The Dead of Winter

by S. J. Parris

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Do not presume to lecture me on the need to understand our enemies’ beliefs,’ he said, his voice low. ‘It was a distasteful but necessary part of my duty as Grand Inquisitor to read and parse those books, the better to refute their heretical theses. But I find myself curious about how a humble friar of— what age are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one, Your Holiness,’ I said faintly.

  ‘—a mere youth, should be so well acquainted with the Protestant writers that he feels emboldened to defend their learning to a superior of his order. It is unusual – or at least it was in my day – that someone of your age and station should have access to such works, since they are all on the Index of Forbidden Books. So I ask again – which of them do you find most persuasive?’

  He allowed a narrow smile then, and the look in his eye was that of a chess player whose opponent has proved a disappointingly easy conquest. I watched him, trying to steady my breath. It was checkmate, and everyone in the room could see it. If I acknowledged that I had read any of the Protestant theologians whose work I had defended, I would be questioned in the Castel Sant’Angelo until I told them who had supplied me with forbidden books; Porta and my prior would be implicated in my heresy. And if I said that I had not read them, I would be publicly shamed as a stupid, arrogant youth who disrespects his seniors for a cheap laugh. It would not be pleasant to watch Agostino revelling in my humiliation, but it was clear that I only had one option.

  ‘I have not read them, Your Holiness.’

  ‘What? But you defended them in front of all your brothers in the basilica of San Domenico! Tell me – does your prior give you licence to study such material?’

  ‘No, Your Holiness. He is strict with us. I spoke out of turn only to—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To appear clever in front of my brothers. To make them laugh.’

  ‘I see. A bit of fun, I suppose, at the expense of Fra Agostino. Why, what harm had he done you?’

  I kept my eyes on the ground. Did you never, at twenty-one, I wanted to ask him, find mischief in mocking a pompous, puffed-up buffoon twice your age, or were you already tearing people’s fingernails out for Jesus?

  ‘I disliked his manner of arguing,’ I said. ‘I felt it lacked sophistication.’

  The Pope sat back and exchanged a glance with Cardinal Rebiba; shocked laughter murmured around the room and was quickly silenced, though I was sure not all of it was disapproving.

  ‘Listen to me, boy,’ the Holy Father said, craning towards me again. ‘Sophistication is not a mark of godliness. Quite the reverse, often. Truth and error are simple concepts, as I was frequently obliged to explain to those who tried to excuse their heresies with sub-clauses and nuance. So simple even a goatherd or a soldier’s son can grasp them. Intellectual pride is the oldest sin, you know this. In the garden of Paradise, our father Adam broke God’s only commandment because he lusted after knowledge that was set outside his sphere. I see the same weakness in you.’ He left a long pause; I raised my head and met his gaze. ‘You owe Fra Agostino an apology, I think. Prostrate yourself here before me and kiss his feet, so that everyone can witness how you have chosen to humble yourself.’

  Agostino stepped forward, his expression pure triumph. I lay face down on the cold marble tiles, kissed each of his leather shoes in turn and mumbled,

  ‘Forgive me, Brother, for my insolence and my lack of respect.’

  I could hear the sniggering from the onlookers; my only consolation was that no one in the room appeared to know who I was. After daring to imagine this audience as the moment that would make my name in Rome, I found myself praying that I could slink out of the city without anyone remembering it.

  ‘Get up,’ Pope Pius said, when I had abased myself to his satisfaction. ‘You deserve a more severe punishment, but I see that you are young and foolish, and you are a fellow Dominican. You may yet mend your ways, with the right guidance. Give thanks that in this holy season of our Saviour’s birth, I am inclined to clemency.’

  ‘Your Holiness—’ Cardinal Rebiba leaned down as if to intervene, but the Pope held up a hand.

  ‘Peace, My Lord Cardinal. You have what you wanted. If Fra Agostino forgives the boy, I see no need for further measures. I have more important matters to attend to. But hear this, Fra Giordano Bruno of Nola.’ I raised my eyes; he pointed a bony finger in my direction. ‘I too have been blessed with a prodigious memory, and I take care to make a note of everything. Be sure I will not forget your name. I will write to the Prior of San Domenico instructing him to keep you on a tighter leash. Go back to Naples and serve your order in quiet obedience. Take care who you consort with. If I ever hear word that you have shown an interest in forbidden books, or gone about touting yourself like a side-show reciting holy writ backwards, I will have you arrested on the instant. Do you understand me?’

