by S. J. Parris
‘Who are all these people?’ I asked Agostino.
He shrugged. ‘Ambassadors. Papal legates. Courtiers. Perhaps other young men gifted in the art of memory, also invited to impress him, who knows.’ He looked at me sidelong with a finely honed sneer. My mouth dried; I had not anticipated an audience. I was already regretting the waste of my best performance on Cardinal d’Este and his sisters the night before, and would have given anything for a cup of the coca tea from the New World that Porta served at the meetings of his secret Academy. To ward off the waves of dizziness I concentrated on the painting opposite, fixing my eyes on the receding arches through which the figures of Plato and Aristotle strolled, books in hand, deep in conversation. Imagine walking into that picture and eavesdropping on their debate! You’d have to step over Diogenes to reach them, but it would be worth it just to—
‘Don’t try to be clever with His Holiness,’ Rebiba muttered suddenly, making me jump, his breath hot in my ear. ‘He won’t appreciate it.’
‘Yes, Your Eminence,’ I said. ‘And my prior warned me not to be stupid, so I will aim somewhere between the two.’
He sucked in air through his teeth.
‘The Holy Father wants to see evidence of your memory, not your wit,’ he said. ‘No one is interested in that. His Holiness is skilled at asking difficult questions, as I’m sure you know. You would do well to concentrate all your attention on making sure you give him the right answers.’
He drifted away, and I was left staring at the philosophers, my hands clenched into fists and my bowels turned to water.
A ripple of shuffling and straightening in the room brought me back to myself; Agostino nudged me and I followed his gaze to the door. The onlookers sank to their knees as the papal party entered, and I raised my eyes enough to take a look at Christ’s vicar on earth. Pope Pius V was unassuming in appearance, a crabbed little man in white robes with a red velvet cape and hat, scowl lines etched into his brow above small dark eyes that swept the room with suspicion, as if there might be heretics lurking behind the furniture. He walked stiffly; though I knew him to be in his mid-sixties, his long white beard and awkward gait aged him. Flanked by two cardinals, he took his seat and arranged his skirts fussily, like an old dowager. I fixed my eyes on the rings flashing from his bony fingers and wondered how many people those hands had tortured to death, directly or indirectly.
‘Get up, then.’ He sounded irritated, but he spoke with a commanding voice for such a pinched-looking man. The assembled guests straightened and the Pope peered over their heads. ‘Well, Cardinal Rebiba. Where is this boy from Naples you insist I see?’
Rebiba shoved me forward with a hand in my back; the rest of the crowd withdrew a few paces and I stumbled into the holy presence.
He held out his hand and I bent to kiss the ring he offered.
‘Stand up. Let me look at you.’ Though I kept my eyes down, I could feel the force of his scrutiny. ‘They tell me you are unnaturally gifted in the art of memory.’
Was that an accusation? I cleared my throat, but my words still came out in a squeak.
‘Such gifts as I have, Your Holiness, are quite natural, I assure you, and the result of diligent study.’
‘I see. So you do not credit God for them?’
‘I – well, yes, of course – I thank Him for whatever modest talents He has allowed me to refine.’ My palms had grown sticky with sweat. All I could think was don’t let him corner you; don’t say anything heretical; don’t for God’s sake pass out.
‘Let’s hear you, then. Apparently you have the psalms by heart.’ He folded his hands in his lap.
‘Which would you like to hear, Your Holiness?’ I wished I could summon the verve and confidence I had felt the night before, when I was trying to impress Cardinal d’Este’s guests and sisters.
The Pope considered. We watched one another and under his gaze my throat tightened; he had the eyes of a crow.
‘I think,’ he said at length, ‘I should like to hear something seasonal. Give us Psalm 110, which foretells the coming of Christ.’
I took a deep breath. On occasion, I had hung about the Commedia Vecchia in Naples, talking to the actors, and had learned from them that the secret to a successful performance was to banish all other thoughts and immerse yourself entirely in the moment on stage.
‘The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand,’ I began, in Latin, more confidently than I felt, ‘until I make thine enemies thy footstool.’ I hesitated, my mouth drying. What was next? All I could summon was an image of Lucrezia d’Este in firelight, her breasts spilling over her bodice.
‘Every schoolboy learns that scripture,’ muttered one of the cardinals.
Pope Pius merely blinked and gestured for me to continue.
I closed my eyes, banished Lucrezia and turned inwards, through the rooms of my memory palace, through the concentric circles of the system I had adapted from the mystic Ramon Llull, to seek out the words I knew were hidden in the depths of my mind’s inner rooms. When I had finished, I opened my eyes to silence.
