The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘She’s a mother already? And she got pregnant in a nunnery?’ said Hermes,

  ‘It happens... there's more than just prayers behind some convent walls’ said Antonio, holding Hermes gaze.

  ‘Where’s her baby?’ said Hermes, turning away to scan the space. Antonio looked down and shook his head,

  ‘It’s tough to feed a baby when you're on the streets. When it died, she came here’ Hermes balked, ‘what else could she do?’

  ‘Oh?’ said Hermes, hanging his head. He stood perplexed for a while and looked into the distance, ‘does she not have any family?’ he said.

  Antonio shook his head again, ‘they disowned her once they found out she was here, so she stayed. But I’ve taught her how to read, sing, and play the Lute: she can earn more if she has virtues... she'll earn her freedom one day.’ Antonio smiled, proud of his efforts. But Hermes stood for a while suspended in thought, emotion passing over his face. Hermes reflected on what he learned about Chiara when she returned in a glowing rush:

  ‘He’s upstairs Nino, the last room on the left’ she breathed, ‘but he’s still asleep in bed. I daren’t wake him.’

  ‘Thank you, Chi Chi - my little bell’ said Antonio, ‘I have to talk to him before too many people see us.’ Chiara told them the room number in which Riccolo stayed before Antonio bid Hermes to follow him up the creaking stairs.

  ‘Go softly, Nino’ said Chiara, ‘but watch out for Georgiarella - you know what she’s like’ she added in a stage whisper after them. The pair arrived on the wooden landing at the top of the stairs and walked down to the last door on the left while trying to make as little sound as possible. Various garments lay strewn about: shirt collars, whose, and cuffs mingled with bustiers and breeches in equal measure. Some of the items lay stained with bodily fluids: spittle, dried semen, and some with blood. Hermes tried to turn his nose away from the musky sticky smell in the air of the humid hallway but could find no relief. Antonio navigated the space unfazed.

  Hermes could hear, from some of the rooms they passed, that even by the late morning a few clients had yet to finish with their molls - as sounds of pleasure and gratification seeped into the hallway: a sensual vision of Antonio flashed into Hermes' mind.

  Startled, Hermes turned to glance at the Valet, ashamed, as if Antonio could see his thoughts. Antonio smiled, paid scant interest to his surroundings, and squeezed Hermes shoulder again,

  ‘Your first time in a place like this?’ Hermes nodded, ‘bless you’ he said, as they reached the last door on the left.

  Antonio ushered Hermes forward to knock the door, and then made a shake of his knuckle. Hermes' eyes widened into saucers, but Antonio insisted - so the youth gave the door a delicate tap. No response came, so Antonio gestured and bid Hermes to open the door instead. The youth shrivelled, but again Antonio insisted, so Hermes bared his teeth before he gave the door a push. The door gave out a tortured creek as he peered inside, to find a fair skinned redhead woman looking at him. She wore half a bed sheet and a scowl.

  The woman raised a plump finger to her lips as Hermes got pushed into the room, but her expression changed when she caught sight of Antonio. She then rolled her eyes, smirked, and pulled back the rest of her bed sheet to reveal a robust, bearded, and pot-bellied man sleeping on his back while giving out a convoluted snore. The woman raised herself up from resting on her elbow, and the motion swung one of her pendulous breasts to the side, clashing with the other, and dislodged the bed sheet that had draped her other bosom. The woman then made a sweeping gesture above the sleeping man with her hand, as if presenting a ribbon at a cattle fair. Antonio gave a wink and nodded. Hermes did not know where to look. The woman made no attempt to cover herself:

  ‘So who’s this brown virgin you’ve brought into my bedchamber, Nino?’ the woman whispered. Hermes felt the heat rise to his neck under the seasoned inspection of the prostitute.

  ‘Gi Gi, this is my friend Hermes’ said Antonio,

  ‘A special friend?’ said Georgiarella,

  ‘NO’ said Antonio, before Hermes gave a wounded look, ‘well not special in that kind of way’ he said as if to comfort the youth whose brown skin had turned a shade of pink.

  ‘It’s a shame’ she said, ‘half of the clock with me and I could teach him the world.’ She cooed, eyeing the youth up while coiling a finger through her auburn hair. Hermes could think of nothing worse and hoped for a trapdoor to drop open and consume him.

