by S. J. Parris
‘You would make a fortune,’ I said, in admiration.
‘The citizens of Naples do not need any more stimulation,’ remarked one of the men, and Porta conceded this with a laugh.
‘Are we all served? Good. Then, let us offer a toast to Athena, goddess of knowledge and wisdom, in whose service we humbly gather. And now, we will hear young Bruno present his memory system.’ He sat back and gestured for me to take the floor.
I drank the tea, grimaced, and stood at the place marked as the centre of the labyrinth. I could have wished Gennaro had given me better warning to prepare for this moment, but that, I presumed, was part of the test. I recited Psalm 86 in Hebrew, then again backwards, earning nods and murmurs of approbation from around the circle. I could feel Porta’s silent gaze on me all through my speech.
When I had finished, I raised my eyes, hardly daring to check his expression. A long silence unfolded; blood beat in my throat as I awaited his approval. Finally, without speaking, he stood and bowed solemnly to me. One by one, the other men all did the same. It seemed I had been accepted into the Academy.
The discussions continued for another three hours, animated by the strange brew from the New World. I will not repeat here the matters that were presented for debate, save to say that I marvelled at the words of every man who spoke; my brain spun with the torrent of new ideas and discoveries that poured forth among them. The hunger for knowledge in that room matched my own, and in every case I sensed that these men pursued wisdom for her own sake, not for vainglory or self-promotion, but out of a genuine desire for the enlightenment of mankind. I felt alert and needle-sharp, though the drink made me garrulous; I argued and questioned and posited theories in a way that would not have been permitted by my tutors at San Domenico, and through it all Porta observed me with an indulgent smile, just as a man who has purchased a new horse will watch it run through its paces with relief that his investment has been justified.
When the meeting drew to a close, he raised his empty glass and proposed a toast to freedom. The others dutifully echoed him, and he allowed his gaze to travel around the room, alighting on each of us as if to impart a hidden meaning. The company broke up after this, the men taking their leave of one another with barely a nod. As I crossed the room towards Gennaro, Porta intercepted me, a firm hand on my shoulder.
‘You acquitted yourself well tonight, Bruno,’ he said. I bowed my head in what I hoped would look like humility, but my face was glowing. ‘I was sceptical about allowing one so young into the Academy, but Gennaro was right – you do have an exceptional intellect. Your memory system shows great promise – I would like to see you develop it further. But to do that you need to read more widely among authors whose work is not sanctioned by the Church.’
‘I wish it were that easy,’ I said ruefully. ‘I am already suspected of unorthodox beliefs at San Domenico. If I were to ask for books from the restricted section of the library, I would be refused and reported to the Father Inquisitor.’
‘Then you must come here and use my library. Come tomorrow afternoon. I am going away for a few days to conduct some research, but Ercole will take care of you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I dipped a bow, hardly able to believe my good fortune.
‘Stop this “sir”,’ he said, smiling. ‘We are all equals in the Republic of Learning. And you, Giordano Bruno, are one of us now. Tell me – do you believe in freedom?’
Something in the way he looked at me as he spoke set a warning bell ringing, high and clear, at the back of my mind, but there was only one possible response.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Freedom of thought is my greatest dream. A world where we could discuss ideas as we did tonight, but without hiding in underground chambers, as if the desire for knowledge were something filthy and depraved that must not be admitted in public.’
‘And what would you risk to secure such a world?’ he asked.
‘I would fight to the death,’ I said with sudden bravado, because I was twenty and full of coca tea and at that moment believed myself invincible.
He smiled again, but his eyes stayed on me, considering. ‘Your father is a soldier, you say. Is he in the pay of the Spanish army?’
‘He fights for whoever hires him. What else should a mercenary do?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘What about you, and your fighting spirit? Can the Spanish buy you for the right price, or does your Italian blood baulk at that?’
‘I have no intention of going to war,’ I said, avoiding the question. His lynx-eyes bored into me.
‘But we are at war, my young wolfhound, whether you like it or not, and will be until we are free in our own land. Knowledge is power – is it not so?’ His grip tightened around my shoulder. ‘Why else should we seek to understand the world and its secret properties better?’
