Scarpia

by Piers Paul Read

  When his turn came, Scarpia knelt before the grille. Behind it he could discern the gaunt face of an older man. To him, he told his whole story. The priest listened, interrupting only to clarify one or two points. Did he appreciate that indiscipline was itself a sin? Was his escapade at the siege of Gibraltar perhaps less a case of courage than of pride? What had been his intentions towards Celestina? Had they been honourable? Had he meant to marry her? Had he not anticipated that her chastity might have been compromised during the many months she had been held in Algiers?

  Scarpia explained that the Redemptorist had said she was being held untouched in the hope of a ransom.

  ‘But by the time you had reached Algiers, the friar had already returned?’

  ‘Yes. He had arranged for the guide to lead us to her.’

  ‘And if you had found her unwillingly seduced?’

  ‘I would not have blamed her.’

  ‘It was that gesture of affection that enraged you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet, poor girl . . .’

  Scarpia was silent.

  ‘But you returned her to her parents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And told no one of her disgrace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you behaved honourably.’

  ‘But I killed a man.’

  ‘Yes, a Turk, but you are right to be sorry because you did not kill him in defence of Christendom, or even to free the girl, but in a moment of passion. But, of course, passion is often involuntary, and the acts it inspires are not premeditated.’

  Scarpia, moved by the Oratorian’s understanding, now told him that he felt called to take holy orders. He had had enough of the world. Enough of the flesh. He abjured the Devil. Did the priest smile? Scarpia thought he saw through the grille some movement of his thin lips but, if it was a smile, it was not one of mockery and ridicule.

  ‘How old are you, my son?’

  ‘I am twenty-four.’

  ‘You are still young and there can be no doubt but that Almighty God has something in mind for you. He would not want a spirit as fervent as yours to go to waste. But does He want you to take holy orders? There is nothing in your life until now that would suggest this. Moreover, when we feel impelled to do something, even something apparently good, we must be sure that we are heeding God and not unwittingly using Him for purposes of our own. You have made mistakes. You feel you have disappointed your parents. You fear returning to them with their hopes dashed, their ambitions for you unfulfilled. But God never asks one to avoid difficulties; He never sounds the retreat.’

  The priest told Scarpia that for his penance he should pray the Five Glorious Mysteries of the Holy Rosary, pronounced the solemn words of absolution – Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis – and, raising his right hand, gave him his blessing – in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen. Then, as Scarpia rose to his feet, the priest said: ‘If you will wait in the church, I have some thoughts about how I might be of use to you while you are in Rome.’

  Scarpia knelt before the high altar saying the prayers that were his penance, counting the Ave Marias on his fingers since he was without a rosary. After half an hour or so, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The priest introduced himself as Father Simone Alberti, and invited Scarpia to follow him out of the church into the presbytery. They went into a parlour, one wall lined with books, the other with a portrait of the founder of the Oratory, St Phillip Neri. Father Simone sat down at a table, and Scarpia, at his host’s invitation, on a chair that faced him. The priest drew paper out of a drawer and dipped a pen into an inkstand. He wrote – the scratch of the pen the only sound other than the chirruping of birds in the Oratory garden – and when he had finished and dusted the paper to dry the ink, he closed the parchment and sealed it, saying: ‘This is a letter for the Treasurer of the Pontifical Household, Fabrizio Ruffo. He may be able to help you. I can promise nothing, but it is worth a try. Do not hide anything from him. It is always best to tell the truth.’

  2

  Fabrizio Ruffo, the Treasurer of the Papal States, was a tall, portly man with an air of natural authority. He wore a black soutane with purple piping, a purple cummerbund and a purple cotta – the short cape worn over his soutane – but he was not a priest. The second son of the Calabrian Duke of Bagnaro, he had been raised to pursue a career in the Church – dispatched to Rome at the age of five to be educated by his great-uncle, Cardinal Tommaso Ruffo, Dean of the College of Cardinals. There was a second cardinal in the family, Antonio Maria Ruffo, and Fabrizio had influential relatives in Rome: his mother Giustiniana, was a Colonna – Princess of Spinosa and Marchioness of Guardia Perticara. He had studied at the Collegio Clementina and La Sapienza University, and, after graduating at the age of twenty-three with a doctorate in civil and canon law, he had served as secretary to Giovanni Braschi, who himself, early in his career, had served as secretary to Cardinal Tommaso Ruffo. When elected Pope as Pius VI, Braschi had appointed Ruffo to the papal civil service – the chierici di camera. Now, at the age of forty-one, he had reached its apex as Treasurer – a post that made him responsible not just for the administration and finances of the Papal States, but also for its defence. He was prefect of the Castel Sant’Angelo, commissary of the coastal fortifications and administrator of the pontifical armed forces – in effect, the Pope’s Minister of War.