  I inclined my head and Christ’s vicar flicked his fingers, as if shooing away a fly. As I was ushered out, I heard him say, ‘That boy is headed for the pyre, sooner or later. But let him walk there with his own two feet.’

  Fra Agostino strode ahead of me across the Piazza San Pietro, hands tucked in his sleeves, his expression tight. I sensed that he was disappointed to see me let off so lightly. We were halfway across the Ponte Sant’Angelo before I could trust myself to speak.

  ‘You have what you wanted?’ I repeated.

  ‘What?’ He snapped the word over his shoulder without slowing his pace.

  ‘That’s what the Pope said to Cardinal Rebiba. After he had me kiss your feet. Was that your intention all along – to have me questioned for heresy and then abase myself for you?’

  ‘I am not responsible for your beliefs, Fra Giordano. If it pleases you to make grandiose public statements, you should be prepared to defend them to the highest authority. You are fortunate he was in a generous frame of mind – that could have gone a lot worse for you.’

  ‘I know – you let him accuse me of witchcraft!’

  ‘He didn’t accuse you – if he had, you’d be in there.’ He indicated the castle prison. ‘He merely pointed out the similarities between your memory tricks and the obscene practices of magicians – something that has struck many of us who have watched you peacocking around, seeking attention. I pray this experience teaches you humility. You’re being watched now.’

  I slowed my pace and let him put some distance between us so that I could swallow all the curses I wanted to yell at him. This is how it would be from now on: biting back my thoughts, censoring myself, not daring to speak my mind for fear of how my words might be twisted. My prior would be furious; no doubt the Pope’s letter would make clear that any further misdemeanour on my part would be taken as evidence of his slack authority. He would feel obliged to tighten discipline; he would make me an example to my brothers of a new, stricter regime. I would be watched at every turn; it would be almost impossible for me to sneak out at night to the Academy of Secrets, and if I were to lose that community, I would be like a man starved of light. I wished I could talk to Porta; he was the only one who would understand, but I was wary of returning to Cardinal d’Este’s house after what Leonora had told me about Lucrezia’s tendency to lash out when she was thwarted. I felt like Adam, banished from the garden, with no place to call home.

  As I passed through the gatehouse of Santa Maria, the old gatekeeper whistled for my attention.

  ‘Message for you, Brother,’ he said, reaching into his cloak and drawing out a folded letter. ‘Private. Your man gave me a coin to keep it between me and you. Which I have, so far.’ He fixed me with a meaningful look.

  I reached into the purse beneath my habit and found another. ‘Appreciated,’ I said. The letter was sealed with blank wax. ‘What did he look like, the man who paid you?’

  The gatekeeper shrugged. ‘Like a servant. No livery though.’

  I thanked him again, and tore the paper open on the way to my cell, too upset and impatient to consider discretion.

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nbsp; The message came from Porta.

  I need to speak to you urgently. Accusations have been made against you. Best that you leave Rome tonight – I will help you, but I can’t get away until later. Meet me at 10 by the Theatre of Marcellus with your bag and I will see you safely on the road.

  GdP

  For the second time that day, I felt the ground tremble under my feet, as if I could no longer trust it to hold me. Accusations: it could only mean that the lady Lucrezia, to cover her pride, had given out that I had tried to force myself on her. I would have laughed, if my position had not been so precarious. I had already fallen foul of the Pope; if Lucrezia accused me of assaulting her, Cardinal d’Este might feel obliged to act, even if he didn’t believe her. Leonora had said she would speak for me, but would anyone listen? Thank God for Porta, I thought, and how far-sighted of Gennaro to know that I would need a friend like him to defend me, in a city where even cardinals could be strangled to death while everyone looked the other way.

