by S. J. Parris
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, chastened. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No. You didn’t think. You need to open your eyes, Bruno. Everything is political, whether you like it or not. Now – drink this.’
That night, as if by some divine joke, I did develop a strange fever, which left me drifting in and out of troubled dreams for hours. At one point, I thought Paolo was sitting beside my bed, saying something about Raffaele disappearing; later, I opened my eyes to see Gennaro laying a cold cloth on my head, telling me I had been shouting in my delirium. By the time the fever broke, I had no idea how many days had passed.
‘You’re back with us, are you?’ Gennaro said, tipping a cup of cold water to my lips. ‘You’ve been sick for two days. You’ve missed all the drama.’
I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Did you give me a dose of poison?’
He didn’t answer; only crossed to the window and stood with his back to me. The infirmary was empty apart from one elderly brother at the far end, snoring like the beginnings of an earth tremor.
‘What drama?’ I asked. ‘Was Paolo here? He said something about Raffaele—’
‘Raffaele is dead,’ Gennaro said, not turning around.
‘What?’ I scrambled to sit up. ‘How?’
‘No one knows. Sometimes God calls His servants home in the flower of their youth. Not for us to question His ways. Pray for your brother’s soul, Bruno.’
Raffaele had been found at dawn, two days earlier, lying beneath the shrine of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Capodimonte, an unlit candle in his hands. The two widows who had come to pray thought he was asleep at first, he looked so peaceful; there was not a mark on his body, except three faint scratches on his cheek, which might have been made by an animal. When his corpse was brought back to the city, Gennaro examined him and found nothing to suggest how he had died, certainly no evidence of foul play or assault. Raffaele’s father, Don Umberto, mistrusting the Dominicans, had his own private physician carry out a further examination of the body, but he too could see no obvious explanation. Gennaro offered to anatomise him, in order to confirm or deny fears of poisoning, but Don Umberto was a superstitious man and could not countenance the thought of his son being butchered before burial, even if he was only a bastard.
It was concluded, therefore, that Fra Raffaele da Monte, while making a pilgrimage to offer his devotions to Our Lady, had been taken by some unexplained seizure or heatstroke, may God have mercy on his soul. Inevitably, there were rumours of witchcraft, but no one seemed to know quite where to direct them. Raffaele’s friends knew, of course, that he had made me his enemy, but it was also well known that I had been laid up in the infirmary with a severe fever at the time, so how could I have any connection with his death? I waited, sick with anxiety, for questions, but after a week had passed and Raffaele had been buried, with a great show of mourning, I gradually allowed myself to believe that he had told the truth about not mentioning Vomero to anyone.
I was careful, for a while. I observed the rules, stayed in my cell at night, turned up punctually for the holy offices and applied myself diligently to my studies and my duties; I gave no one reason to criticise me. But I felt the prior’s eyes on me in church and in the refectory, as if he were weighing me up. I wondered if he felt Raffaele’s death had liberated him, or compromised his position further, but I could not ask, and I was relieved when he did not mention the dead man to me. But as September passed into October, despite everything, a murk of suspicion about Raffaele’s death hung in the air of San Domenico like the autumnal mists off the bay, and seemed to concentrate around me.
I did not leave the convent at night again until the next meeting of the Academy. Porta greeted me warmly, but gave no indication that he knew of anything that had passed between me and his niece; I wanted to ask after her, but he moved briskly on to speak to others. When the coca tea had been served, he took the floor, eager to share the results of his latest experimentation.
‘As you know, gentlemen, our part of the world is always teetering on the edge of apocalypse. The mountains all around the Bay of Naples rumble with volcanic activity – this is the background to our lives. But my curiosity was piqued by rumours of an unusual cave in the hills of Capodimonte. It’s famous among the locals – the goatherds especially – for killing dogs.’ He glanced around the company, eyes bright with excitement, but his gaze skated over me. ‘If a dog runs into this cave, they told me, within a few minutes it will collapse as if it has fallen suddenly into a faint. If you catch the dog in time, and throw it into a stream or pool of cold water in this state, it will revive. But if you leave it, after a few minutes more it will be stone dead. Why?’