Gennaro cut in at that moment, with a hand on my other shoulder.
‘I’m afraid I must take Bruno back to the cloister, before too many questions are asked about his absence,’ he said. His tone was one of apology, but I sensed he had been monitoring the conversation from a distance and stepped in deliberately to end it. Porta bowed his head, patted me on the back and turned away. I followed Gennaro back along the passageway, my earlier euphoria replaced by an odd, unsettled feeling that there was something vital I had failed to understand.
‘Porta took a liking to you,’ Gennaro said, on the way back to the city. ‘I knew he would.’
‘Is he really the finest mind in Naples?’ I asked. I was fidgety, my thoughts buzzing wildly like flies against glass.
Gennaro laughed. ‘Surely you have learned by now that rich men must be flattered, even in the Republic of Learning. You’ll have noted the numbers – twelve members of the Academy, plus our leader – like Christ and his disciples? That’s no coincidence. Porta is brilliant, in his way, and willing to take risks, which is essential in a patron. But he’s a showman. He loves the kind of experiments that produce a spectacle, and he is easily bored, which is why he must always be seeking the next new discovery.’
‘Does no one suspect him or question his activities? From the city authorities, I mean?’
‘Bruno, half the men in that room hold positions in government. That is Porta’s genius – few people can resist the prestige implicit in an exclusive club. Then, naturally, they are implicated, and their loyalty assured. It goes without saying that you speak to no one of what you witnessed tonight,’ he added. ‘You perceive the danger.’
‘We would be condemned to death for the words spoken in that room,’ I whispered. ‘If the Inquisition knew.’ Now that we were back on the road, in the dark, the whole encounter had taken on the quality of a dream; I had been so caught up in the marvels of the Academy that I had not given a thought to the magnitude of the heresies we had discussed. I had dared to imagine for a few brief hours that we were free.
‘Precisely. There were those who opposed my admission at first, convinced that any Dominican must be, by definition, a spy for the Inquisitors.’ He shook his head. ‘But Porta had heard of my work in anatomy – he was determined I should be a member of the Academy and his will usually prevails. It doesn’t hurt to remind him, now and again, that you understand the value of his good opinion. What was he asking you back there, at the end?’
‘What risks I would take for freedom. If my father fought for the Spanish. He asked about my Italian blood.’
‘Ah.’
There was a long silence. ‘He’s political, isn’t he?’ I asked, when it became clear that Gennaro was not going to speak. He sighed.
‘We live in an occupied kingdom. Everything is political.’
‘That’s what I mean. Porta said knowledge is power.’ I paused as the import of it struck me. ‘He wants to overthrow the Spanish, doesn’t he?’
Gennaro threw his head back and laughed so loud it echoed alarmingly off the cliffs above us.
‘What’s funny?’ I glanced over my shoulder; if there were bandits on the road, they woul
d know exactly where to find us.
‘You saw our little gathering tonight, Bruno. Three of them are grandfathers. All of us pale as milk, with hands soft as girls’. We are men of libraries and council chambers, better at wielding pens than swords. I have no doubt you can hold your own in a tavern brawl, but the rest of us are revolutionaries only in the realm of ideas. Hard to think of a more unlikely army to rise up against the Spanish.’
‘But that’s the point,’ I said, animated now and leaning forward so that my mouth was almost at his ear. ‘If Porta’s studies of ancient magic give him access to supernatural powers, we would not need a strong sword arm. That’s why he wants to probe those mysteries.’
He reined the horse to a standstill so abruptly that its hooves skidded on the loose stones and I almost flew off the back.
‘Never repeat that.’ He spoke as if reprimanding a child. ‘We are not a ragtag of amateur alchemists, dabbling in witchcraft for a hobby. No one is summoning supernatural powers, do you hear me? We are men of science, concerned with natural magic only. We seek to understand better the mysteries of Creation, for which purpose God gave us the faculty of reason and enquiry. I want no talk of demons, or spells, or witches’ unguents, or any such wise-woman quackery. Is that clear?’
