Chiara – Revenge and Triumph (27 page)

"He has, Gaetano, but from one of their own, not one of us. These black frocks are really clever fellows," shouted another.

Stefano shot a hateful glance at both of them before he turned back to her. "So it is your thesis that reason should be applied to theology?"

"Yes, at least to those aspects that are open to reason."

"Do you imply that certain things are closed to reason?" another asked.

"Yes, those parts that depend on faith and belief alone." She heard the bell of San Domenico toll for vespers and suddenly found it prudent to make her exit. "I have to leave. Maybe we can continue this discussion another time."

She quickly started walking along Via di Sapienza toward the church. Halfway down the street, she heard somebody call out.

"Brother, please wait."

She turned around. The young novice pushed his chubby figure along in quick, small steps, wheezing heavily.

"My name is Stefano da Prato. What is yours?" he said, while trying to catch his breath.

For a fleeting moment she was at a loss and then said the first name that came to mind: "I am Anselmo Cavolta, from Fossombrone." As she said it the hypocritical face of Padre Anselmo rose in her inner eye.
Why did I choose this name?

 "I do not remember seeing you before. Are you new here?"

"Yes, I just arrived in Siena and was curious about the University."

"I heard that several new students joined our abbey the other day. Are you one of them?"

Chiara did not like the turn the questioning was taking. It could only mean trouble. She had the urge to run.

"No, I’m just visiting Siena for a few weeks and stay with relatives."

"Then I invite you to come and visit our abbey. I could introduce you to our prior."

They had reached the steps to the church. "Oh, I would not want to impose," she replied, wondering whether she would be forced to enter.

"It is no imposition. I would welcome it," he replied. "By the way, do not give any heed to Gaetano Salimbeni. He is not a serious student."

Chiara nodded and had no choice but to go inside. She genuflected, while crossing herself, and entered the first row of benches, glad that the service started immediately. At the end, she deliberately walked behind the young cleric, intent on leaving the church in the opposite direction from him. They shook hands, promising to meet again at the university, and went their separate ways.

* * * 

She was back in Via di Sapienza the next day, armed with a small satchel that contained a book of blank paper, a small ink pot and a quill, for once without her bible. Before she entered the square in front of the university, she surveyed the people. If possible, she would try to avoid Stefano. But it was hopeless. At least a third of the students were in clerical garb and many were turning their back to her. She simply had to brave it.

"Brother Anselmo, wait,"

Only when she recognized Stefano’s voice, did it dawn that he was calling her. The training as an actor allowed her to fall instantly into her role. Rather than smile, as she normally would have done greeting somebody, her face remained neutral.

"
Buon giorno
, Stefano." She forced her voice to a low alto.

"May God protect you. Have you decided to take up studies here?"

"No. I only thought that attending a few lectures would be good for my intellect. In fact, I’m curious about legal matters. They fascinate me."

"From the way you reasoned yesterday, I thought that philosophy was your interest. Are you striving for a career in Canon law?"

"It’s too early to say. In the meantime, I just want to indulge my curiosity."

"Then you must attend the lectures of
Professore
Alessadro Barbarigo who studied law at the University of Bologna. I will accompany you."

"Thank you. That’s kind of you, but wouldn’t you rather attend your own lecture?"

"Oh, I intended to listen to
Professore
Barbarigo this morning. Come."

He led the way to an adjacent building. The hall they entered had several tall, narrow windows facing the street. About five dozen men, mostly in their late teens or early twenties, sat in small groups on the four rows of rough benches, talking in low voices. Stefano aimed for a group at the front.

Chiara briefly touched his shoulder and murmured: "Brother Stefano, go join your friends. I prefer sitting at the back."

He hesitated and, when several waved to him, he answered: "I may see you later."

She watched him go toward the group and then suddenly veer away. Gaetano Salimbeni was among them, she noticed.