There was a chorus of theories from the benches around the wall, mostly to do with noxious fumes from the volcanic rock.
‘Exactly.’ Porta was fairly dancing on tiptoe in his enthusiasm. ‘Some invisible poison enters the dog’s body – either through its eyes or ears or mouth – that snuffs out its vital spirits. And not just dogs – I learned a tragic tale from a few years back, of two beggar children who sought refuge in the cave during a storm and were found dead there in the morning, looking for all the world as if they were merely sleeping, not a mark on them.’
I glanced at Gennaro and caught his eye; he looked away.
‘But what, precisely, is taking away the life force?’ Porta continued. ‘There is nothing visible in the cave, no smoke or gases to be seen seeping through the rock, as we might see from volcanic fissures. And whatever it is does not take effect if the dog is near the mouth of the cave, close to fresher air – he must be led further in. I’m afraid we got through rather a lot of dogs in the course of my experiments, though they were mostly old and lame strays we had rounded up. Those died much quicker than strong, healthy dogs, which leads me to conclude that—’
‘Would it work on a man?’ I interrupted. Everyone turned to look at me. I cleared my throat. ‘Would it be strong enough to kill a grown man, this invisible poison?’
Porta pretended to consider. ‘Well,’ he said, pulling at his beard. ‘I can say from my own experience that you begin to feel faint and nauseous after a few minutes, and at that point you rush for the entrance to gulp down the air outside. So in theory, I suppose a man could die, but it would take a good deal longer, and he would almost certainly note enough warning symptoms to escape first. Which leads me to suspect this poison possibly enters the body through the breath, since I found I was able to stay in for much longer with a wet cloth tied around my mouth and nose—’
‘So for a young, healthy man to die in this cave, he would have to be held there against his will?’ I persisted. Gennaro gave a warning cough, but Porta only smiled.
‘That would be the logical conclusion,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t progressed to that level of experimentation yet. It’s hard to find the volunteers.’
A ripple of indulgent laughter passed around the room, and I fell silent.
I hung back after the meeting was over, hoping to speak further with him. He placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘No more questions about caves, Bruno, understand? Not all secrets are meant to be uncovered. By the way, you must come back and use the library again, when things are a little less … heated at San Domenico. I understand you didn’t get much reading done last time.’ He winked. I blushed to the tip of my ears.
‘You’re not angry?’
‘Why should I be angry? My niece is a young woman who knows her own mind and can make her own choices. I would only be angry if a young man felt he was entitled to her, regardless of what she wanted.’ His mouth tightened and for a moment he struggled to master himself. In that fleeting expression, I saw that, for all his geniality, Porta could be ruthless. I wondered if those blazing lynx-eyes were the last thing Raffaele saw in that cave, before he fell into his final sleep.
‘I have something for you,’ Porta added, before I could ask any further questions. From his sleeve he drew out a folded paper. I turned it over to find i
t sealed with red wax.
‘She used one of my ciphers,’ he said, quietly proud. ‘Even so, you should burn it after reading.’
Holed up in the infirmary, I borrowed Gennaro’s copy of Porta’s book on ciphers and painstakingly decoded the letter.
My dear wolfhound,
By the time you read this, I will be preparing for my wedding. I’m sorry we didn’t have the chance to say goodbye that last time; I understand that you were unavoidably detained. The man who came to tell me so did not have your gracious manner, I regret to say. Fortunately, like most girls, I have learned how to fight like a vixen, as my uncle calls me (did you guess at last?). He says my face denotes strength, stubbornness and force of character; he predicts an unsettled future for me, which I suppose at least would not be boring.
It was equally fortunate that day that Ercole keeps a closer eye on me than I realised; suffice to say, I fought, I shouted, and I go to my marriage bed with my honour intact. I think it unlikely that that man will try to force his attentions on any other woman in future.