  Ruffo had been a fellow student of the Oratorian priest, Simone Alberti, at La Sapienza, and after graduation the two men had remained friends. They met regularly to discuss the myriad perils that faced the Church, in particular the virus of scepticism that had spread from France to Rome itself, where fashionable abati, despite papal prohibitions, joined Masonic lodges, took part in theistic rituals, and expressed the opinion, sotto voce, that the Gospel was a fairy story and Jesus of Nazareth a gentle rabbi who never claimed to be the Son of God. Ruffo was dedicated to both the Church and to the papacy, and foresaw catastrophe should either be undermined, but he had taken no vows of poverty and had amassed benefices that sustained a princely way of life.

  The note Father Simone Alberti had written to his friend Ruffo said simply that he might find a use for a young Sicilian cavaliere in his capacity as Minister of War. ‘He has shown great courage in the field of battle, which, here in Rome, as we know, is in short supply.’ The reference was to a recent conversation between the two churchmen about a play currently at the Argentina theatre in which a character said: ‘I don’t like to bathe in the Tiber because I might drown. I don’t like to ride a horse because I might fall off. And I don’t like to go to war because I might get killed.’ They had both agreed that this was a true depiction of the Roman mentality. Banditry was rife throughout the Papal States, but soldiers escorting travellers fled at the first sign of a fight.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Father Simone had said, ‘they have taken too literarily Our Lord’s admonition to love their enemies?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Ruffo had replied. ‘Every man carries a knife and thinks nothing of killing a man over a woman or some imagined insult or a game of cards. And the women have stiletti disguised as hairpins to use on their rivals. But no one wants to risk his life going after bandits. They admire the bandits. They consider theirs a reasonable way to earn a living.’

  As a Calabrian, Ruffo knew that his fellow countrymen were better at pursuing vendettas than fighting in a disciplined military force, and that Sicilians were much the same; but he was less unworldly than his friend Simone; he delighted in gossip, and remembered being told the story by the Spanish ambassador Azara of a young Sicilian who had gone ashore during the bombardment of Algiers by Admiral Barceló. Had not his name been Scarpia? Might this not be the same man? He therefore gave instructions to his secretary that, when Scarpia presented himself at the Quirinale Palace, his name should be put at the top of the list of petitioners waiting in the antechamber.

  When, in the middle of the next morning, the young man was shown into his presence, Ruffo was agreeably surprised b
y his pleasant demeanour. Ruffo had long since subdued any carnal desires that might have impeded his career in the Church, but he was not insensible to beauty in either men or women and this young cavaliere was unquestionably handsome – his even features enhanced by black hair, blue eyes and a manner at once shy and defiant. The Sicilian knelt to kiss the churchman’s ring, but Ruffo raised him by the elbow, saying: ‘I am not a bishop, signor, nor even a priest. The Lord has not deemed me worthy of holy orders.’

  Scarpia blushed. ‘I am sorry, Monsignor. I didn’t know.’

  Ruffo pointed to an upholstered chair, inviting Scarpia to sit down. ‘You are recommended by Father Simone,’ he said, ‘but he does not say why. No doubt the seal of the confessional prevents him from telling me more.’

  ‘I served until recently in the army of His Royal Highness, King Charles of Spain, but I was dismissed.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Indiscipline.’

  ‘Indiscipline?’

  ‘There were two instances, Monsignor. At the siege of Gibraltar I broke ranks and made a foray on my own initiative, and during an assault on Algiers I commandeered a longboat and went ashore without permission.’

  ‘You landed in Algiers? During the bombardment? May I ask why?’

  Scarpia blushed, which, to Ruffo, added to his charm. ‘For personal reasons.’

