He raised his formidable brows in question.
Clearly I’d no time to fully assimilate the range of astonishments he presented. The girl was a traveling scholar with a historical … or perhaps scientific … bent. That was curious. But my earlier misgivings about the debt the bride’s parents would owe a Confraternity director for a broken contract had burst into appalling life.
Piero di Nardo, an honorable man, was the steward of Cantagna. The steward appointed and controlled the magistrates, constables, architects, street cleaners, street builders … all the functionaries who kept the city running. A steward deeply indebted to a member of the Directorate would be a certain impetus for more Confraternity influence in the city. Magistrates would punish fortunetellers and any others whose professions bordered on the mystic … and clamp down on artists, writers, and scholars whose works challenged the Confraternity’s views of the Creation stories … and hound anyone who cherished hopes that the Unseeable Gods might return to succor the world. A most definite instability in Cantagna’s current governance.
Mantegna continued. “The young gentleman involved is Donato di Bastianni, called Dono, aged one-and-twenty, eldest son of Rinaldo and Diani. Dono has completed a course of philosophy and rhetoric at the Academie. He spent one year at the Philosophic Academie of Tibernia, but otherwise he has not traveled, and never beyond the Costa Drago. As Donato is in his twenty-second year, he will be assuming his red robe as an initiated philosophist with a position of responsibility on the Feast of the Lone Praetorian—the same day he is to be wed. His area of responsibility is unknown, though we can be sure it is a prestigious position, as his father, Rinaldo, as you know…”
“… is a director of the Philosophic Confraternity, and both friend and philosophical sparring partner of your client,” I said, my dismay overflowing.
Another reason il Padroné could not interfere. I’d heard many a friendly debate between the two from behind the painted screen in Sandro’s house. Without question, Rinaldo di Bastianni had most definite ideas about how Cantagna should be run. Even if the marriage contract remained unbroken and the young couple wed, he would wield influence with the steward. Piero was getting old and would be grooming a successor. Who better than a devoted son-in-law of impeccable pedigree? The whole business was fraught with risk for Cantagna.
“I understand your client’s concerns,” I said. “Most definitely.”
With a nod of somber approval, the lawyer moved on. “The Bastianni family claimed young Livia two days ago on the basis of a marriage contract made two years before her birth. In that year, Piero’s only daughter by his first wife was murdered by the girl’s new husband—a soldier of unsavory origins. A tragic story that affected the gentleman deeply.”
I could guess a finish to that story. “It created the desire for an unbreakable marriage contract with an ultimately respectable family for any daughter he might sire in the future. Most likely it also encouraged him to see that child become il Padrone’s vicino-figlia.”
“That appears to be so. Piero himself claims not to recall the exact circumstance, but admits that he was so ensnarled in rage and grief in that year he certainly could have made such a contract. He and the contract witnesses have verified his signature on the agreement. My client’s relationship to the girl actually commenced in her twelfth year when she embarked on her travels with her uncle.”
His eyes darted to the passage doorway, as if he suspected someone might be eavesdropping on our meeting. “Livia is now in residence, properly chaperoned, at Villa Giusti. As required by the contract, the groom’s family has verified her … maiden status.”
“Fortune’s ever-blessed dam,” I spluttered in disgust. Knowing that Sandro’s family had done the same for his contracted wife made the practice no more palatable. Courtesans were endlessly inspected for signs of disease all their years in the Moon House, and there was no circumstance which made it anything but degrading. Certain, those who purchased courtesans or wed virginal young women were not inspected.
“Indeed so. Once certified, this status is not revocable by claim or purposeful incident without breaking the contract. Even a lamentable event is not a contractual impediment, unless Dono refuses her as too damaged. That is unlikely, as the contract does not specify that this marriage ever be consummated.”
So we could not contrive a sham assault or offer Livia a willing partner to alter her maiden status.
Thus we advanced to the only relevant question. “So how in the cursed world can this contract be dissolved without invoking penalties or unpalatable consequences?”
Mantegna sighed. “As I’ve told my client repeatedly, there are only four provisions that could apply. First, if the two parties are discovered to be brother and sister. Not even with Mother Gione’s help is this going to happen. Second, if the bride is proved to be dead, which does not help the dilemma of her future work whatsoever. Third, if both sets of parents agree to dissolve the contract. Fourth, if the two young people are both come of age and freely—in front of their families and impartial witnesses and entirely without coercion—agree to dissolve it. As to the likelihood of three or four, I would sooner lay a wager on the moon being hung from my bedpost when I retire this night.”
Mantegna fidgeted with one of his multitude of rings—a measure of his agitation, especially as its bulky design, topped by an arrow of gold and a shield of a single emerald, suggested it was a poison ring. Mayhap the kind that opened up to dispense a few toxic droplets in a cup of wine. Or the little arrow might rotate upward with a flick of a thumb and inject poison when plunged into an enemy’s vein.
I sympathized.
“When is the girl’s birthday?”
“Four days hence. The day after the wedding.”
“Which likely inspired the rushed timing.” Livia would come of age at twenty. “Would they enforce this brutal contract with a dead groom?”
Mantegna did not even bother to huff at my despairing cynicism. “Indeed, a dead Donato would not interfere. With some gift of foresight, these contract writers included a provision that if the eldest son is deceased, the next would be party, and so on. Dono has three healthy younger brothers—ages eighteen, fifteen, and twelve.”
Two decades past, the Confraternity had judged the possibility of such a union an opportunity and locked it up securely. Piero was already the steward, but had not yet married Diani, the girl’s mother. That was odd. Odder still, neither family had enforced the contract when the girl was fifteen or sixteen—the more usual timing of arranged marriages. Why now?
A last effort. “I know you’ve gone over it word by word, Cosimo, but could you provide me a copy of the contract?”
A shake of the lawyer’s formidable head told the answer before he spoke it. “As the agent of the girl’s vicino-padre, I was permitted to review the document. Under supervision. I was not permitted to bring a copyist with me. Both families view this as a sacred match, meant to heal wounds of a generation of misunderstanding and disregard between the Confraternity and Cantagna’s civil authorities. Now, damizella, we must call an end. Too much time together could be suspect…”
I nodded.
He guided me gently through the passage into the tea house, still whispering in my ear. “I cannot emphasize how concerned my client is. We just received word this morning that the Bastiannis plan the ceremony of betrothal—the giuntura—tomorrow at half-morn. You see the urgency.…”