‘But I thought—’
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’ I sat back, chastened, and fell silent for a full minute. He nudged the horse with his heels and it resumed its pace with a whinny of protest.
‘But think about it,’ I said, bouncing forward again to speak in his ear, ‘Porta wants to learn how to manipulate and harness the powers of the natural world. Consider Vesuvius, for example, or, or – I don’t know – lightning. If, let’s say, you could harness the power of lightning – which must be possible – and direct it straight on to the viceroy’s palazzo, his entire household would be burned to a cinder in an instant, it would be greater than any cannon—’
‘Bruno.’ Gennaro sounded weary, but I thought I could see the gleam of a smile in the dark. ‘Drink less of the coca tea next time. You talk quite enough as it is.’
A faint glimmer of dawn light showed along the horizon by the time we arrived back at San Domenico. I was not remotely tired – I felt I could have run ten times around the cloisters – but I bounded up the stairs to the dormitory to mull over everything I had heard in the privacy of my cell, before the bell for lauds. I shut the door silently behind me and ripped off my habit and undershirt, then poured water into a basin from the pitcher on my washstand and vigorously splashed my face and neck to sluice off the dust and sweat of the road.
‘Busy night?’ said a voice, from the shadows in the corner.
I leapt a foot in the air with an emphatic curse, sending the basin crashing to the floor. My eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough to make out a figure lolling on my bed. Fra Raffaele da Monte, propped on one elbow as if he were posing for a painter, just asking to have that knowing half-smile knocked off his face. What animal would Porta identify him with, I wondered, as we stared at one another. Some kind of spoiled, indoor cat, but one with a temper, preening itself while it watched for the moment to scratch your face.
I swore at him again for good measure, my heart thudding against my ribs as if I had run the whole distance back from Vomero. I breathed deep to steady myself; he had me at a disadvantage, but I would only make it worse by reacting without thinking, that was what he wanted. It was then that I remembered I was naked, and grabbed at a linen towel to tie around my waist. He laughed, but there was menace in it.
‘How long have you been in here?’ We were not permitted locks on the doors of our cells; why would we need them, when the whole point of religious life was that we lived in community, and none of us should have secrets from his brothers? Of course, those with money fitted locks to protect their gold candlesticks and fine jewellery and the senior brothers turned a blind eye, but with my reputation, if I had attempted the same it would have been taken as a sign that I had something to hide.
Raffaele shrugged. ‘Since I saw you were not at matins. Where have you been?’
‘Whoring.’ I turned away to pick up the bowl from the floor so that he would not see my face.
‘With anyone else, I might believe that, but we all know you’re too good for the girls at the Cerriglio.’
‘They are not the only girls in Naples.’ It was true that I did not keep company with the Cerriglio whores, though they liked to tease me about it and tried to entice me with special offers, to the frustration of my friends. But my father had told me so many lurid tales of comrades afflicted by the pox that the fear kept me out of brothels for the most part, which I suppose was my father’s purpose.
‘A lot of us wonder if you even have a taste for girls at all,’ Raffaele said, winding a tassel of his belt around his finger. ‘Since it’s well known you’re Gennaro’s catamite. I saw you leaving with him before midnight. Does he pimp you out to his rich patients now? I hear some of the barons will pay good money for willing boys from the provinces.’
‘That’s right. Your father paid me handsomely. He ought to, for the kind of filthy perversion he likes.’
‘I should punch you for that,’ he said lazily, without troubling to move. I was on the balls of my feet in an instant, fists raised.
‘Come on, then.’
He laughed again. ‘Calm down, soldier boy. Whatever you’ve been up to tonight, it’s left you very over-excited. I know Gennaro’s not interested in your little provincial arsehole. There’s something else goes on between you and him – always whispering together in the infirmary. I wonder if it’s to do with heretical books. That’s the sort of thing that gets you hard, isn’t it?’ I willed myself not to answer back.
