The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes

by Hogarth Brown

  The men carried Illawara along at a pace as Riccolo explained his idea to the others in hurried gasps, as they reached to the side of the Il L’azzuro Madonna. Riccolo dragged open the door as the fugitives hurried inside. Chiara stood with a broom of birch twigs as she swept at the threadbare carpet, which made a scant impression on the grime, and Georgiarella seemed to be having a heated discussion with a stern looking middle-aged woman. All three women stopped what they were doing when the fugitives burst in: ‘Chi Chi, come here’ said Antonio, almost out of breath, ‘take off your dress’, Chiara looked at Illawara, and understood what he meant in an instant before the Madam spoke.

  ‘Hold your horses’ said the mature woman in a bold tone, and held out her hand to halt the group, ‘no one commands one of my girls without my permission in this house. We discuss a price before the clothes come off’ said the Madam, hands on hips with reproach, ‘are you so hot, that you’d rut here like a stag with a doe on my carpets?’

  ‘Mama’ said Riccolo, coming in last of the bunch, as the woman’s face lit up with surprise at recognising her son within the unfamiliar company, ‘I can’t explain now’ he said, as he pointed to Illawara, ‘but this woman needs to change her dress very quickly.' The mature Madam swaggered over to give Illawara a closer look, as Chiara loosened her own stays.

  ‘Very fine, very fine, boy. Where did you get her?’

  ‘She’s not for sale, she's not a prostitute’ spat Hermes with narrowed eyes blazing, the Madam knotted her brows as she glared back at the youth:

  ‘Shut up swarthy Moor - no one asked you’ she hissed back, ‘let me look at her’ she said as she pushed Hermes aside. The Madam studied Illawara as if inspecting Murano glass. ‘Dark glossy hair, shining blue eyes, and golden skin: you’re as lovely as an icon, my child’ said the Madam, as Georgiarella shifted from one full hip to another, crossing her arms, with her face set like a stone. Illawara held the Madam’s gaze and said nothing, ‘why not let her stay here?’ The Madam said to her son, ‘she’ll fetch a high price’,

  ‘There’s not enough space for her here’ Georgiarella interrupted,

  ‘Don’t be jealous, dear’ said Madam, ‘You’ll still be my best girl.'

  ‘That cannot happen, Madam’ said Antonio with conviction; ‘we’re leaving for Padova immediately.' The group turned their faces to Antonio at his revelation. The Madam then gave out a deep cackle,

  'So, you seek the protection of the Venetian Republic. Do you think The Church and its spies can’t reach you there?'

  ‘What makes you think we flee The Church, Madam?’ said Antonio. The Madam adjusted her jewels,

  ‘My girls are everywhere and tell me everything: including what happened at the Uffizi last night.’ Antonio froze, 'dare say there’s quite a price on your head should someone come knocking’

  ‘Mama, not now’ said Riccolo, before pressing his finger to his mother’s mouth, the woman looked intrigued, ‘I’ll explain later. They need our help’ he said, and removed his finger, before turning to Illawara. ‘Please swap your dress with Chiara’s before we run out of time.’ Illawara did not want to part with her dress, which she had sourced and assembled at great effort. She had collected its different parts with such care when back home - the dress represented months of toil and effort. Illawara looked down at her billowing skirts, and her embellishments as her dress glinted in the light: it was magnificent.

  The situation was desperate. Illawara cringed, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment before she loosened her stays. ‘Can someone help me undress?’ she said. The group reached forward and made light work of the garments, helping Illawara disrobe, but kept back her accoutrements, satchel and the Professor’s carry case. Once her dress and ruff were off Illawara then stepped out of her farthingale as Chiara had done with hers, standing in her underclothes and bodice. Hermes then handed Illawara her dress and ruff to give to Chiara. Illawara’s eyes welled up, but she choked them back and reached forward to give the garments to Chiara. The girl looked exhilarated, and to Illawara she seemed like Cinderella being given a dress for the ball.