Taking a seat in the shade between two windows, she feigned being absorbed in her own thought, but listened intently to the discussion of three students in front of her. She wanted to profit of any possible source of learning. Their topic was the Roman law of inheritance. They were arguing whether uncles or even more remote ascendant relatives could inherit and their conclusion was ‘no’.
So Niccolo was wrong when he claimed his father was the only one who could claim our property.

Suddenly, the talking in the room stopped and everybody rose, bowing respectfully to the white-haired man in a flowing black cloak who was standing at a raised lectern. Chiara copied the others and then studied the man carefully. She guessed that he was in his late fifties or early sixties. His posture was slightly bent. The high forehead seemed too large for his face. Two sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows scanned the assembly and briefly rested on her. It felt like they had penetrated her mind.

He invited the students to sit and immediately began his lecture, also dealing with the laws on inheritance. It took her a moment to realize that he spoke in Latin. She was thrilled and fascinated. Except for church Latin — and that had a rote character — she had never heard anybody speak the classical form fluently. His voice carried easily and he enunciated the words carefully. The development of his theme was precise. She admired its logical line of argumentation. How she would love to possess such mastery!

After the lecture, Stefano asked her to join his group. They discussed aspects of the lecture, but used the Tuscan vernacular. She was less than impressed by many of the comments, but this time wisely held her tongue. She did not want to get into an argument. Although she trusted herself to hold up the disguise while being a bystander, she feared that she might slip when getting into a heated argument.

* * * 

Over the following weeks, Chiara was back in Via di Sapienza for the lectures of Professor Barbarigo. He completed his treatment of the Roman law on inheritance and its adaptations to modern times and then went on to discuss the law on contracts. One of the lectures covered legal redress by an aggrieved party for contesting the validity of a contract that had been obtained under false pretenses or duress. Did not her father sign the contract that ceded her rightful inheritance to Sanguanero based on their false allegations? At the end of Barbarigo’s lecture, as was his practice, he asked if there were any question. Since few were ever asked, he only briefly swept the audience, while putting his notes into an intricately embossed leather satchel. Secure in her confidence of her disguise by now, she rose and held up her hand. He did not see her and turned to leave the podium.

"With your permission,
magister magnificentimus
," she called out.

"Yes, honorable student, what is it you do not understand?"

"Esteemed Professor, a few weeks ago you covered the rights and obligations of heirs. In particular, you said that if heirs compiled a written inventory of the properties they inherited, then their contractual obligations toward creditors of the diseased could not exceed the value of their inheritance." She was thrilled by how well she mastered the Latin. It flowed effortlessly. "It seems to me that there is a corollary to this for contracts. Do heirs inherit the right to contest a contract signed by the diseased if they believe to have evidence that his signature was obtained under false pretenses or by coercion?"

His eyes lit up. "Ah, a highly pertinent question that straddles two different chapters of the law. What is your name?"

For a short moment, Chiara fought a panic when suddenly all eyes turned on her. "Anselmo Cavolta, esteemed Professor."

"
Messer
Cavolta, it is interesting that you have asked this question. It is an issue that has occupied me for some considerable time already, an issue that has gained much importance since the plague when so many people active in commerce died prematurely. Roman law says nothing on this subject, and there is no consensus among the legal fraternity yet. There are two main schools of thought."

He then went into a lengthy exposition about each. Practice up to recent times was that the heirs had no rights, since only the person who signed could contest a contract. However, a new school of thought favored that under certain conditions the right passed to the heirs. He concluded by saying: "As you can see, there are still a number of legal aspects that are in dispute which could fill several lectures on their own. So I will end it here.
Messer
Cavolta, if you wish to pursue this further, I invite you to seek a private appointment with me."

She rose again. "Thank you, esteemed Professor. May I ask another related question?"

"Certainly."

"Has the new school given any thought on limiting the time interval that may elapse between the signing of the contract and initiating legal action?"

