I have good reason to believe that the man I love is hurrying home not to embrace me but to accuse and reproach me. This time I will not flinch from admitting my deceit. I vow not to write in this book again until I have told your father that in the Venetian ghetto I bore him a child and that you, the boy he knows as the child of Judah del Medigo, are in fact his son. My hand shakes as I write these words.
Later.
The deed is done. Lord Pirro knows all and forgives all. Back from Lombardia he came to me, his beard powdered with the dust of the road and his camicia damp from the exertion of a day’s ride. But that sweat smelled like civet perfume to me. I do love him, Danilo, not only for his fine figure and his flashing smile but for the man within — open, frank, and plain-dealing.
He did not prolong the moment of truth as others might have done; nor did he force me into blurting out my confession by maintaining an austere silence. Those mean-minded ways are not his. Instead, he first took me up in his arms and embraced me to show his love for me; then he spoke at once of the matter in both our minds.
“Is it true, Grazia, that Danilo is my son?” he asked.
And I answered, simply, “Yes.”
He must have rehearsed the moment in his mind, for his words came out in the way an actor speaks a speech, as if prelearned.
“It is a cruel thing you have done, Grazia,” he began, not in a reproachful way but, rather, as if saddened by my deceit. “To keep a father from his son and a son from his father . . . it is a cruel thing.” He paused a moment, shaking his head as if he still could not believe the depth of my deception. “When I received the letter at Piacenza hinting that my son was being passed off as another man’s, my heart flooded with rage. But I have had a long ride down to Roma and time in the saddle to reflect. And that time has led me to see that I cannot blame you. Abandoned by me, how could you be other than wary ever after? You and your son had a good home with the Jew del Medigo. You only did what any mother would have done. You looked first to the safety of your babe. I must respect that.”
“You forgive me, then?” I asked, not quite believing that I would be so easily let off.
“On one condition. That you divorce the Jew and marry me at once. And this time, I will not be denied.”
But denied he was. I could not — would not — go back on my undertaking to Judah: a year of consideration before arriving at a final decision. “It is the very least I can give the man,” I explained. “In repayment for all the years he has taken care of me . . . and our son. All he asks is this small gift of time.”
“A year is no small gift,” he corrected me. “In some lives, a year can be forever. We are no longer young.”
“But we are together with our son,” I reminded him. “Judah is not asking me to retire to a cloister. Only to put off the divorce and my baptism and marriage to you.”
“And what of my acknowledgment of my son? Is that to be delayed too?”
“The decision is up to us,” I answered. “I will understand if you insist on telling Danilo at once. But my heart tells me we had much better approach the subject cautiously. Let him get to know you as a man before he is forced to accept you as his father.”
In some ways this was a harder condition even than the delay of our marriage. His whole being clamored to say the words “My son,” and to hear you answer “Father.” But for your sake he agreed — albeit reluctantly — that for the present at least he would devote himself to becoming a part of your life and making you a part of his and leave the moment of revelation to some future day.
Blood calls out to blood. You took to each other like a falcon and its fledgling. Before long it was, “Lord Pirro has invited me to go hunting. May I go, Madonna Madre?” Next: “I should like to go for a walk in the garden with Lord Pirro after supper, Madonna Madre. He has promised to tell me about the siege at Marignano.” Then: “Lord Pirro has invited me to accompany him to the Vatican tomorrow. May I, madonna?” And finally: “Madonna Madre, I wish to ride to the northern battlefields with Lord Pirro as his page. He is heading the Pope’s party to negotiate with the Imperials. I will get to see the landsknechts and that Bourbon they call ‘the French Devil.’ Tell him I may go, madonna. Please.”
I might have found the resolve to make you unhappy for your own good. But the prospect of denying both of you was beyond my will. I said yes to the proposal, with reservations.
“You must promise never to let him out of your sight,” I cautioned Lord Pirro. “Milano is a city under siege. They say that Urbino has it bottled up tighter than a . . .”
“Than a virgin’s hymen?” He finished my sentence for me. “Well, my love, here’s a piece of highly confidential information for you. Bourbon was out of Milano four days ago. Like many other virgin hymens, Urbino’s barrier proved illusory at the moment of penetration. It never was the army of the Papal League that kept the Imperials blocked in Milano. Bourbon’s own men held him back. They refused to budge from Milano until they were paid the two months’ back pay they were owed. Charles Habsburg may claim the titles of King of Spain and King of Burgundy as well as Holy Roman Emperor and ruler of God knows what lands across the seas, but apparently he is no more solvent than our own poor Pope.”
“But now you say the Imperials are out of Milano. Who paid off the troops?”
“Bourbon did, out of his own pocket,” he replied, then added with a rueful smile, “Nothing requires a more boundless infusion of money than war. And apparently nobody has enough money to fight this one.”