‘And now – what if I ask you to recite it backwards?’ the Pope leaned forward, crow eyes fastened on me.
I darted a swift glance at Cardinal Rebiba, whose face gave nothing away.
‘If you wish, Your Holiness.’ When he said nothing, I began, but after a few lines he held up a hand as if to ward off an attack.
‘Stop! I will not have this blasphemy in the Apostolic Palace.’
‘But you asked—’ I caught Cardinal Rebiba’s warning glance just in time.
‘When I was Inquisitor in Como,’ the Pope said, with a regretful expression that suggested he missed those days, ‘it was my sad duty to prosecute witches who among their devilish incantations would recite the Pater Noster backwards to summon demons.’
A gasp of horror susurrated around the room; one of the cardinals crossed himself. I felt as if all the blood had left my body. ‘There is no blasphemy here, Your Holiness,’ I managed, though the words emerged hoarse and panicked.
‘No? Why else would you learn to say the psalms backwards? How can that possibly show respect for the scriptures? It is a well-known trick of witches and magicians in their spells, this deliberate perversion of holy rites.’
‘No – it’s just a …’ I dried.
‘Just what, my son?’ The gentleness of his tone made the look in his eyes even worse.
‘A bit of fun,’ I said lamely.
‘Fun?’
‘You know. A game. To demonstrate the art. To show off, if you like.’ I smiled eagerly, as if that would make him like me.
‘To show off? Did you hear that, brothers?’ He turned to the audience with a mild expression of shock. ‘This young man thinks the word of God is a toy to buy cheap applause, like the flaming torches the jongleurs throw and catch in the marketplace, no doubt. And when you defended the heresies of the Protestants, was that also a bit of fun, to show off to your friends?’
My hands had begun to shake; I gripped them together but I could feel every man in the room looking at me, relishing the fact that he was not the one squirming on the end of a hook.
‘I do not defend the heresies of the Protestants, Your Holiness.’
‘I have it on good authority that in’ – he leaned across and muttered something to Cardinal Rebiba, who whispered in return – ‘September of this year, 1569, during a disputation at the convent of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples, you called Fra Agostino da Montalcino a fool for saying the Protestants were ignorant. Do you deny it?’
I glanced over my shoulder at Fra Agostino. His expression was sombre, except for the tiniest twitch at the corners of his lips. So this was why I was here; so that he could have his petty revenge. The treachery of it stung so sharply that defiance overruled good sense. I drew myself up and looked directly at the Pope.
‘Yes, I do.’ Another sharp intake of breath from the crowd behind me – they sensed sport – but I spoke firmly. ‘I didn’t call him
a fool. I said his argument was ignorant.’
‘Foolish, ignorant – what is the difference?’
‘An intelligent man may make an ignorant point, if he speaks without due consideration,’ I said. ‘I believed, on that occasion, that it was ignorant and reductive for Fra Agostino to dismiss all the Protestant thinkers as stupid, when many of them are learned scholars.’
The room had fallen silent, but I could feel the held breath of the crowd behind me, could almost hear the rustle of silk as they gripped their neighbour’s sleeve in apprehension.
‘Do you say so? Then you do not believe the Protestants are wrong?’ He was looking at me as if we were the only two people in the room.
‘Naturally, they are wrong, Your Holiness. But I don’t think they are stupid. And I do not believe that dismissing our enemies as ignorant is the most effective way to persuade them of the rightness of our faith.’
‘So you think we should give credence to the beliefs of the Protestants? We should engage with their heretical arguments?’
‘We should perhaps at least try to understand why men of undeniable learning and scholarship have come to believe as they do, and why their arguments carry so many people with them.’
‘Interesting. There are many supposedly great scholars among the Jews and the Infidels – no doubt you admire their work, and think we should seek enlightenment from their writings too?’
‘I do not, Your Holiness.’ I did, and had even read some in Porta’s secret library. ‘We have to draw a line somewhere.’
‘Oh, do we? And you have appointed yourself to decide where? Perhaps you consider yourself better qualified to judge than the Holy Office?’ Before I could answer, he continued, ‘So tell me, boy – which of the Protestant theologians do you favour?’ His black eyes glittered.
‘I did not say I favour them—’
‘Whose learned writings do you most admire? Luther? Calvin? John Knox? Philip Melanchthon? Don’t gape at me, boy – I have read a few books. Or did you think you would find me a goatherd still?’
‘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 sideshow 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 kno
w – 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.’
