The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  I got little indication from this Nino if he meant us good or ill. His business was far too confidential to be divulged to a mere wife; he made that quite clear when I met him at the door. And after he left, Judah remained locked up in his studiolo with a chair barring the portal, always a sign that he was perturbed.

  When he emerged late in the afternoon, he did not mention the visitor. And when I asked him who the man was, he changed the subject abruptly. But the visit had disturbed him.

  That night he tossed about the bed like a rudderless ship, bumping against me, then shoving off a distance, then throwing off the coverlet, then pulling it back up. Not a word did he utter about the afternoon’s visitor. But in the morning, after he had put on his phylacteries and said his prayers and washed himself, he turned to me and without warning announced, “We must leave Roma immediately.”

  When I asked him why, he as much as told me to mind my own affairs. Still, I was not about to be torn from my home and scattered to the winds without knowing the cause of it.

  “I will not budge until I know the reason for this upheaval,” I announced firmly.

  “Better for you if you don’t,” he muttered.

  “It has to do with that courtier who came to see you yesterday, does it not?” I pressed.

  “Yes,” he replied, and nothing more.

  “What did he want of you?” I asked.

  No reply.

  “Judah, look at me.” He turned toward me reluctantly. “I am your wife, Grazia, not some cretinous slave. I deserve your confidence.”

  “I had hoped to keep it from you.” He sighed. “But if you must know, one of the cardinals has concocted a scheme to murder the Pope. This Nino is his secretary. They want me to apply a series of poisoned bandages to the Pope’s fistula when I treat it.”

  “Would that kill him?”

  “Oh yes. His wound suppurates constantly. It is as good an entry for poison as any mouth. I told this Nino no, of course. But he would not accept my no, and in the end, I had to force him out the door with his sackful of ducats. But none of that matters. I am implicated now in a plot to kill the Pope. If this plot is discovered, Cardinal Petrucci and his friends will certainly look for a place to lay the blame and I am the logical candidate. Men will say anything under torture. The rack makes cowards of us all.”

  The fear in his eyes, his pallor, the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead, all worked on me like a contagion, infecting me with the same terror. If the Petrucci plot succeeded, Judah’s position of trust would certainly place him first in the line of suspects. Yet some inner voice of reason reminded me that to run away is often considered an admission of guilt, and warned me against a hasty flight. We needed time and thought. And a cool head.

  “I believe we should consult with Gershom before we take any irrevocable action,” I told Judah.

  “Your little brother?”

  “He has his own identity now, Judah,” I reminded him. “He is a part of the great world and understands its workings. Besides, he has an orderly mind, and — not the least — we can trust him. We risk nothing in seeking his opinion.”

  “Very well,” Judah conceded. “But Grazia, we must be on the road by dawn tomorrow. That is my final word.” Clearly it would take a more powerful lever than I possessed to move this boulder.

  I dressed quickly and, enlisting my maid as companion, set out to find my brother. We had yet to be invited to Gershom’s house. All I knew of it was that it abutted Chigi’s property across the Tiber somewhere between Trastevere and the Borgo, a long stretch of uninhabited wasteland at the edge of the river. Why on earth, I wondered as my girl and I tramped around bogs and over pastures, had a clever man like Ser Chigi chosen such a wayward spot for his villa? Like Judah, I am an urbanist and would pitch my tent in Saint Peter’s Square if the space were to let.

  I had imagined my brother living in a tiny cottage on the periphery of the estate. Instead, I discovered a spacious guest house within shouting distance of the villa itself. In answer to my ring a steward appeared, all in black, with what I took to be the keys for the wine cellar hanging from his neck on a golden chain. Even the servants were ostentatious in this place. I introduced myself and asked to be announced to Ser Geronimo. This put the flunkey into a quandary. Clearly the protocols of his position did not provide for unexpected visits from unknown relations with muddy boots. He shuffled uncomfortably, then, suddenly decisive, announced that he would fetch Madonna Pantesilea.

