, wiping the blood off my face. I saw the portrait on the wall. And there she was. Black hair down to her breasts, eyes like a demon and she was looking straight back.
She glared at me. I spat at the portrait and muttered the word, “Strega.”
Giacomo went mad. He suddenly turned to me. He leapt at me. He struck me then and there.
I never understood it.
Before midnight, we left. We left Francesco as he was.
But wait. That is not all. She…the witch, she has followed me since. I saw her the next morning when we visited the Contarini to break the fast. I saw her again, in my carriage, before we arrived at the marquis’ casa. I saw her twice eyeing Ubertino at the evening banquet. Do you think I am mad, Antonio?
I told myself, “Rolandino, this is bad. This is very bad.”
I knew I was cursed. We were all cursed.
Don’t you see? They have all died, Antonio.
Rolandino is dead to the world now. The forgotten of Venezia find their ends in the Wells and none exist to mourn them. But you, Florentine, you will not fail me. I understood from the moment I met you in Santa Croce that you were afraid for Francesco Visconti. You feared that something would happen to him.
I can tell you that no horror you imagined or feared for him has not already come to pass.
If you truly are
a man of justice, you will see for yourself.
You must find his body. Find his body promptly. Bury him. Bury him and end her wrath.
Your fool,
Rolandino
Catarina
Journal of Catarina Contarini
24 December 1422
The avogadore is an intriguing man.
He is not like the self-important patricians one meets in the Piazza San Marco. Nor is he of the sort one finds whispering in the Piazzetta–those disciples of the Signoria, enveloped in black mantles, avid for power and who lurk round the palace with their grave airs.
He is past forty yet still handsome. He has the soft curls of the Florentine and wears his dark brown hair not too long, barely touching his shoulders. He is rather tall and elegant, almost noble beneath his blue mantle. He does not allow himself fancy dress and keeps to a carmine silk shirt beneath his velvet doublet. His olive skin is a darker shade than that of the white haired patricians. I take it he has come from a country breeding.
All his manner denotes calm, yet he has a piercing gaze beneath thick eyebrows and often that gaze can frighten a little. He is often silent. There is much he does not say.
During his visit, he was exceedingly observant. He spoke fast without the mirth of the Venetian, without the excess frivolity of gesture. He has not mastered our nonchalant gaiety, our joyous affectation and he is like an open book, at times. One can read him well. Too well. Yet he has an economy of movement that was impressive.
There is also, unless I am mistaken, a certain sadness in his eyes which makes him somewhat endearing.
When he entered our internal tiled courtyard, he seemed distracted almost immediately. Now that I remember, the two adult dogs howled loudly upon his arrival and I had to hush them before I could attend to my visitor. I think, as with all foreign visitors, the avogadore was also taken aback by the confined spaces of this cold house. It is always misleading for foreigners. They are ever so enthralled by the oriental beauty and sumptuousness of our Venetian casas and their apparent wealth when seen from the canal, only to realize, when they enter, that we are practical souls at heart. Too practical at times.