  ‘I can wear the dress’ said Georgiarella, who then stepped forward to intercept the exchange,

  ‘In your dreams’ snapped Hermes, ‘you couldn’t get a leg in there.’ Georgiarella stepped back as if stung, as the company around exchanged glances at the feisty put-down. It had been the first time that Madam or Riccolo had seen Georgiarella put in her place, and a part of Illawara glowed inside as she swapped dresses with Chiara. Illawara, naturally, did not part with her diamond choker, putting it in her bag, and could not be expected to do so. She pulled on the cream coloured, plain, and simple dress of Chiara’s, still warm from her body, which, despite the girl’s cloying perfume, smelled less than feminine, and bore stains in places.

  But there was no choice as madam laced Chiara into her new clothes. Illawara stood back to observe the effect the dress had on Chiara. The girl spun with her new skirts out wide, cried tears of joy and danced about, before she declared herself beautiful, curtsied to Illawara, and sprang, glittering, to the shoulder of Madam who then clasped the girl to her breast and agreed.

  ‘We must hurry’ said a grim-faced Antonio, before the group left for Riccolo’s carriage, and Georgiarella stomped off upstairs. They located the carriage: not as grand as the Professor’s, but still good, within the side street where Riccolo had left it the night before.

  ‘My mother would have fed and watered the horses. Make haste’ said Riccolo, as Illawara and Hermes jumped in, and Antonio took up perch in the driver’s seat. With haste, the fugitives thanked Riccolo for his help, and he, in turn, bid them well - not asking for payment or explanation.

  ‘Your kindness and carriage shall be returned’ declared Antonio, before he drove the carriage the short distance to the river, and over the Ponte Vecchio before the raving Mob had dispersed.

  Orsini, in his attempts to control the situation, threatened hell fire and damnation to the violent crowd, which fought each other for every scrap: by pulling hair, scratching, punching, gouging, and biting one another to get at the last of the gold Florins. The beggar woman with her babe had long since left the scene, but the second - who had given Orsini a piece of her mind – had wrestled, with commendable vigour, two different men to the ground, and twisted at their loins until each man howled with pain and let go of his catch. She would never have to beg again, and gossiped aloud, not without insight to Orsini’s great shame, that the Roman Cardinal had no intention of having the mysterious girl arrested.

  Orsini gave up and made way with his henchman, defeated by numbers and frustration. In time the roughed-up crowds dispersed, bruised but much entertained and could speak of little else in the taverns and inns besides their new Florins, the spectacle, and the sheer scandal of it all.

  Chapter 13

  After a Deep Sleep

  The Convent of San Matteo, Arcetri, Tuesday 4th October 1611

  Out of the blackness hissed ancient voices:

  We see all,

  We don’t sleep,

  We’ll have all,

  This world we’ll keep.

  T he Professor awoke with a start, sweat clung to his brow, and his heart raced. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, and looked again, almost with fresh eyes at his curious surroundings. He lay splayed on the bed; the covers tossed aside. The words of his dream floated in his mind and chilled his spine. His body twitched all over, yet his limbs were leaden, and he struggled to move. He lay still until his feeling of dread had passed, and his breath had become regular.

  Professor Sloane then heard the voices of three women approaching, and he covered himself again with the sheets as if asleep, and listened to the women as they walked into the Abbess’ chamber via a door at the opposite end of the room. He recognised the voice of the little nun as she spoke:

  ‘Do you think he still sleeps, Lucia? He’s a fine figure of a man’ said the little nun in hushed tones,

&nb
sp; ‘Do you know from whence he has come?’ said another female voice the Professor did not recognise,

  ‘Of that, I’m not sure’ replied the Abbess, ‘but I know there is much to commend him, he’s shown great courage in getting here.’ One of the nuns moved her head like an owl to inspect the sleeping Professor.

  ‘He doesn’t stir’ came the unfamiliar voice again, lighter in tone than the Abbess, but from a woman that sounded mature. The Professor kept still and listened: ‘have you drugged him Lucia’ came the voice again, ‘he looks strong, and his feet hang over the bed.’ The Abbess smirked,

  ‘You know as well as I, Suor Celeste, that I can handle any man I wish, drugged or not.'

  ‘So can I’ said the little nun, the Abbess chortled.

  ‘Can you think of nothing else, Suor Arcangela?’ said the Abbess,

  ‘No, I don’t think she can’ said Suor Celeste, with a nasal tone.