  Now my knowledge of the ladies of Roma’s half-world was limited, but I did recognize a typical courtesan’s name when I heard one. Pantesilea, Imperia, Hortensia, Cassandra, Lucrezia (a singularly inappropriate choice but apparently a great favorite) were names I had heard bruited about. Presumably Roma brought out the classicist in these women. Dio! My brother was living openly with a Christian whore.

  Waiting for her to appear, I constructed a vision of this creature who had named herself after the Queen of the Amazons. Buxom. Coarse. And most likely with a small overfed dog waddling in her train.

  “Good morning, madonna,” trilled a high, girlish voice. “We were not expecting you, else I would have left instructions at the gate.” She was slight beyond slimness, with pale skin and hair so fair that I recognized it as nature’s own work. Although her chemise was cut low enough, I was hard put to find a trace of bosom above the lace. In fact her flat bosom, flat belly, and flat ass gave her the appearance of a young boy in spite of the corona of curls that wreathed her doll-like face. Oh yes, I might add that she had no chin whatsoever and wore a large jeweled golden cross around her neck.

  I was about to apologize for intruding and then I thought, Why apologize to a tart? So I merely explained that we had had some disquieting news, and requested her to send word of the emergency to my brother, wherever he was.

  Geronimo was at the villa conferring with Ser Chigi, she explained. But, knowing his deep feelings for his family, she would send for him at once. Then, as she left the room, she touched my arm ever so softly and, in her sweet, girlish voice, begged me to take heart. “Whatever crisis has brought you to us, Geronimo will have a solution at hand,” she assured me. “For as you know, he is prodigiously clever and extremely well connected.” A tart she may have been, but a tart with more grace by far than I had shown toward her.

  My reverie was interrupted by the sound of voices at the door. My brother had returned.

  “Grazia, what an unexpected pleasure.” He came forward to embrace me.

  All credit to Pantesilea, she made haste to disappear at once, leaving me free to explain quickly to my brother what had brought me there.

  “. . . So I have come to you, Gershom, because Judah and I are both distracted beyond sense. Much as I would like to run away, I feel that a hasty flight will undo us.”

  “I agree with you completely,” he answered without hesitation. “To run away would put the worst complexion on the matter. You must not leave Roma, at least not before the Pope is told of this conspiracy.” He paused. “Yes, the Pope must be warned. And the sooner the better.”

  “Must Judah go to him, then?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. Although Judah may not be the best man for the job. But wait.” I could almost hear the click of the abacus inside his head as he paced back and forth weighing out the options. Then at last he stopped, turned to me, and announced: “Ser Chigi. Yes, Agostino Chigi is the one to do it. He will tell the Pope for us. That way the report will come from an unimpeachable source.”

  “What makes you think he will do it?” I asked. “Why should he?”

  “Because it will serve his interests as well as ours. You see, Ser Chigi’s brother is married to Cardinal Petrucci’s sister, a mite close for comfort if this conspiracy is brought to light. It will be in my master’s interest to expose the plot and thus place a corridor between himself and the plotters. Yes, Ser Chigi will be pleased to war
n the Pope for us.”

  “What if Chigi chooses to warn his kinsman Petrucci and names Judah as the villain of the piece?”

  “Out of the question.” He took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. “Grazia, for your own sake try to understand this much of the great world. Agostino Chigi holds patents granted to him by the Pope that make him the richest man in Roma. We maintain offices in London, Alexandria, Constantinople, Lyon, and a half-dozen Italian cities. By his own estimate Ser Chigi numbers his employees at over twenty thousand. And this vast edifice is built on the Pope’s confidence. Can you believe that Chigi would risk all that to protect a wild crazy boy who has proven nothing but an embarrassment to him from the beginning?”

  “This Cardinal Petrucci is young, then?”

  “Not over twenty-two. And until recently a playmate of the Pope’s. But they got into some dispute over Sienese politics and it is common knowledge that the cardinal has been in correspondence with the Duke of Urbino. You do know who he is?”

