‘I need to leave’ said the Professor,
‘You’ll leave when I allow you to’ said Lucia, and fixed the Professor with a look as if to remind him of her power - but the Professor did not flinch and glared back at her. Lucia softened her expression, tilted her head, and smiled before she spoke again with a lush, creamy tone: ‘let’s not argue about things as they are, these are the circumstances you find yourself in, and that’s how it is for now.' Lucia walked towards the Professor, 'we have much to share and learn - now that I’ve initiated you…’ The Professor took a step back,
‘Is that what you call it?’ He said, almost shouting. Lucia frowned at his tone and pointed to the open Grimoire.
‘Your initiation was essential. Without initiation, you couldn’t turn one page of that book without your hand blistering, stinging or burning - without the book resenting it.' Lucia folded her arms and stroked her elbows before she continued, 'that book was made by women, for women: it contains thousands of years of OUR secret and SACRED knowledge. No uninitiated man can touch it - you should be grateful I even bothered with you.' The Professor chortled and shook his head:
‘Spoken like a true misogynist.'
‘Like a what?’ said Lucia frowning, as the Professor continued to shake his head at her,
‘I get it now; this is what women talk about - this’ he said gesturing at her. Lucia had glowered before she scoffed.
‘You’re talking gibberish’ she said with scorn, ‘as if a man would know what a woman feels, what she must endure. Anyone of my nuns could tell you stories that would break your heart, snap it in two.' Lucia swept herself to one side, as she side looked the Professor: 'and you dare to complain of my Initiation, something few men have ever had, and those that know of its value beg for.’ Lucia then shook her finger at the Professor as her eyes blazed, ‘what I did to you was a privilege, and didn’t I give you an ecstasy beyond all measure when I shared my light with you?’ The Professor cast his eyes down, his mouth tense, as the heat rose to his face. Lucia’s brow raised, ‘aha, so you remember that part now’ she chortled with defiance, ‘when I "lit" you, you were writhing like a maggot on a hook.’
The Professor stood still, red-faced, and saw himself snatching up a figurine and cracking it across Lucia's forehead. He coughed back the idea, fearing The Grip: an agonised death would be his reward for daring. The pair stood glaring at each other when Arcangela hobbled in with food, which softened their deadlock. Bleary-eyed she paused and turned her face, left and right, from the Professor to Lucia, tutted, and seemed even more of a heap of wan skin than the day before: swaddled in her nun’s habit she looked like a withered baby. Arcangela saw the pair with their arms crossed, and said:
‘Ehgh!’, with a shrug, before she then limped over to a table to place down a spoon and a bowl of warm porridge scattered with soft fruits, and nuts, streaked with Honey. Lucia addressed Arcangela in a bold voice,
‘This is all that he’s to have today.' Arcangela clutched at her head and wobbled at the sound, and had to hold onto the table to steady herself. Lucia looked at Arcangela, shook her head and muttered under her breath, ‘we’re to fast before his first teaching’ Lucia said, in an even louder voice as if Arcangela were deaf, and the little witch swooned and clasped at her forehead, but gave a weak nod of acknowledgement. As the Professor pondered Lucia’s words, he noticed a familiar smell drift up from Arcangela; the boozy waft conjured up an image of his late father: transported, Winston saw his father slump, into the Golem's chair, as if he just had yet another argument with his witless second wife, Maud.
He saw the seat morph into his father's favourite leather chair, that time and use had moulded to the heft of his body: Gerald sipped his cognac, spinning his ice cube through the bronze liquid with a turn of his hand. Winston saw his father reach into his tweed top pocket and take out a framed photograph of his mother and sister. The man then caressed the edges of the frame before he pressed the picture to his lips. Gerald and his leather chair vanished when Arcangela shuffled over to Lucia.
The Professor turned away when Arcangela moved, the warm taint of alcohol mingled with the spiced scent of unguent, which still clung to her skin, smelled just like his father's cologne. The memory of his father, immediate, unexpected and intense made the Professor tremble; for the first time, in a long time, he missed his father and ached to hear his voice, listen to his advice, or have him tell one of his funny and outrageous stories.