  ‘And what would you know of men?’ Cut back the little nun as she twisted around and looked up into the sunken face of Suor Celeste. ‘You don’t know what you’ve missed’ she hissed, her face scrunched like a paper bag, ‘you arrived here as a dull, dry, and unwanted virgin - and you still are - you’ve never known a pleasure in your life.’ The Professor raised his brows under his sheets at the salty put down by Suor Arcangela.

  The Abbess scoffed, accustomed to their bickering, as Celeste glared back at the diminutive Arcangela, gathered a thought and sharpened her reply: ‘well, at least I wasn’t a tired streetwalker, with a drooping womb when I got here’ said the taller Celeste with venom. Suor Celeste then looked down her long thin nose before she continued her attack, ‘how many babes did you bare and abandon, or worse, before you arrived here to the kindness of our Abbess? Ten, eleven, twelve?’ The Professor's eyes bulged under his blankets as he listened to the candid rebukes between the nuns.

  Little Arcangela then screeched and made a gesture like a tarantula, before she snatched off her built-up shoe and attempted to hurl it at her taller companion’s head. The Abbess raised her hand and halted further action: ‘Sisters - Sisters - calm yourselves, don’t fight’ she said in smooth tones. Arcangela huffed, then put her hefty shoe down with a plonk and began to strap her foot back into the wooden block that would have cracked Celeste's head open. Celeste glared at Arcangela as she crouched as if she were a beetle she would like to crush underfoot. The Abbess glanced at both women, and shook her head: ‘the Lord sees and forgives all that come and confess in him' she said turning to each woman and tutting, 'let’s not remind each other of our past wrongs - or shortcomings.’ Celeste looked troubled,

  ‘But he doesn’t forgive everything - does he, Lucia?’ said the taller nun as she turned to look at the Abbess. The half-smile dropped from Lucia's face.

  ‘And what do you mean by that, Suor Celeste?’ said Lucia with narrowed eyes. Celeste blanched and drew back. She began to tremble,

  ‘Mother Superior - Lucia - I want to say’ she whispered, ‘at times… at times, I feel guilt for our craft. At times I feel sorry for what we’ve done.’ Celeste wobbled, as the Abbess stared at her, but she then steadied herself to continue, ‘at times I think what we do is against...' Lucia pressed forward,

  'Against what, Suor Celeste?' The Professor tried not to wriggle as he listened to the exchanges.

  'Against… against, God’s will’ Celeste mumbled. She held Lucia’s gaze, but the Abbess fixed the plain woman with a look and hissed:

  ‘And what do you think we women should do when the odds are so stacked against us?’ said Lucia, before encircling Celeste like a she-wolf about to strike its prey. The Professor tried to keep himself still as he listened to the women speak, ‘in these times, a woman has to help herself, or help her own. Do we not help our precious sisters in distress? Do we not help to right wrongs? Do we not advise, give herbs, give alms, and give council when our sisters that are harmed or ravished by strangers or, God forbid, their relatives?’ Celeste shrank into herself as Lucia continued to walk around her, ‘where would they turn or go without us? How would they get justice? How would they gain their revenge?’ Celeste began to shake, under Lucia’s glare, while spittle clung to the Abbess’ chin before she swept it off: her eyes, wide open, seemed to vibrate in their sockets.

  A silence fell among them as Celeste looked to the ground and chewed at her thin lips to stop them trembling. Arcangela stamped her built up shoe on the floor. The Professor flinched at the sound but tried to not move a muscle and lay instead like a plank of wood in his bed as he listened. After some moments Lucia's mood seemed to pass, and she changed the conversation, but she still eyeballed Celeste. The taller nun avoided her stare while Lucia spoke: ‘is the Abbess conducting the prayers well to the others?’ she said,

  ‘Yes’ replied both nuns who also bowed in unison. The Professor squinted, scrunching his brows, and held his breath to listen better while he pondered what other Abbess that Lucia could be referring to - apart from herself.