  I ignored the insult for I knew it was not maliciously intended. “You have become so worldly, Gershom, that I sometimes feel I do not even know you,” I told him, hoping that he would open his heart to me just a little so that I might catch a glimpse of the sweet affectionate boy I once knew. Instead, he took me firmly by the shoulders as I had often done to him when he was a child, and explained, “Sister, know me as a brother who loves you and who wants above all to protect you and your husband and your little boy from those vultures that nest in the Vatican. I have learned much from Ser Chigi and much about him. Whatever you may think, he is our man for this occasion. Believe me, he will happily tell the Pope Judah’s story and put Judah in the most favorable and innocent light, because it will be to his advantage to do so.”

  “Very well,” I concurred. “But who will tell Chigi the story?”

  “You will. At once. There is no time to lose. We must get a true account of the plot to the Pope before one of the conspirators loses his nerve and goes running to him with a false version that implicates Judah.”

  Any other day, the prospect of a visit to Chigi’s villa would have filled me with pleasure. The building itself was the talk of Roma and had everyone in town vying for an invitation, if only to see the magnificent fresco cycle being painted on the walls of the atrium by Raffaello Santi. But I walked by that masterwork as if blinkered, my entire concentration on the test ahead of me. If I did not succeed in convincing Chigi of the veracity of my report and of Judah’s innocence, God knew what peril lay in store for us.

  The great man greeted us upstairs in the informality of his bathroom, seated in a deep copper tub of steaming water. Leaning back against a pillow, eyes half closed, inhaling the perfumed vapor, he reminded me of a sleek, reddish-brown otter baking in the sun, his body encased in a layer of fat, his fingernails polished to a high gloss, his hair combed over backward to cover his bald spot. But the moment I mentioned the name of Cardinal Petrucci, the sea animal was transformed before my eyes into a jungle cat. With a snap of his fingers he motioned a servant to wrap him in towels. All languor banished, he strode across to a giant ebonywood bed, settled himself on the pillows, and nodded curtly for me to approach closer to him. That was when I noticed the ice-blue eyes, wide open now and clear as a pair of pale sapphires in the flushed face. One look told me that were I to attempt any manner of prevarication or falsehood, those eyes would surely find me out.

  I told my story as plainly and accurately as I could and was rewarded with a little nod of approval. Then came his questions. Had Nino mentioned a specific time? A specific sum of money? Where was Judah to obtain the poison? Was he expected to prepare it himself? Had any other conspirators been mentioned? Had Nino mentioned any names at all? That was most important, the banker assured me, and urged me to agitate my memory.

  As it happened, I did remember a name because Judah and I had wondered over it.

  “The courier in this plot is to be a Sienese soldier who goes by the name of ‘Poco in Testa,’” I told him. “I remember the name because my husband pointed out to me that anyone who agreed to lend himself to such a venture must, indeed, have very little in the head.”

  “Very amusing, madonna,” he replied with a thin smile. “But I would prefer you to remember the name of a cardinal or a bishop or a prince who might have been mentioned.”

  “Would not such information come more readily from one of the underlings, such as the secretary who came to corrupt my husband or this ‘Poco in Testa’?” I asked.

  “Never fear, madonna, all avenues will be explored. I have certain connections in Siena and you can believe me I will not hesitate to use them no matter who stands to suffer. For I find conspiracy to be the most despicable of all crimes, and poison the slyest of all methods. Besides, I have my own reasons for seeing young Petrucci brought to justice. He is a beast and the world would be well rid of him.”

  From then on I never doubted the wisdom of putting ourselves into the hands of Agostino Chigi. But Judah had also to be convinced and, as you know, Judah is not an easy man to move once he has dug himself into a position. But, using Gershom’s wiles, my tears, and both our wits, we finally prevailed. That night when my brother left our house long after it was safe to be out in the streets, he took with him Judah’s promise to remain in Roma trusting God and Agostino Chigi. Thenceforth we were to communicate only by letter, in Hebrew, and destroy each communication after it was read.