The Professor coughed to clear his throat - eager to avoid the sting of tears. The two women observed him - lost in himself. Arcangela turned to Lucia with a concerned look, but the Abbess bulged her eyes and shrugged back in return. As the Professor coughed, wiping at his eyes, he stayed turned away from the pair before the little witch spoke up. ‘Did you enjoy the ball?’ She said leaning toward him, but to no response came. The Professor then snorted, furious at himself, and made an exaggerated point of rubbing at his face as if waking from sleep before he turned to look at her - his eyes were pink.
‘I’m not sure if "enjoy" is the right word’ he said with a sniff, his voice sounding gummy.
‘Somewhat strange, I know, for the Initiate’ said Arcangela, as she searched his face, ‘but glorious too, no? Do you remember me in all of my beauty?' Arcangela turned herself like a little girl, 'just as I was when I could afford to be foolish - when I was young.'
‘I don’t think I’ll ever, ever forget it’ he said, Arcangela then gave one of her cackles that sounded like the stirring of dry leaves,
‘I’m told, that in the taverns I’m still remembered’ she declared.
‘I can believe it’ said the Professor, wanting to distract himself, before she beamed with a gaping smile,
‘And do you remember, Him?’
‘Him?’ said the Professor,
‘Him’ she added, ‘the Prince, the dark one.' Lucia cast a sideways glance at the little witch but let her continue.
‘Oh... Him’ said the Professor in a quiet voice, ‘I think I understand what I saw. But…’ The Professor hesitated, ‘I don’t believe in the…’ He frowned as his voice trailed off. The two women looked at each other, Arcangela spoke again to confirm her suspicions,
‘Don’t you believe in what you’ve seen? You’ve born witness, yet you doubt.’ Silence came from the Professor, but Arcangela looked on and continued, ‘you saw the black swan arrive with his maidens no?’ The Professor took in a breath but nodded, thirsting for a strong drink, and Lucia glanced again at Arcangela, ‘so you saw then what the swan became, what it turned into?’ The Professor nodded again as the scene played out in his mind, ‘then you saw that the Prince asked Lucia to dance and that she refused him: the THIRD time she has done so. Can you believe it?’ Arcangela exclaimed, ‘did you see what happened next?’ The Professor shook his head, and Lucia coughed hard to interrupt,
‘No’ he said, ‘I woke up’. Arcangela gave out an exasperated sigh and slapped her leg,
‘I suppose that meddling goose broke the trance’ Arcangela hissed, full of mischief before she glanced again at the concerned Abbess,
‘Well’ Lucia said, ‘that’s quite enough Arcangela - quite enough’ she added with force, and a glare, to break Arcangela’s words as she took a step forward. The little woman sulked like a toddler at the remark, and the twinkle went out of her eyes: ‘please leave us now, we’ve much work to do.’ Arcangela had no choice but to leave, so she turned back to the table to hand the Professor his porridge:
‘Eat this. You’ll need your strength’ she said before she gave him a tender smile.
‘Is it drugged?’ said the Professor. Arcangela looked down, shook her head and then huffed, turned, and then gave a wobbly, but extravagant, bow to her Abbess. Lucia arched an eyebrow at the display and called after Arcangela just before she left the room:
‘Be sure to talk with Celeste, and advise her to let our Golem teach Meister Monteverdi’s new Vespers to our Sisters: I’ll fulfil their request, as they speak of li
ttle else.' Arcangela nodded as she turned to face the door, ‘music unfit for the Pope is fine enough for us’ called over Lucia, smirking, in a haughty tone.
Arcangela, in a flash of inspiration, then clapped her hands before she turned back to banter: ‘it tickles me when you spite your Uncle' giggled the little witch. The Professor blanched at the Arcangela's comment. 'Let's not let the composer’s work be in vain for my dear libertine - the Duke of Mantua. You know I love him so.' Arcangela almost swooned with desire, 'how about we disguise ourselves, Lucia, as MAIDEN courtesans and dance at his court, blazing in like comets, and then tear off our clothes to entertain and outrage them all.’ Arcangela flung her arms wide as if receiving a round of applause.
