Free The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice by Laura Rahme Page A

him.
    “Have you gone mad? I swear to you, Giacomo, if you do not release her at once, I will kill you! Don’t make me do this! Let her go!”
    “You will leave my son alone! Jewess! Whore! I will kill you, Daniela!”
    I took a step back in horror. Had he said Daniela?
    “Father! Please...”
    And that was her last sob. A tear pearled down, taking with it a stream of lead paint from that angelic mask.
    And that was the end of it.
    What do you say to this, avogadore ? What do you say if I tell you, that in his mind, Giacomo did not murder his daughter? He murdered Daniela. But when it happened, so suddenly, I was too horrified to think of it or explain it. A rage, more furious than the last, surged through me.
    “Giacomo!” I screamed. And still, I stared at him in disbelief.  I think the last thing I said before I struck him off his feet, was, “You murderous whore’s son!”
    Then I stabbed him. I knew not how, but I did. Once, then three, then ten times. I could not contain my rage. I came at him again, even when he lay inert and his blood had soaked my hose and tabard.
    I wanted to slash at his face but his mask was not easily undone.  So I carved at his chest. Raging tears streamed down my face, blending with Giacomo’s splattering blood. I knifed him, because… Because it pleased me! I could not...I could not end it, Antonio! And the joy I felt, it frightened me! How it frightened me!
    Avogadore , you may not know this, but Giacomo was opposed to his son’s choice of a wife.  The woman he set out to murder was not his daughter.  In his mind, it was her! It was that artist’s daughter–a Jewish woman. Her name is Daniela Moro. And now she lives. And Zanetta, my sweet Zanetta, is gone.
    There is no more to say. But know this. Know this, Antonio. My death will follow. You cannot help me. I will die before they hang me.
     
    ***
     
    This marks the end of Rolandino’s erratic deposition. He had receded to a corner. He lay his head on the wall, one palm pressed against the etched crosses as though he felt safer near them.
    “You must rest, Rolandino,” came my voice.
    At once, he raised his head and turned at me in disbelief.  Fear deformed every line around his eyes and lips as he shook his head. I thought he would weep.
    “It is too late. He will come to find me. We will all die, avogadore . I tell you today, that my death will follow.  He will have his revenge! I know this, Antonio! They have told me about what happened to Ubertino...to Guido...and to... He killed them all! It was him!”
    “ Him ? Who? Giacomo? Who do you mean?”
    He never replied. He cradled his head in his trembling hands and began to chant anew.  And nothing I could say would bring the man comfort, nor bring back his reason.
    His sobs haunted me long after I had deserted the dark prison passages.
     
    ***
     
    I met Almoro Donato outside the Sala Gradenigo. He advanced toward me with a curious expression.
    “And how did you find our prisoner, avogadore ?”
    “It seems that he has been badly treated.”
    “You think so?”
    He seemed genuinely surprised at my reproaches.
    “The man is ruined,” I pursued.  “Not the haughty Rolandino I once met. It is an unfortunate happenstance of applying The Question.  His testimony will be all the more incoherent...”
    Almoro Donato turned to me with a frightening violence.
    “The Question? Rolandino Vitturi was not tortured, Antonio. I can vouch for it.”
    I must not have appeared convinced. Almoro gripped my arm, his eyes bulging until I had to take note that he was as perplexed as I was.
    “Antonio, there was no need to apply The Question.  He confessed!” he spit.
    A chilling wave filled through me. Almoro recomposed himself.  With a reluctant air, he shuffled to another Consiglio session while I took to Piazza San Marco, immersed in conflicted thoughts.
    Here was a man, who upon murdering a fellow merchant, had resigned himself to the accusations against him and chosen