On June 14, 1833, the police came for Jacopo. He was not surprised. He had prepared — the documents were burned, the contacts warned, the organization as protected as he could make it.
They took him to prison. They interrogated him. They offered deals: name your comrades, and you will go free. Confess the conspiracy, and you will be shown mercy.
Jacopo said nothing. Day after day, the questions came. Day after day, he maintained his silence. He knew that any word from him could mean death for his friends.
The police grew frustrated. They showed him documents — names, addresses, plans. "We know everything already," they said. "Your silence is pointless. Save yourself."
Jacopo recognized the tactic. If they truly knew everything, they would not need his confession. Every question they asked revealed a gap in their knowledge. By remaining silent, he filled no gaps.
But the pressure was immense. He was alone. He did not know who else had been captured, who had escaped, who might be breaking under their own interrogations. He knew only that he could control one thing: his own silence.
In the darkness of his cell, he thought of his friends, his family, his country. He thought of the ancient martyrs who had died rather than betray their companions. He thought of the Pattern he had read about in old texts — the one who must die so that others might live.
He was not religious in the conventional sense. But he felt, in that cell, that something larger was at work. His suffering was not meaningless. His silence protected others. His faithfulness served a purpose beyond his own life.