Lucia struggled to remain deadpan but shook her head, and a hopeful smile died on the little witch’s face. Crestfallen, Arcangela bowed again, ‘please return with Celeste before Compline’ Lucia continued, ‘as I’ll need you both later to discuss a future calling.’ Arcangela’s eyes bulged somewhat at the request.
‘The Pope’s your Uncle?’ said the Professor.
‘She’s not legitimate – his brother’s love child’ said Arcangela with a huff, candid after her night of heavy drinking and frustrated with Lucia for denying her a longed for visit to Mantua. Lucia turned to scowl at the little witch, and dismissed her by pointing to the door. Arcangela obeyed, bowing, before she then turned, walked, and glanced off the doorway before she left the room.
Chapter 15
A Return to Rome
Florence, Morning, Wednesday 5th of October 1611
O rsini resolved to go back to Rome, incognito, before leaving the embassy that morning, in the sureness that the news would be travelling before him via a man on a fast horse: 'good news walks, bad news runs, but gossip flies' Orsini muttered to himself as he got his coaches packed up in haste with what he needed for his return, and braced himself to face the choir. For once, in a long time, he paused his usual machinations of how to scupper the careers of his rivals and hoped the Florentine street brawl would not be too damaging for his own. Orsini resolved to travel without the pomp he had grown accustomed to: no heralds or announcements of his Eminence, and minimal staff, to arrive in Rome with as little fuss as possible.
He accepted that news of the incident at the Medici residence, let alone the fight, would leak into the Pontiff’s council. Orsini paused - looking off - while giving an instruction to an assistant, when he saw Cardinal Barberini sliding silver-tongued details into the Pontiff's ears: undermining, with relish, Orsini’s chances of ever claiming the
Papal Tiara for his own. Orsini cringed and shook his head until the image left his mind.
'Are you troubled, your Eminence?' asked the footman,
'Boy, just secure the case as I asked' hissed Orsini. The footman shrank back as if burned, Orsini then hesitated, looking at the footman's wounded expression, before he walked forward and helped him secure the luggage in place. The footman smiled and bowed with gratitude: 'off with thee… off with thee' said Orsini waving the youth away, before he shook his head at himself, and ran his palms down his face.
The Cardinal’s behaviour had given a golden calf to every one of his rivals and enemies: he had even saved them the effort of constructing plausible lies - they just needed to relay the truth. Orsini cursed his times and the new strictness; he once enjoyed, that permeated The Counter-Reformation Church: years ago, he mused, he could have dismissed events as ‘horseplay’ during the third course of a banquet without serious challenge. Orsini shrugged, paced, and growled to himself next to his carriage, oblivious of his assistants who paused to looked on.
Due to the size of his retinue, it would take him at least ten days to arrive in Rome, enough time for the news to spread, but he intended that the Pope hear his version of events. Once in Rome, he could then try to nullify the lurid gossip of the laity, courtiers, diplomats, and his vengeful rivals.
…
The Cardinal lamented his suffering on his journey to Rome: the inns along the way were bad, and the incognito Cardinal suspected the best rooms were not offered to him - an insult to a man accustomed to luxury. Many of the inns and taverns lacked a decent clean place to sleep, and the autumn wind had exploited draughty wooden shutters and gaps between floor boards. The best accommodation was booked up by wealthy pilgrims or merchants. The Cardinal, in anticipation of his ordeal, brought his own linen for each new bed and then ordered that it be burned after each night’s stay: lest he carried back unwanted pests to his beloved, plump, four-poster.
In a moment of frustration, faced with a night at a dilapidated tavern, Orsini suggested to his assistant that he spend the night in his carriage, but the idea got vetoed on the grounds of security. The Cardinal, in troubled sleep, would turn, night after night, in his cold, uncomfortable beds like a stone upon the shore, to then awake, bleary-eyed, to appalling breakfasts. Orsini’s personal chef, exasperated, coloured the air with torrents of swearing and complaints to cooking staff on behalf of his master. At one lodging, in a fury, he barged his way into the kitchens to prepare better meals for Orsini, only to find the best food hidden from sight and essential equipment stowed away. That day, between reluctant sips of watered down wine, the Cardinal chewed at salt cod, and even drier bread, and speculated aloud, for all to hear, at how Jesus had found the strength to manage in his lifetime.
