strands, as glossy and black as a horse’s mane.
When Hannah looked up again, Leah’s eyes were still on her. There was the glint of iron. In her hand, Leah held a knife.
CHAPTER 4
Jewish Quarter Rome
THE SMELL OF death made Cesca giddy. It had a sweetish odour rather like the water in a vase of lilies that had not been changed for several days. The windows in the bedchamber were too narrow to admit a breeze. The oil lamps sucked all the air from the room. For what Francesca—or as most people called her, Cesca—had in mind, none of these details made the slightest difference.
Inside were all the women, including Cesca and the widow, Grazia. Outside in the garden were the male mourners—Jews clad in shades of black and grey, curls hanging down on either side of their faces, beards showing theremnants of last night’s soup, their skin colourless from too much time in the prayer house.
All except for one man.
Like a white heron among a flock of crows stood Foscari, the nobleman from Venice—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and beardless. There was a deliberate grace to him, an economy of movement as he stooped to listen to something the rabbi was saying, cupping his hand behind his ear as though he were hard of hearing, although Cesca knew he was not. And then there was the matter of his nose—silver, attached by silk threads wrapped around his ears, flashing in the intermittent rays of the sun.
Why, she wondered, would a gentile trouble himself to attend the funeral of a Jew? And not just any gentile but a marquis. And not just any marquis but the Venetian ambassador to Constantinople. Surely such a man must have better things to do than attend the funeral of an obscure moneylender.
In a semicircle around the bed, Cesca stood with the other women who were darting glances at Grazia, waiting for her to approach the corpse and begin the ablutions—wash the body, stuff the ears, nose and mouth with cotton wool, tie the ankles, cross the hands on his breast, and wrap him in a shroud. The widow Grazia should step forward and begin the task, but she did not.
“I cannot, Cesca,” Grazia finally said, turning to her. “You must do what has to be done.”
“As you wish,” Cesca replied, approaching the bed. To her relief, none of the other women moved toward the body tohelp her. This would make it easier to carry out her plan. “Go outside, all of you. I will look after him.” She had almost said “it.”
I will look after it
. That was all he was now—no longer Leon, no longer human, no longer anything but an unpleasant household task to be performed.
The women hesitated. They stood for a moment, their arms at their sides.
Cesca put an arm around Grazia’s shoulders and gave her a nudge toward the door. “Go. I can manage.”
The other women took Grazia by the arm and trooped out to the garden, where they stood apart from the male mourners. Cesca locked the door behind them.
With Grazia and the other women gone, she would have the solitude she needed to wash and wrap the body. It amused her to remember that this morning when she threw cloths over the mirrors, a custom required when sitting
shiva
, the period of mourning, she had noticed that even after everything she had done, her eyes remained as guileless as lapis lazuli.
Leon had died young. His black beard, without a hint of white, reached the middle of his well-fleshed chest. Death had scrubbed the colour from his face and left it a dull grey. He wore a prayer shawl, black frock coat, and breeches.
Cesca had donned a stained wool skirt this morning, knowing what lay ahead. She would not sacrifice her good dress. The rabbi would perform
keriah
, using a knife and slitting her mourner’s clothes, not on a seam that could be mended but in the middle of the cloth, making it unwearable.
This was the way of Jews. Cesca had studied their habits well. For two years she had worked for Leon and Grazia as the “Shabbat goy,” performing chores forbidden to be
When Hannah looked up again, Leah’s eyes were still on her. There was the glint of iron. In her hand, Leah held a knife.
CHAPTER 4
Jewish Quarter Rome
THE SMELL OF death made Cesca giddy. It had a sweetish odour rather like the water in a vase of lilies that had not been changed for several days. The windows in the bedchamber were too narrow to admit a breeze. The oil lamps sucked all the air from the room. For what Francesca—or as most people called her, Cesca—had in mind, none of these details made the slightest difference.
Inside were all the women, including Cesca and the widow, Grazia. Outside in the garden were the male mourners—Jews clad in shades of black and grey, curls hanging down on either side of their faces, beards showing theremnants of last night’s soup, their skin colourless from too much time in the prayer house.
All except for one man.
Like a white heron among a flock of crows stood Foscari, the nobleman from Venice—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and beardless. There was a deliberate grace to him, an economy of movement as he stooped to listen to something the rabbi was saying, cupping his hand behind his ear as though he were hard of hearing, although Cesca knew he was not. And then there was the matter of his nose—silver, attached by silk threads wrapped around his ears, flashing in the intermittent rays of the sun.
Why, she wondered, would a gentile trouble himself to attend the funeral of a Jew? And not just any gentile but a marquis. And not just any marquis but the Venetian ambassador to Constantinople. Surely such a man must have better things to do than attend the funeral of an obscure moneylender.
In a semicircle around the bed, Cesca stood with the other women who were darting glances at Grazia, waiting for her to approach the corpse and begin the ablutions—wash the body, stuff the ears, nose and mouth with cotton wool, tie the ankles, cross the hands on his breast, and wrap him in a shroud. The widow Grazia should step forward and begin the task, but she did not.
“I cannot, Cesca,” Grazia finally said, turning to her. “You must do what has to be done.”
“As you wish,” Cesca replied, approaching the bed. To her relief, none of the other women moved toward the body tohelp her. This would make it easier to carry out her plan. “Go outside, all of you. I will look after him.” She had almost said “it.”
I will look after it
. That was all he was now—no longer Leon, no longer human, no longer anything but an unpleasant household task to be performed.
The women hesitated. They stood for a moment, their arms at their sides.
Cesca put an arm around Grazia’s shoulders and gave her a nudge toward the door. “Go. I can manage.”
The other women took Grazia by the arm and trooped out to the garden, where they stood apart from the male mourners. Cesca locked the door behind them.
With Grazia and the other women gone, she would have the solitude she needed to wash and wrap the body. It amused her to remember that this morning when she threw cloths over the mirrors, a custom required when sitting
shiva
, the period of mourning, she had noticed that even after everything she had done, her eyes remained as guileless as lapis lazuli.
Leon had died young. His black beard, without a hint of white, reached the middle of his well-fleshed chest. Death had scrubbed the colour from his face and left it a dull grey. He wore a prayer shawl, black frock coat, and breeches.
Cesca had donned a stained wool skirt this morning, knowing what lay ahead. She would not sacrifice her good dress. The rabbi would perform
keriah
, using a knife and slitting her mourner’s clothes, not on a seam that could be mended but in the middle of the cloth, making it unwearable.
This was the way of Jews. Cesca had studied their habits well. For two years she had worked for Leon and Grazia as the “Shabbat goy,” performing chores forbidden to be
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