  The following Monday a courier decorated with Chigi’s crest came to our door with a brief note. What it said was: “Marc Antonio Nino arrested today and put to the torture. Stand fast.”

  We stood fast for a month of rumors and alarms. Then one day Judah came home from the Studium white as chalk but composed. “They have named a doctor,” he told me. “We must trust in God and hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

  Judah did not let you leave his side that day. He used the pretext of telling you stories to hold you tight and cover your little head with kisses. And for once, you submitted to sitting still for the caresses and sat in his lap stroking his face with your fat little fingers.

  Just before dark a masked messenger clattered up to our portal at full gallop and requested entrance in the name of Ser Geronimo dei Rossi. Wild to hear the report of our fate, both Judah and I ran out into the street and would have begun to question him there in full view had he not warned us off with an admonishing finger to the lips. Even after we were safe in our own sala, the messenger waited until the servants were well out of sight before taking off the mask. Off it came with a tug and who should I behold but Pantesilea!

  “Ser Geronimo has sent me to announce the end of your long travail,” she panted. “A physician has been named and arrested. He is called Giovanni Battista da Vercelli. Ser Chigi has it from the Pope himself. Maestro del Medigo” — a deep curtsy to Judah — “is safe from suspicion.”

  Welcome words. But if Judah was completely safe, why send a masked messenger with the news?

  “Why did not my brother-in-law bring the good news himself?” Judah asked, echoing my thoughts.

  “Discretion to the end is his motto,” she replied.

  “In other words, the case is not yet closed,” I concluded.

  “With three men under torture in Castel Sant’Angelo, the case is far from closed,” Judah declared solemnly. “But sufficient for this day is the bounty thereof. Let us simply accept that God has granted us a stay and let us celebrate it.” He turned to the courtesan in his most courtly manner. “Can I offer you a glass of wine, lady? Or shall I call you sir?”

  “Call me not at all,” she replied airily. “For I must be off lest I miss vespers at Sant’Agostino’s church.” And with a smart click of her spurs she was gone.

  Judah’s comment — the only words he spoke on the subject after meeting his brother-in-law’s Christian mistress for the first time — was so Judah-like that I must pas
s it on to you. “Tell me, Grazia,” he inquired with a puzzled expression, “does she always dress like that?”

  After the physician Vercelli was seized, arrests followed one upon the other. Within days, young Cardinal Petrucci was arrested by the Pope’s guards and taken to the Maracco, the most horrible of Sant’Angelo’s dungeons. There he was joined a week later by old Cardinal Riario, so petrified with fear that he had to be carried to his cell in a litter. The old man had been named as a fellow plotter by Perrucci. A week after Riario’s detainment, two more cardinals were arrested. “But no more doctors,” Judah remarked with a half smile.

  On June 16, Petrucci’s captain, Poco in Testa, the armed man who had been seen entering our house with Nino, was hanged in the prison of the Torre de Nona and his body put on view. Hanging there, rotting and stinking, the body was hardly a sight to calm our agitation — or anyone else’s. Ordinarily, the bodies of criminals are taken down after three days. This one was left out to poison the air of Roma until the flesh fell off the skeleton. For this horrifying spectacle my brother had an explanation.

  “The Pope has now evidenced openly what Ser Chigi and I suspected would happen,” said Gershom. “He has managed to turn this conspiracy into a gold mine.”

  “That thought is too cynical even for a banker,” I reproved him.

  “Perhaps, dear sister. But I tell you, this Medici pope leaks money like a sieve. A man in that position can ill afford to neglect an opportunity to replenish his treasury if Fortuna provides it. And, as Ser Chigi says, a stone could more easily fly up in the air of itself than Leo can keep possession of a thousand ducats. His treasury needs constant replenishment.”

  He calculated that Leo had gleaned a clear profit on the minor cardinals of seventy-five thousand ducats in fines plus the subsidiary profits accruing from the resale of the benefices they were stripped of. He further estimated that these revenues, added to Riario’s fine, had brought Leo a fortune exceeding that of any individual in Italy with the possible exception of Agostino Chigi.