Fra Raffaele did not like me. He was not alone in that; I had acquired a reputation for intellectual arrogance that was, I admit, not entirely undeserved. Even as a novice I had struggled to conceal my impatience with the slowness of my fellow students, and on occasion had found it necessary to correct the teacher when he made a mistake with his Greek or Latin; this, combined with my growing notoriety for unorthodox questions, meant that I was not popular with certain of my brothers. I had bested Raffaele in a debate once when I was still a novice; not merely won the argument, but demolished every one of his points, leaving him speechless with the audience’s laughter ringing in his ears. He was five years my senior and had never forgiven me the humiliation.
He swung his legs over the edge of my bed and sat up. He was another in whom good looks had bred superiority rather than decency, I thought. His father was Don Umberto da Messina, a local baron with a prominent seat on the city council, but Raffaele was a bastard, and although his father provided him with a generous allowance, he had not given the boy his name, a slight which Raffaele carried on his young shoulders like the leaden cloaks Dante imagines for the proud in the Inferno. Even so, Raffaele considered his father’s blood to set him above those of us whose line was not so illustrious, however legitimate. Don Umberto had grown rich from his willingness to support the Spanish, and there were those who feared Raffaele operated as a spy within San Domenico, ready to report any whispers of heresy that could be used against the convent. His eyes and skin were dark, even for a Neapolitan; his full lips and curls led some to speculate that his mother had been a Moorish slave, though anyone who said so in earshot of Raffaele or his friends could expect to go home with a broken nose.
He rested his elbows on his knees, locked his fingers together and looked at me just as the prior did when considering an appropriate punishment.
‘You have too many secrets, Giordano Bruno.’ He ran his thumbnail along his teeth. ‘I suppose you think they give you a tiny scrap of power?’
‘My secrets are all in your head,’ I said, pretending to occupy myself with tidying the bowl and water jug so I did not have to meet his eye; in my agitated state, I was finding it hard not to rise to his provocations, and I could not risk giving him any reason to report m
e to the prior. ‘Though I am flattered you take such an interest in my activities. I have absolutely no interest in yours.’
There was a pause while he tried to work out whether he had been insulted. ‘Tread carefully, soldier boy. Your position here is precarious, for all your supposed brilliance, and you know it. The prior has his eye on you, and so do I.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘No one will care how many psalms you can recite backwards if your name brings San Domenico into disrepute.’
‘My name brings nothing but glory to the order.’ I assumed the stance of an orator to show that I was not entirely serious, but he did not smile.
‘I’m going to find out what you and Gennaro are involved in. Then I’ll decide whether to drag your name through the dirt. Remember who and what you are.’ He fixed me with his most intimidating stare. I confess; I would have given a great deal at that moment for the ability to direct a blast of lightning at him. Instead I laughed in his face.
‘I’m the son of a humble soldier from Nola, Brother, how could I forget? But at least I have his name.’
I thought for a moment that he might hit me, but he mastered himself and shouldered past, snatching the towel from my waist and whipping me around the back of the legs with it on his way. I yelped, and cursed after him as the door slammed. I supposed this was what came of being raised in a community of men; he still behaved like a schoolboy at the age of twenty-five. But I wished I had not attracted his enmity; I did not like the idea that he was watching me, just as I had discovered this new portal to a world of forbidden knowledge. I wondered if I should warn Gennaro.
After Raffaele’s threat, I checked carefully when I left San Domenico the following afternoon, but I was certain as I could be that no one had seen me leave. I had asked Gennaro to excuse me from my appointed work with him in the dispensary, and to cover for me if anyone asked. He pursed his lips, but did not argue; he must have guessed at my purpose, and reasoned that he was hardly in a position to stop me, having brought me to Porta in the first place. I did not have permission to borrow a horse from the prior’s stable, nor did I have money to hire one, so I walked the long, steep road to Vomero under the relentless sun, one hand on the knife at my belt; the journey took the best part of an hour. When I reached the door set into the cliff below Porta’s villa, I faltered. Was anyone expecting me? If there was no reply, I could hardly present myself at the main door of the house. Perhaps the invitation had been only a courtesy, and not really intended; I feared I might be turned away. But I struck the door with the same pattern of knocks that Gennaro had used the night before, and when it cracked open after a few minutes, I realised I did not know the password.