"Ah,
Messer
Cavolta, that is another vexing issue which has raised much controversy but no firm conclusions either. In view of the hour, I think its discussion should be postponed to another time." His gaze returned to the audience in general. "Diligent auditors, this young novice has just asked two highly pertinent questions that will occupy legal minds for many years to come." He paused, briefly sweeping over the room. "It has been my experience that what sets a good lawyer apart from an average one is that the good lawyer knows to ask the right questions. Asking the right questions is
causa sine qua non
for advancing the truth. Providing the right answer to the wrong question, no matter how elegant the answer is, does not advance the cause." He turned back to her. "
Messer
Cavolta, keep it up and you will be successful."

He nodded to her and left the podium. She now hurried to make her own exit, but was thwarted by the other students who immediately surrounded her. Questions shot from all sides.

"Why did you ask these questions?"

"Are you in this position?"

"Do you want to contest a contract?"

"No," she answered. "I simply thought this was an interesting aspect that touched two different areas of the law."

"Brother Anselmo, it was very clever of you to ask these questions. I have never heard
Professore
Barbarigo praise a student like this before," remarked Stefano in a tone as if he had had a hand in it.

"Maybe our clever black frock knew that Barbarigo was studying this issue," Gaetano interjected.

"Oh, thank you, Gaetano, for pointing this out. What an ingenuous idea for ingratiating myself with our professors!" she replied laughing. "Can you recommend a good spy?"

"Eh Gaetano, you have met your match too," cried Stefano.

This sudden prominence made her uneasy. She felt the need to get away.

"Friends, I must leave. See you next week."

She hurried away, leaving a disappointed group behind. Part-way toward the Campo, Gaetano caught up with her.

"Ah, Anselmo, what’s the hurry."

She slowed her stride. "I promised to meet somebody."

"You must be pleased to be in the good book of Barbarigo."

"Why?"

"A word by him will open many doors."

"I prefer opening my own."

"Anselmo, I can’t make you out. Somehow, you don’t fit my ideas of a novice. Not only are you far too clever, but there is nothing of that silly piety about you. Frankly, if you ask me — "

"But I don’t!"

"I’ll tell you anyway. A clever fellow like you could have a great career as a lawyer with a merchant house like Casa Salimbeni."

"Is this an offer for a job?"

"No, but I wish I were as quick with my responses as you."

"Gaetano, didn’t you listen to what
Professore
Barbarigo extolled us to do?" she replied with a laugh. "It’s not the answer that’s important, but asking the right question." She was enjoying this banter.

"See, there you go again," he said, with a sigh. "But really, what attracts you to the Church?"

"Oh, isn’t it obvious? … The black frock."

He exploded laughing.

"Anselmo, I like you. Put in a good word for me with Barbarigo. I may need it. See you."

He turned toward Banchi di sopra, while she crossed the Campo.
I like you too
, said an inner voice. He had a light-hearted streak, nor did he seem to take himself that seriously or up himself, as many young nobles would. And besides, he was rather good-looking with beautiful dark brown eyes and a lush set of curls, not to speak of belonging to a rich family.
Oh, forget it, Chiara!
she admonished herself, as she walked on to Via delle Cerchia. But maybe she could learn a few things from him about how merchants work.

* * * 

After the outing on the day of their first performance on the Campo, Antonia had never left the house again. Occasionally, she had visitors wanting to have the cards read. But Chiara observed that the spark had left her. She spoke little and when she did it was, more often than not, to complain about something or other. Her remarks had a bitter edge of sarcasm to it.

Chiara doubted that she would be capable of taking to the road again and worried what to do about her. She felt responsible. Alda shared her worries, but could not think of a solution, except the poor house. Chiara approached the abbess of the Convent of Dominican Nuns. When the latter heard that Antonia was an itinerant fortune teller, her manners turned distinctly hostile. Even Chiara’s offer to pay for Antonia failed to sway her. The abbess of the Ospedale di Santa Maria della Scale was more approachable, but Chiara had a bad conscience to even contemplate abandoning Antonia in this way.