  ‘Gi Gi’ Antonio whispered, ‘I need to talk with your friend here. I’ve a favour to ask of him.'

  ‘Would you like me to wake him?’ asked Georgiarella, as she stretched her soft white arms above her head and yawned, which displayed the flame like tufts of her armpits before she flounced at her long thick hair and tussled it over her breasts like Lady Godiva.

  ‘We need to speak in private’ Antonio continued,

  ‘It will cost you’ said Georgiarella, and she rubbed her fingertips together in a gesture of anticipation. Antonio reached into a chest pocket and pulled out a coin. The woman gave him a dirty look, and Antonio reached in for two more coins which drew approval from her. Georgiarella took the coins in her palm and then put her hand under the bed sheet, which still covered her lower body, and Hermes turned away before he could see where she hid the money,

  ‘I don’t want Madam to tax that’ she said to Antonio, before she shook the snoring body of her companion, and rubbed at the dark glossy hair of the man’s head and chest. He began to stir. ‘Buongiorno, my little cupid’ she said to the man as he half awoke, and he reached up to give a squeeze of the woman’s breast like a nursing child. The woman kissed the man’s hand and forehead, before she rolled off the bed to face away from the men, and tugged her clothing over her voluptuous body. Riccolo almost fell out of the bed when he came to - finding two male strangers in his bedroom. Georgiarella gave a playful wave to her companion and blew him a kiss before she sauntered out of the room:

  ‘She’s a piece of work’ said Riccolo in a cheerful way, and rubbed his head, when he had got his full bearings. Riccolo looked on with increasing concern after Antonio introduced himself and then wasted no time to inform Riccolo of the situation.

  …

  By the time Riccolo had dressed, and the three men had returned to Illawara’s carriage several people were rocking it from side to side: ‘oh, Gods’ exclaimed Hermes, as all three men then ran towards the vehicle. Illawara looked terrified and struggled to keep her balance within the carriage, as people of all descriptions clamoured and ranted at her:

  ‘I saw her do it’ shouted one man, ‘she turned corn into gold.'

  ‘She’s a witch’ shouted one beggar woman, ‘it’s the Devil’s power that she commands.'

  ‘Shut up table wench’ declared a stooped man with white hair and a walking stick, ‘you accuse her because she refused you. I care not what she is, let me speak with her: she could cure all of my ills.’ Then a well-dressed man who looked like a lawyer shouted:

  ‘Get out of the way, withered old man, not even the almighty could cure you of your foolishness - but I’ll make her my wife, and be rich.’

  Illawara listened to the comments with alarm. More and more people became attracted to the commotion, and a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation passed like lightning among the growing throng. Illawara’s head twisted this way and that as if to look for an escape, but had little hope as more people joined the crowd.

  ‘I’ve never seen such a clamour before: what has she done?’ said Antonio, turning to Hermes, his face expressing a jumble of questions,

  ‘We have to help her’ said Hermes with a look of panic on his face as the men neared the carriage.

  ‘Wait a moment’ said Riccolo, before bringing the young men to a halt, ‘is that not the Cardinal Orsini I see there?’ He said as he pointed to the powerful from of a man that strode forward in a scarlet cap and dark robes. Antonio's blood froze.

  'You know him?' Asked Antonio. Riccolo nodded.
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  'Who doesn't? A Cardinal in town is always an occasion.' The Cardinal began to shove aside some of the crowd while accompanied by his pale, thin henchman, that hovered near him with a cut above his eye. Antonio blanched:

  ‘Yes, no doubt it's him. He's dangerous; he could have more of his men nearby.'

  ‘But what about Illy?’ said Hermes, his voice shaking, ‘we have to make them stop: they’re all crazy - they’re attacking her.’ Illawara gave out a scream as the people jeered and shook the carriage yet harder, almost turning the whole thing over, while two strong blacksmiths held onto the bridles of the horses as they whinnied in distress.

  ‘We’ll have to create a distraction’ said Riccolo; it could give us time to get her out of there. I have my own carriage close to Il L’azzuro Madonna. If we could get her to it, you could well make your escape.'

  ‘What shall we do? We must hurry, or they’ll kill her’ exclaimed Hermes in desperation. The mob shook at the carriage with increasing ferocity.