  I sat alone at supper on the end of a long table, trying to ignore the open laughter and behind-the-hand muttering directed at me from the other brothers; when we stood for the benediction, I heard the word ‘witch’ whispered among the novices like wind through a copse, accompanied by sniggers. Agostino had clearly wasted no time in spreading the story of my papal audience through the convent. At vespers he preached a sermon about the example of Christ’s humility in the Nativity, and how fitting it was this Christmas that one of our number should have been taught a valuable lesson about humility by our Holy Father himself; how, by this example, the community should guard itself against the sin of intellectual pride. I endured this and the office of compline in silence, making sure no one could fault my piety, and when the convent retired to bed, I packed my bag and lay on my bed, waiting for the bells to count out the hours.

  Shortly after half-past nine, I crept out of the cell and into the rear courtyard with Porta’s knife strapped to my belt under my cloak. Since the discretion of the gatekeeper was clearly for sale to the highest bidder, I decided it was best to give him nothing to trade with; I checked to see that the courtyard was empty, slung my bag over the wall, knotted my habit above my knees and shinned up after it.

  A silver half-moon gave enough light to stumble through the streets, its edge sharp against the dark. I glanced up at the stars, regretting my careless comments to the lady Leonora about the possibility of other worlds. What if she should mention that to her brother, when I had already narrowly dodged an accusation of heresy by the Pope? When I paused to consider, I regretted most of what I’d said since arriving in Rome. At least the cold air had finally dispelled the fog in my head.

  I remembered the Theatre of Marcellus; Porta’s coachman had pointed it out as we entered the city. I found my way to the river and followed it south, one hand under my cloak ready to grasp the knife, but the only people abroad were Christmas revellers still on the right side of festive good cheer, and my habit seemed to afford me some protection; if anyone looked at me for too long, I made the sign of the cross and offered a Christmas blessing, at which they usually dipped their heads, mumbled their thanks and scurried off with a guilty expression. No one wants to be reminded of God when they’re indulging in festive pleasures.

  I arrived early, and took my place beneath the great arches of the ruined amphitheatre, looking towards the lights of the city. At my back, beyond the Theatre of Marcellus, lay the open wasteland of the Forum with its ancient pillars and tumbled walls; nothing but layers of darkness and the occasional glint that might be a watchful eye or a blade. I drew Porta’s knife and held it tight at my side. In the dark spaces between the columns, shadows moved; I guessed the recesses provided shelter for vagrants, and I could not have been more conspicuous in my white robe, with a travelling pack on my back just asking to be stolen by desperate men.

  After ten minutes the waiting began to chafe at me. Dogs slunk around my feet, sniffing; I kicked at them, muttering threats, and they scattered to snarl from a distance before creeping back. I needed to move; again that uneasy sensation that I was being observed from the shadows crawled up my neck. I made a circuit of the walls, watching for movement, gripping the knife with freezing fingers. It was only as I progressed slowly past the arches, peering into blackness, that it occurred to me to doubt the message. It had not been Porta’s writing, but I had been so distracted earlier by my brush with the Pope and the effects of the night before that I had assumed he must have dictated it. As my chest tightened with the cold realisation that I might have blundered directly into an ambush, I heard a hiss from the shadows of an entrance.

  ‘Porta?’ I clutched the knife.

  ‘This way,’ a voice said; I caught the flicker of a lantern before it disappeared into the depths. I followed the light through a passageway, and emerged into the vast inner space of the amphitheatre. I had lost sight of the lantern; I stubbed my foot against a lump of rubble and cursed. The place was silent, but it was the silence of held breath; I felt eyes on me. I began to back away, towards the passage through the banks of tiered seating. God, what a fool I had been! Porta would never have dragged me out here and left me stumbling in the dark; the best I could hope for now was to run. It took a moment for my legs to catch up with the command; in the instant I turned to flee, I felt the cold edge of a blade against my throat from behind and hot breath against my hair, the barest hint of a laugh.

  Instinct took over; blindly I thrust back my right arm and plunged the knife; I felt it sink, deep, and in my ear I heard a gasp, muted, intimate, as if in shock rather than pain. The steel at my neck clattered to the ground; I looked down and saw the silver sheen of a sword, a gentleman’s weapon. I pulled out the knife with one firm tug, my hand came away hot and wet as the man behind me emitted a sound almost like pleasure as he staggered back, hands pressed to his stomach. I turned to see Renzo Arduino doubled over, staring at me, eyes bright with amazement, his mouth working to speak.

  ‘You have killed me,’ he said, as if he could hardly believe the audacity, and crumpled to his knees.