  ‘Personal reasons. I see.’

  ‘For the first offence, I lost my commission in the Royal Guards; for the second, I was discharged.’

  Ruffo paused. The letter was still in his hand. ‘Yes, Scarpia. I remember now. I was told something. Your father served with Tanucci. I remember hearing about your escapade in Algiers.’

  ‘It was not worthy of being brought to your attention,’ said Scarpia, his eyes looking modestly at the floor.

  Ruffo smiled. ‘Stories like that amuse the ladies,’ he said.

  ‘It will have brought shame to my parents.’

  ‘And you would like an opportunity to make amends?’

  ‘Yes, Monsignor.’

  ‘Would you say you have learned a lesson?’ Ruffo asked. ‘Would you now be more inclined to obey orders?’

  ‘Most certainly, Monsignor.’

  ‘Would you be willing to take service in the pontifical army?’

  ‘It would be an honour, Monsignor.’

  ‘To us,’ said Ruffo, ‘the reasons for your dismissal from the army of the King of Spain are not a mark against you, but rather the opposite. The Romans make poor soldiers. They are unwilling to risk their lives.’

  ‘I am not afraid of death,’ said Scarpia.

  ‘So I imagined. And are you prepared to serve outside Rome?’

  ‘I will serve wherever I am sent,’ said Scarpia.

  ‘Excellent. Then, if you are willing, I shall arrange for a commission as lieutenant in the pontifical army. Your pay will be fifteen scudi a month.’ Ruffo rang a bell on his desk. A clerk entered the room. ‘You will write out an order to the Banco di Santo Spirito,’ Ruffo said to him, ‘for this young man to draw his salary: and the decree for a commission to go to the Governor of Rome.’ He turned back to Scarpia. ‘You will be told where to report for service. Now, may God be with you.’

  Ruffo smiled benignly as Scarpia thanked the Treasurer, bowed deeply and departed; then, though he knew that there were other petitioners waiting to see him, he did not ring his bell to indicate to his secretary that he should show the next one in, but sat back in his chair and considered how best he could make use of his new recruit. Banditry was ubiquitous in the Papal States, but most shaming for the authorities was the way in which the coaches of diplomats and dignitaries on their way from Rome to Ancona, the chief port of the Papal States on the Adriatic Sea, en route to Venice and Vienna, were frequently stopped by brigands as they crossed the mountains from Perugia, and the passengers robbed. This happened so regularly that rich travellers disguised themselves as paupers and important officials went incognito – the ambassador wearing the worn tunic of his clerk, the nuncio the shabby soutane of an impoverished abate.

  Ruffo decided that he would send Scarpia to Fazetta, a town in the Apennines between Perugia and Ancona. He did not want the wild Sicilian to be infected by the pusillanimity of the regular officers and would tell the garrison commander that the young lieutenant should have his own quarters and choose his own men. It was unlikely that the commander or anyone else in the military hierarchy would raise any objection when all had failed thus far. No doubt they would like to see Scarpia fail too, and certainly, with his impetuosity, there went risk. It would seem that he had been extraordinarily fortunate at Gibraltar and in Algiers. Would he be so lucky in the Apennines?

  Four

  1

  Monsignor Tochetti, the coadjutor bishop of Golla, kept the promise he had made to the parents of Floria Tosca. The fifteen-year-old prodigy was placed with the Ursuline sisters in Golla, lived there under the same regime as a postulant, and left the convent only to sing in the cathedral choir. Even here, she was kept apart from the male choristers and, though she spent much time with the choirmaster, Antonio Faglia, she was always chaperoned by one of the older nuns, who sat silently telling the beads of her rosary while her charge went through a rigorous training.

  When Faglia decided, a month or so after Tosca’s arrival in Golla, that she was ready to make her debut at High Mass on the feast of the Ascension, she was still kept from the view of the cathedral’s congregation; but nothing could hide the exquisite sound of her voice, and all at once the bishop, the priests, the deacons, the acolytes, the dignitaries of the city, and those matrons with whom the coadjutor bishop was on such good terms, turned and looked up, in search of the source of the angelic sound that filled the cool vastness of the cathedral.