  ‘I’ve thought of something’ said Riccolo, turning to Antonio, but the man did not get the chance to continue before the deep baritone of Orsini’s voice clapped like thunder across the noisy crowd. The Mob fell into silence as he spoke:

  ‘GOOD PEOPLE OF FIRENZE’ the Cardinal declared as people crossed themselves and made pious gestures, ‘stop your wild clamouring and be calmed. There is little to fear from a witch when the presence of God is at my command’ said Orsini, as he raised a golden crucifix aloft, and thrust it above the crowd as if to ward off evil.

  Seeing that they were pacified Orsini walked forward toward the side of the carriage as the people, then five people deep parted like water in front of a ship. He gave a brief look into the carriage to see Illawara: frightened and trembling as her tear-streaked eyes looked back at him as if to beg for freedom. Orsini's heart gave a pang before he turned to address the crowd with a dramatic sweep of his arms and crucifix held aloft. He relived then how he spoke before, when he gave sermons to the faithful with passion like he once had, when young from the pulpit: ‘this may indeed be a witch’ he said, Antonio frowned and glanced at Hermes again, ‘but she has no power in my presence’ Orsini declared, as he fixed the rapt crowd with one of his looks. He maintained their full attention, all except for another beggar woman whom Illawara had refused. The woman, dressed in rags, raised her voice in defiance to the Cardinal:

  ‘But she does have power, your Eminence. I saw her turn grain into gold with my own eyes. But the black-hearted wench wouldn’t give me a coin, and gave all instead to another woman with a babe; does she not know that I suffer too - that I hunger and thirst?’ With her statement, the crowd began to rouse itself again with some saying that Illawara should be burned, and others that she should give them some money too, as Hermes, Antonio, and Riccolo made their way to the side of the carriage with stealth.

  ‘Shame on you, woman’ Orsini declared, before glancing at Illawara, while his henchman and the rest of the crowd looked on, ‘so she helped another in greater need, yet you only think of yourself, just like some others I've heard here.’ The Florentine crowd then huddled and muttered to itself, portioning blame, as if to agree with the Cardinal, as he turned his own mind over in how to get Illawara out alive and out of the mess. ‘Does the church not warn of the vice of avarice and envy’ he chastised, ‘who’s not to say that the girl is not falsely accused?’ The crowd guffawed, ‘look at you’ Orsini boomed, before pointing at the beggar woman, ‘with your lank hair, sallow complexion, and a dress made of dirty tattered rags. Who’s to say that you didn’t cook up the story out of jealousy and spite - pricked by her generosity and beauty; you’re a wretched STREET-HAG.’ The crowd collectively drew its breath at the comments of the Cardinal, and some began to point and titter at the astonished beggar woman. But within a blink the woman - who had turned purple with rage - with nothing to lose, challenged the Cardinal:

  ‘It was not I, but the misty-eyed creep that stands next to you that called her witch first. I lie not. Unlike the men of your cloth that double deal, whore about, fill their pockets, and offer thin gruel as alms for the poor.' The crowd gasped, many scolded her, and some cheered at the woman’s boldness, but she had not finished. ‘If I lie then let the Lord strike me down with a thunderbolt, for I and we know what we saw: that thing, as pretty as she is, took up grain and turned it to GOLD with the sprinkling of juices.' Some in the crowd nodded as she spoke, but some muttered in disbelief at the boldness of the beggar woman, 'she's a witch if I ever saw it. And if you have power as you say, bid her repeat it, and you’ll see for yourself - that’s if your Roman eyes are not clouded by her charms. I TELL THE TRUTH.’ She shouted, before tossing a handful of corn at the Cardinal’s feet.

  A silence fell over the crowd after the woman’s voice had rung out. They had never seen or heard such defiance in front of a Cardinal. Orsini, like everyone else, stood taken aback, some looked to the sky for thunder and lightning, before he regained his wits: ‘beggarly whore’ he roared, arms outstretched and crucifix aloft, ‘ye who grubs about the streets like a warthog, selling yourself for bread or cheese, dare say such things to me.' Orsini glared at the woman as if wanting to combust her into flames. 'If you were not already desperate and miserable I would have you flogged for the insolence you have shown for a Cardinal of the Church: but your sorry state and iniquitous life is punishment enough for a street crawler like yourself.’