  Even in that moment, God forgive me, I experienced a flash of impatience. ‘Of course I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Lie down. Press hard on the wound. Jesus’ sake – what did you expect? You put a sword to a man’s throat in the dark, he’s going to fight back.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be armed,’ he said weakly.

  I flattened my hands over the wound; Gennaro had shown me how to staunch bleeding, but on that occasion I had been furnished with lights, clean linen and hot water. It was too dark in the shadows of the amphitheatre to judge the damage, but I could feel the force of Renzo’s blood coursing over my hands as I pressed and I began to shake; my impatience with him ebbed away as the blood pumped faster. The knife had gone deep into his gut; I had felt it.

  ‘I only meant to frighten you,’ he croaked.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ I spoke with anger, but it was directed at myself. ‘You lure me out to this godforsaken place in the middle of the night for what – a chat? You threatened to cut me and dump me in the river. You wouldn’t even fight like a man – you were going to slit my throat from behind.’

  ‘I just wanted to see you piss yourself. My lady said you made an attempt on her honour.’

  ‘It’s not true.’ Even in my panic I had time to think: Jesus, who talks like that? Bleeding to death and he’s still pretending he’s in a tale of chivalry. ‘I didn’t touch her.’ Not strictly true, but the spirit of it was close enough.

  ‘Thought you needed to be taught a lesson. Neapolitan dog.’ He struggled to sit up, and cried out with the pain.

  ‘Shh, shh – don’t move.’ I eased him down. I could feel a rage boiling up in me, at all of them – him, her, Agostino, the Pope – for everything that had led to this. ‘Why did you have to sneak up on me?’ I pushed harder against the wound, but I could see it was having no effect.

  ‘Why did you have a knife? You’re meant to be a friar.’

&n
bsp; I folded his hands under mine. ‘Here, you press. I’m going for a doctor.’

  There would be an infirmarian at Santa Maria, but I knew I would not make it there and back in time. If I could find a religious house closer at hand, it was possible a physician might be found, but that would be as good as confessing to murder.

  ‘No. Don’t leave me alone,’ he said, clutching at my wrist. I glanced around; I could see nothing but shadows, though the sense of being watched had only intensified.

  ‘Are you alone?’ I asked. ‘No servants with you?’

  ‘Didn’t want witnesses.’ His voice was growing fainter. I could hear my own blood thudding in my ears. Was that a confession that he had meant to kill me after all? I supposed I would never know now.

  ‘Get a priest,’ he said urgently. He had begun to shiver violently. ‘I am afraid.’

  I wanted to tell him to stop making a fuss, he’d be fine in a minute, but in my heart I knew he was right.

  ‘I’m a priest,’ I said, and was surprised to find that I was crying. This was also not strictly true; I was not yet ordained, but I had taken vows and that had to count for something.

  He mumbled something that sounded like ‘absolve me’, and fell silent; I stammered my way through the last rites as I felt his grip slacken. He took ten more minutes to die, his breath rattling and gurgling in his throat, until I saw his eyes glass over, fixed past my shoulder to the stars and whatever lay beyond them.

  In the moments after he died, the world seemed to have stopped with him. The city had fallen silent; no dogs barked, no owls cried; the only sound was my own breathing, quick and shallow. I stayed there, unable to move, until a distant church bell chimed the half hour and brought me back to myself. I sat up on my haunches and looked around.

  I had killed a man, and now I had to work out what to do about it. My mind thrashed like a pigeon trapped in a room, hurtling into walls; I forced myself to slow my breathing as I did when I was about to perform my memory tricks, trying to order my thoughts more clearly. Though I could still see no sign of movement, I knew the amphitheatre must be full of vagrants; some of them might even be sober enough to recall what they had witnessed and repeat it to a magistrate. They would certainly remember the man in a Dominican habit. I picked up Porta’s knife – I could not leave that, decorated with his emblem, at the scene – and wiped it clean on the dead man’s clothes before tucking it into my belt. The white cloth of my habit was soaked with his blood, but it hardly showed on my black cloak; if I pulled it tight around me, I could hide the worst of the damage in dark streets until I had a chance to change, though I would need to wash first and I had no idea how to go about that – even the lowest inn would think twice before admitting a man covered in gore.