If you are wondering about my wedding, I gave the matter long reflection and concluded that, while religious vows are for life, marriage is at best temporary, particularly if one’s husband is getting on in years and has a growth in his nether parts. (I have this on good authority from our family physician, who heard it from another physician, who heard it from the man who attends my future husband – apparently such growths, untreated, do not predict long life.) So perhaps, in time, I may find myself widowed – widowhood being, as I’m sure you know, the most desirable state a woman of my birth can aspire to: all the respectability of marriage without the burden of a husband. I feel certain that we will meet again; but I shall never forget how you sweetened my days of indecision. Think of me next time you go to the library – but not too much, because you must read Ficino, and all the rest. I expect great things of you, wolfhound. My uncle predicts that, one day, your name will be known in Rome, and Venice, and even in the northern lands of the Protestants – the very height of fame! – and his predictions are almost never wrong. I pray that all your studies in the art of memory will teach you not to forget me.
Your vixen, F
I held the letter to the candle flame when I had finished reading and found myself hoping, in a most un-Christian way, that her husband would not last long. The blue ribbon from her hair was hidden in the rafters, along with my secret writings. The prior still watched me with the sharp eyes of a raptor (with his black-and-white robe and his hooked nose, he would be a magpie, I decided, in Porta’s scheme of physiognomy), but it seemed that Fiammetta’s letter turning to ash in my hand marked the end of the business.
In that, I was mistaken. Two months after Raffaele’s death, I was summoned to the prior’s chamber. I knocked and entered, to find the prior behind his wide desk. He seemed unusually apprehensive.
‘A visitor for you, Fra Giordano.’ He nodded to his right.
In a chair by the hearth sat a stocky man with a bulbous nose and thick brows fixed in a permanent scowl. His complexion was choleric and tufts of hair sprouted from his ears; a wart protruded from his left cheek. I knew who he was; I had seen him at Raffaele’s funeral, where he had worn exactly the same expression of indignation. Looking at him close to, I could only think that Raffaele’s looks must all have come from his mother.
‘You can go now,’ he said to the prior, as if dismissing a servant.
The prior bristled.
‘Don Umberto – if you wish to speak to one of my friars in my convent, I must insist that I am present—’
‘He can speak for himself, can’t he? I thought he was famous for it, this one. Or don’t you trust him?’
‘Naturally, but I—’
‘Then leave us,’ Don Umberto growled. I had never seen the prior subservient before, and I would have enjoyed the novelty if I had not been so terrified. The prior hesitated, then gave me a quick, curt nod and left the room. He would not have given in so easily, I was certain, if he had not been afraid he was on shaky ground with Raffaele’s father.
The baron heaved himself up from the chair and crossed the room to the cabinet where the prior kept his decanters of Venetian crystal. I watched him, the way you watch an unpredictable dog. He was a short man, with a squat torso running to fat now, but I guessed that in his prime, when it was all muscle, he could have bested men a foot taller in a fist fight.
‘Your father is Giovanni Bruno of Nola?’ he said, his back to me.
‘That’s right, my lord.’
He lifted the stopper from one bottle, sniffed the wine, made a face and poured some anyway.
‘I could have him sent to put down the Morisco rebellion in Granada,’ he said, off-hand, swirling the liquid in his glass. ‘The Spanish need reinforcements, those Moors are vicious fuckers. You’d likely never see him again.’
I swallowed.
‘Why would you do that, my lord?’
‘Because I can. I have the viceroy’s ear.’ He turned to face me, his mouth a snarl. ‘Why was my son in Capodimonte?’
I took a breath and concentrated on keeping my voice level. ‘I understand he was offering prayers to the Virgin, my lord.’
He grunted. ‘You and I both know Raffi might have climbed a hill if he thought there was a virgin at the top of it, but not that kind. And since it’s a long way from any brothel, I have to ask myself, what was he doing there?’
I didn’t know what to say. A silence unfolded. He pointed a hairy forefinger at me.
‘And now I’m asking you.’
‘I don’t know why you think I would know, my lord. He didn’t confide in me.’
‘No. He didn’t like you. Thought you were too clever. Was he right?’
‘I don’t know how one would measure an excess of cleverness, my lord.’