  ‘Good’ said Lucia, ‘while she conducts prayer we have some time to focus on the accounts.’ Both the nuns nodded and swept forward to the wooden chest with iron trappings, smooth and quick, like two hunting dogs in the pursuit of fallen a bird. The two nuns whispered with each other while collecting the books and lists of accounts from the chest. The Abbess Lucia glided to the side of the Professor’s bed to check if he still slept. His pulse quickened as her perfume crept over him and he turned away, as if in sleep, from the Abbess to the wall with his eyes closed as she studied him. ‘He’ll sleep a while longer yet’ she whispered to the nuns who had gathered the necessary paperwork from the chest and were laying it out on a desk next to several lit candles. Lucia turned back around and walked to the nuns as they prepared to brief the Abbess. The Professor began to breathe again and listened.

  ‘Donna Serena Marta Ravolio still owes one Giulio for the herb preparation we made for her’ said Celeste, before reading out a list of other women, and some men, that still had accounts outstanding. Lucia shook her head at the length of the list, and grumbled for a moment about interrupted cashflow.

  ‘That Donna Ravolio is always buying, but she always owes'

  mused Lucia, 'I may have to speak with her again: but first a letter. What else?’

  ‘Donna Maria Barolo still owes half of what she paid us for that tincture we made for her impotent mule: one lira’ said Celeste,

  ‘She buys a lot from us. Why doesn’t she just get herself another mule: a younger one?’ said Arcangela with a shake of her head.

  ‘Did the tincture work?’ asked Lucia,

  ‘Yes’ replied Celeste, ‘even better than the last, and she’ll pay us when her husband returns from Genoa on business.’ The Abbess rolled her eyes,

  ‘That tired story’ she said, ‘what a miserly tramp - she’s never without new lace for confession, they say, but comes short for our goods.’ Lucia glanced at the Professor to make sure that he still slept, ‘I’ll make sure she pays after Mass this Sunday - but if I see her she’ll hear harsh words from me at the Sabbat tonight.’

  Celeste then snapped to attention, and the Professor felt his skin chill - his eyes widening again under his covers.

  ‘You will attend the Sabbat again?’ said the plain nun. Lucia paused,

  ‘Yes, I shall attend again’ she said with her smooth chin raised. Arcangela clapped her little hands with glee,

  ‘But today is the Feast of St Francis’ said Celeste,

  ‘And what of it, Celeste? He’s the patron saint of Animals, not privation’

  ‘But the nuns will want some extra words from you on this day, is it wise to be away?’ said Celeste. Lucia wafted her hand.

  ‘The nuns will have extra food and wine tonight, Arcangela has seen to that. You have instructed my counterpart: have you not?’ Celeste nodded, ‘then there is little to worry about. The Sabbat will be particularly busy tonight: there’s much opportunity – it cannot be wasted’

  ‘I’m so glad, mistress. I wa
sn’t sure if we’d ever go again. Ooh, I can’t wait’ Arcangela exclaimed, spreading out her habit as if it were a ballgown. ‘We shall feast and dance with handsome men in the moonlight, and I shall be like my young self again’ said Arcangela, pausing work with the overdue accounts to sweep herself into a dance with an imaginary man. Celeste looked on but did not say a word: her face as blank as a sheet of paper.

  ‘I didn’t say you were invited, Suor Arcangela’ said Lucia with her brow raised. Arcangela stopped her dancing as if struck by a heart attack, ‘especially after the way you behaved last time. I thought I would die of shame and at the Sabbat of all places: where shame is impossible.’ The little nun clutched her hands together and mewed at the Abbess like a kitten left in the rain.

  ‘Oh please let me go, Lucia. I promise to have some restraint this time.’ Celeste’s face churned into an unpleasant expression, but the Abbess’ mouth slipped into a smile. She considered the wrinkled face, and shiny dark eyes of the little nun who, despite her great age, had the spirit and appetite for adventure of a young woman. Suor Arcangela had a vitality that eclipsed even the young girls in the convent that were waiting, impatient, for a husband to bring them escape via marriage.

  ‘What appetites you have, Arcangela - insatiable, but you may attend with me’ said Lucia, who then shook her head with chastisement and admiration.

  'Thank you mistress' said Arcangela before she sprang into the air, and skipped into fleeting dance about the table. Suor Celeste stood unamused.

  ‘Abbess Lucia, I worry for you’ she said, ‘do you think it wise to visit the Sabbat again when HE could be there?’ The Abbess shot some air out of her nostrils with an abrupt snort,