  They looked in vain. Floria Tosca, on Tochetti’s instructions, was to be heard but not seen. This absence of an identifiable source only compounded the curiosity of the congregation. She was the talk of the town and, since the cathedral choir already had a wider reputation, news of its new singer quickly spread throughout the Veneto. The celebrated composer Antonio Granacci came from Ferrara to attend High Mass at Golla. He was quite as overwhelmed as everyone else by the power, range and sweetness of Tosca’s voice and asked the bishop if he could meet this prodigy. The bishop referred him to his coadjutor, Tochetti. Tochetti, though pleased that Granacci should have recognised the quality of Tosca’s voice, regarded him as primarily a profane composer and refused.

  Just as Bruno, the deputy coachman of the diocese of Golla, put blinkers on the horses that pulled his barouche, so too Monsignor Tochetti’s obsession with his choir concealed problems that lay ahead. The bishop ignored, for example, the reports of his choirmaster Faglia that the situation of Tosca would become untenable over time. Faglia was a man of around fifty – thin, nervy, a musician to his fingertips, but also a man who, unlike Tochetti, had experience outside the Church. He had recognised at once the value of Tochetti’s ‘find’, and felt privileged to be called upon to train such an exceptional voice, but he was the one who had to listen to Tosca’s grumbling about her incarceration; and he repeatedly told Tochetti that ‘la signorina Tosca’ did not have a religious vocation and so could not be expected to remain cloistered in a convent.

  Faglia was married; he had daughters of his own, and he asked permission from Tochetti to introduce Tosca to his family, and even let her lodge with them rather than with the nuns. Tochetti refused. He had made a promise to Tosca’s parents that she would reside in a convent. Faglia suggested that he might ask the parents if they would release him from his promise for the sake of their daughter’s happiness, but again Tochetti refused: it would be improper for a bishop to ask a peasant to dispense him from a vow. Faglia said nothing more. He told Tosca to be patient.

  Monsignor Tochetti’s refusal to present Tosca to Antonio Granacci was much discussed in Golla. It was said that the great composer had asked Bishop Sarlo to overrule his coadjutor, but that the bish
op had replied to his request, as he had done to a number of others, with a smile and a shrug. Tosca was young; Tochetti had promised her parents; the wider world was full of perils for a talented young woman: how many divas led chaste lives? But Bishop Sarlo saw what his coadjutor did not – that it was one thing to disappoint Granacci, but what if a request to meet Tosca came from someone he would be powerless to refuse?

  *

  Prince Alberigo XII di Belgioioso d’Este came to Golla from Milan. It was said that he was on his way to Venice and had chosen to break his journey at Golla because he had matters to attend to nearby. No one specified what these matters might be, and it would have been impertinent to ask why a man of his eminence had chosen to attend to them in person. It was enough that the prince was honouring Golla with his presence: house-proud residents on the route into the city tidied up their window boxes and the municipality made sure the streets were swept.

  Prince Alberigo was a widower of sixty-four. He was descended from the celebrated condottiere, Alberigo de Barbiano, who in the fourteenth century had founded the first of Italy’s mercenary militias, the Compagnia San Giorgio, defeating a predatory band of Bretons which had threatened Rome and receiving from the grateful Pope, Urban VI, a banner with the slogan Liberata Italia ab externis, which became the family motto. Later generations of this family of warriors served the Sforzas, the Viscontis and the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. After the French King Francis I was defeated by Charles V at the Battle of Pavia in 1525, he was held in the castle of Belgioioso.

  Alberigo XII had added to his already extensive estates by marrying Anna Ricciarda d’Este, the daughter of Carlo Filberto d’Este, and added d’Este to his name. Milan was then a possession of the Austrian Habsburgs who, because of their hereditary entitlement, were not regarded by the prince as foreigners. Indeed, his father Antonio had been made a prince of the Holy Roman Empire by the Emperor Joseph II with the right to mint coins with his effigy imprinted upon them. Alberigo’s younger brother, Luigi, had been the Imperial ambassador to Sweden and Britain; and was later the lieutenant governor of the Netherlands, also a Habsburg possession. Alberigo had served as the Imperial viceroy in Milan, and had been made a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece by the Austrian emperor, the highest honour he could bestow.