  The crowd gasped at such volume it was as if a gust of wind had whipped between them: they had never heard a Cardinal speak in such a manner. If the beggar woman could have done so, and lived, she would have struck Orsini dead, but she had to endure the insult and curse him under her breath. ‘However’ Orsini declared, confident his blistering critique had restored his authority, ‘I will demonstrate that the witch, as you call her, has no power over me’ he said before he turned to the carriage and bid Illawara to come out. Illawara thought carefully. Shivering, she peered out from her carriage and looked at the crowd that had grown ten deep. She realised she could not defy the Cardinal in such a public place although her friends were powerless to help her.

  She hesitated before she retrieved the Professor’s carry case from its hiding place, held it by the handle, and stood up. Orsini encouraged her with a compassionate look, before Illawara dried her tears, composed herself, put her leather bag on one shoulder, held the case forward, and stepped out of the carriage like a Duchess. Illawara's skin and hair glowed in the October sunlight as the diamond at her throat splintered the autumn sunshine across her dress and people below. The crowd, which had gained more people yet, shrank back in fear and awe as they ogled her. Orsini could not tear his eyes away from her as she stood on the steps of the carriage with the case held aloft.

  Orsini’s mind raced while Hermes, Antonio, and Riccolo whispered, unnoticed, as the crowd looked on. Riccolo began to reach into his side pocket as the Cardinal spoke: ‘I am a man of God’ said Orsini in a mighty voice, swinging his crucifix aloft with one hand and extending the other in Illawara’s direction, ‘with the power of the Holy Spirit, I can touch thee and remain unharmed.’ Chattering broke out among the crowd that fidgeted like Gerbils, as the Cardinal, with much tenderness, reached with his arm outstretched and took Illawara’s cold hand. The crowd gasped. Orsini looked at her and she at him as the corner of her mouth began to tremble. Orsini swallowed but resisted the urge to sweep her into his arms again, like when they had danced the night before, but he had to rip his eyes away from her to work the crowd over. ‘You see’ the Cardinal said, with a voice a somewhat shaken, ‘she has no power over me.’

  All assembled stood motionless, looked on, and then drew their own conclusions. Orsini clung to Illawara’s hand, refusing to let go, before he gestured with his crucifix at the ground where the grains of corn lay and said: ‘if you are indeed a witch as they say, then change this grain into gold.' Illawara hesitated, and Orsini who had not seen the cause of the commotion hoped with all his heart, that e
ven if she were a witch, she would not be so foolish to repeat the trick and condemn herself to a burning.

  Illawara looked around in silence at those gathered, as all activity had stopped in the street, and at the people that stood twenty deep: rapt with the spectacle. Illawara made a move to speak before Riccolo flung his arm up to the sky and tossed the contents if his moneybag into the air, to scatter Orsini and the crowd with every gold Florin he had on his person. In an instant, the crowd rushed forward, in a gale of noise, and fought with each other to grab a coin, the most of which few had handled but once in their lives. The beggar woman, so swift, with a screech of victory, managed to snatch up two gold Florins before the desperate Mob fell on the rest. Hermes, Antonio, and Riccolo trampled forward to yank Illawara from Orsini’s grasp as he became overwhelmed by the crowd, and howled, ‘NO’, in anguish at being separated from Illawara again. The Mob of one mind, in a frenzy for the coins, forgot Illawara at that moment and set about increasing its wealth in the knowledge that they, collectively, and their families could be fed and clothed for months ahead with just one coin.

  The horses bolted, spooked by the sudden onrush, and the blacksmiths abandoned their reigns to snatch up what they could, as Orsini and his henchman then leapt aside to avoid being run over. The horses and carriage then barrelled down the street and caused mayhem as people and goods were flung aside as the wild-eyed horses, and runaway carriage tore through the streets. The fugitives elbowed their way out of the throng, as more people ran towards the mêlée to grab at a coin within the mass of churning people: that rose, fell, turned, and flapped like guillemots feeding upon sardines in the swell of the sea.

  ‘We have to get out of Firenze immediately’ said Antonio almost breathless, ‘it’s too dangerous to risk staying here.’

  The fugitives fled and carried Illawara along, who then snatched glances back here and there to see what had become of Orsini, as she clung to the carry case with all her strength. ‘Take my carriage, it’s the black one’ said Riccolo as they all ran forward, ‘but we must get your friend into different clothes, or she’ll be recognised. She’s dressed much too fine as she is.’