‘See, that’s the sort of thing, right there.’ He jabbed the finger in the air. ‘Answering back. Too clever to know your proper place. Raffi said you were a troublemaker. He said your memory games rely on black magic.’
‘That is untrue, my lord. The art of memory comes from our illustrious forebears, the Romans, who used—’
‘All right, I don’t want a lecture. There’s nothing illustrious in your ancestry, boy, I’ve checked. You’ve been up before the Inquisition already, haven’t you?’
I bowed my head. ‘Once, but they found nothing—’
‘You don’t want to be hauled in front of them again, then. They don’t ask nicely the second time.’ His mouth twisted into a malicious smile.
‘My lord, I have done nothing wrong.’ I tried to keep the fear from my voice, but I could feel a line of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades; this man was a bully, as his son had been, but he had even greater power to make my life, and my family’s, miserable for his own amusement, if he chose.
‘Raffi may have been a bastard, but he was useful. I was fond of him, in a way. And I don’t believe he died of heatstroke. This place’ – he waved his glass in the air, indicating the room; the wine sloshed over the rim and on to the prior’s good Turkey carpet – ‘is too pleased with its power. Your prior thinks he can’t be challenged.’
‘That is not my fault, my lord.’
He stomped across the room to me, lip curled back over his teeth.
‘Someone in this convent knows the truth about my son’s death. And every one of his friends says he talked of you as his greatest enemy. He was obsessed with you, apparently.’
I lowered my eyes again; it was hardly worth telling him that was not my fault either.
‘Did you kill him?’
‘What?’ I snapped my head up and stared at him, so taken aback that I forgot the correct address. ‘No. I was sick with a fever at the time – I was in the infirmary. There are witnesses.’ Whatever Gennaro had dosed me with, it had been a stroke of genius, though I wondered again at his foresight; had he already guessed that Raffaele would need to be silenced, if he had made a connection between me and della
Porta?
‘Convenient. But you wouldn’t have needed to leave your bed, would you?’ He narrowed his eyes.
‘I don’t understand, my lord.’
‘Not if you killed him with witchcraft. They say a magician can send his spirit out to commit murder while he stays home with his feet up.’
I gaped at him like a landed fish, but could find no words in my defence. My hands had begun to shake; I had to tuck them into the sleeves of my habit so that he wouldn’t see. His accusation was outlandish, but it could find purchase. This was a superstitious city, and public opinion was everything. If he repeated this belief that I killed his son by witchcraft enough times, in the right ears, he would need no evidence; the rumour alone would be sufficient to frighten the prior, who would sacrifice me in a heartbeat to save San Domenico’s good name. My reputation as a rebel, my previous appearance before the Inquisitors, would all count against me. Naples may not have the Spanish version of the Inquisition yet, but the word of someone as powerful as Don Umberto could see me arrested and interrogated; he could easily find some other friar who disliked me enough to bear false testimony against me. Even so, through my fear, I registered that he had not mentioned della Porta. This could only mean that Raffaele had not told his father about my visits to Vomero either, otherwise Don Umberto would surely have stormed up there with his accusations.
‘I have never practised witchcraft,’ I managed eventually, dry-mouthed. ‘My lord. I am a student of theology.’
‘We’ll see.’ He threw back the last of the wine and wiped his chin. ‘Raffi said he thought you’d end up on the pyre, through your own stubbornness. Said you were the type.’ He poked his finger into my breastbone. ‘I will find out what happened to my son. And I will have justice for him, one way or another. You’d better learn to keep eyes in the back of your head, Giordano Bruno. I’ll be watching you.’ With that, he flung the empty glass into the fireplace for dramatic effect, and blazed out as it shattered.
Perhaps Raffaele was right; perhaps I am the kind of man whose stubbornness will take him to the pyre. It seems to me that I am always half-listening for the knock on the door that announces the Inquisition. I make an outward show of obedience, but when I kneel to pray, I am hoping fervently for a time when men – yes, and women too, why not? – who seek knowledge and truth do not have to hide underground in fear of despots who cling to power by keeping people in the dark with their lies and worn-out superstitions. I pray I live long enough to see it.