…
Padua, late morning, Sunday 9th of October 1611
Antonio, Hermes, and Illawara arrived in Padua in less time it would take for Orsini to reach Rome, but had also fared better. The inns of the north provided superior services, on their six-day journey, with innkeepers eager to satisfy the frequent visits from the affluent merchants that paused for rest and refreshment. The inns served the merchants of Genoa that moved north by carriage from the Thyrinnian sea; or the tradesmen of Modena, Bologna, and Milan on their way to do business with the entrepreneurs of the Venetian Republic - and all others in between.
Antonio breathed a sigh, and his shoulders eased when he saw the rust coloured bricks of the fortified walls of Padua. He drove the carriage north through the south city gate of Porta Santa Croche, accepting the welcome of the guards as he passed through the city walls, and along the Piazzale of the same name. He guided the carriage along the streets and looked for his mother’s house nestled within the centre of the town.
Illawara and Hermes exchanged comments of admiration with one another as they peered out of the windows of their carriage, and looked at the domes and spires of St Anthony’s Basilica: a harmonious blend of Gothic and Venetian-Byzantine styles. The bells of the Basilica rang out in intervals to summon the faithful to Sunday Mass. Illawara muttered and pointed out Padua University to Hermes, when Antonio turned off the Via Roma, into via San Canziano - telling him that the institution was already three hundred and eighty-nine years old. Hermes nodded along. Professors and academics strolled about everywhere.
Antonio turned the coach into the piazza of herbs, overlooked by the Palazzo Ragione - the palace of reason - while the students of Padua University mingled with their professors, and other intellectuals, in the coffee houses flanking the market space, for conversation, beverages, and sweet treats. None of the market sellers were trading their goods, as the faithful made their way to church along the roads that lead to St Anthony’s. But Antonio breathed in the scent of coffee, and spiced treats that were all blended together in air that pulsated with debate and daring conversations. To Antonio, it seemed the atmosphere of Padua itself stimulated his mind like a tonic - an antidote to the leaden dogma that subdued the spirits of those that lived further south.
Antonio smiled, waving at those he knew as he passed along the familiar streets of his childhood, and enjoyed seeing the diverse international visitors the university attracted from Europe, and beyond. He noted with pride how the domestic and international populace intermingled and exchanged ideas with one another - in a mood of collegiate friendliness - far from the ears of The Church, and t
he reach of the Pope. But he also liked how the faithful were not intimidated by such freedoms, and gave their blessings to free thoughts that enriched their own. Antonio's face clouded for a moment, atop the carriage, as he recalled his mother had not written back to him, for weeks, in the last half year, or so, of his absence – which was unusual for her. Antonio turned his carriage into his mother’s narrow street, and its line of drab tenements, which constricted and confined those that passed along it.
Illawara looked out of her window at the washed-out surroundings, and then looked down at her dress and shrugged: ‘I guess it can’t all be glamorous’, she said before she looked over to Hermes who gazed out his window with a concerned expression. Apart from their recent comments on the city, the pair had not spoken much during the trip.
After a while, Antonio brought the coach to a stop outside a dwelling with several floors, and many apartments. Some of the roof tiles were missing, the plastering of the outside wall had cracked and faded, and some bricks lay exposed beneath. The claustrophobic side street the building inhabited had not space enough for two carriages to pass. The daylight dimmed to grey in the narrow confines. Hermes looked at the tired looking clothes that hung from balcony windows and dangled pegged to washing lines. The lines were perched upon by sparrows that chirped, and left their droppings on garments whose owners were too slow to bring in their laundry - or just did not care anymore. Hermes rubbed at his face as if he had not slept in weeks, as he peered out his window before he looked across to Illawara, who could not meet his eye. Antonio parked the carriage and tethered the horses before he jumped down from his driving seat and opened the carriage door. His sunny expression changed when he read the faces of his passengers, but he smiled anyway - like a wedge of ivory carved into a doll’s face.
The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes Page 24