“Still they keep on fighting,” I reminded him.
“War is a fact of life, Grazia.” He was not smiling now. “It is also a fact that I am a soldier. Any day now Bourbon will join his army to Frundsberg’s in Lombardia. I am delegated to treat with them as an emissary from the Papal League. I want to take Danilo with me and show him history being made.”
“You wish to take him to a military camp? To consort with ruffians and soldiers?” That was even worse than Milano.
But he had an answer that silenced my objections. “Why not, Grazia? He is a soldier’s son.”
FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE
Madonna Madre:
This dispatch is being written all in a rush to reach you by the fastest courier. Please do not judge my grammar or the carelessness of my pen. I wish you to know of the events of this day from no other person than me, your son who loves you and respects you and thanks you for permitting me to make this amazing journey in the company of Lord Pirro of Bozzuolo so that I may experience history at first hand and thus further my education.
Today I saw history made before my eyes. I witnessed a mutiny and I saw the great German general fall into a fit from the exertion of trying to subdue his men, called landsknechts. But these Germans would not be stayed. They roared and stamped and raged like wild beasts, screaming, “We want money! Give us money!”
With tears streaming down his face in rivulets (I do not exaggerate, Mama), old Frundsberg begged them to serve the Emperor and wait patiently for their pay. He called them his children. But they were past listening. Two in the front lowered their halberds at him. At him, their leader! He reached for his great sword. But even as he drew it from the scabbard, he fell back upon a drum behind him and lay still as a corpse before our eyes.
As soon as the apoplexy struck him, the soldiers began to see how wicked they had been to treat the old man with so little respect. Now it was their turn to cry. But it was too late. They raised him on their shoulders and carried him to his tent. Then we left the camp to return to Piacenza. Now we hear that he is dead. You and the Holy Father will be the first in Roma to hear of this.
Lord Pirro is very kind to me and reminds me to inform you that he watches over me so that no harm comes to me, and that I sleep under two heavy wool mats and drink no more than three glasses of well-watered wine a day.
Lord Pirro says the death of General Frundsberg has ma
de his task here easier although it is very regrettable. The old man was very gallant even though he was fighting on the other side. Now Lord Pirro has only one general to deal with: the Duke of Bourbon. We saw him today too but not in audience. Our audience was to be with General Frundsberg but he is dead.
The dispatch rider is about to leave for Roma. If I witness any more historic events, I will write you a complete description immediately for I know you will love to hear such reports. From what I am able to deduce, all the soldiers on both sides are very brave except for the Duke of Urbino, who commands the Pope’s forces here in the north. Please do not tell Madonna Isabella I said this. I know that this duke (whom we have not seen for he is off somewhere hiding from danger) is married to Madama’s daughter, the lady Leonora, and I do not wish to bring her distress or shame. But oh, Mama, you should hear how they speak of his cowardice. It would sadden you as it does me and Lord Pirro. A cowardly soldier, he says, brings disgrace upon the whole profession. And I agree.
Now I must pour on the wax and seal this dispatch. Lord Pirro has given me his signet so I may use it for a sealer. He was surprised that I had no signet of my own and says that when we get back to Roma he will have one made to my own design by Benvenuto Cellini. What shall I adopt as my escutcheon? Please, Mama, help me to decide for I am wanting in knowledge of ancient lore and you are very wise and learned in such things.
Lord Pirro also plans to have made to my measure a suit of armor for me to wear into battle if I choose to embrace the profession of soldier. I explained that my honorable father hoped for me to enter the university and become a scholar and rabbi like himself. Lord Pirro says there is still much time for me to make up my mind. But he believes, knowing my father and you both, that my parents would not want to force me into a profession against my wishes. And I agree. I was correct to agree, was I not, honorable mother? It would not make Papa angry if I became a soldier, would it? Of course it is much too early to tell. Lord Pirro says that, above all, I must not make a precipitate decision but oh, Mama, I do love war.
Your obedient and affectionate son, Captain Danilo del Medigo. (Do not be offended, Mama. Here in camp, there is much jesting and I have taken up the habit.) March 14, 1527, Piacenza.
Most beloved mistress, soon to be wife:
We arrived in time to witness the death of Georg Frundsberg. They say he died of apoplexy but I tell you he died of a broken heart. Driven mad by hunger and cold and filth and wet, his men turned on him. Danilo witnessed this bit of history.
Now I begin to deal with the Duke of Bourbon, another vein of metal from the German. This one is deeply buried yet mercurial in its substance. In spite of my loathing of all traitors, I cannot help but admire his resolution and fortitude. He led the Emperor’s Milanese forces through a blockade of troops far superior in numbers and did it without ammunition, without any assurance of provisions or any sign of support from his master the Emperor. To unite with Frundsberg he made a daring crossing over the Trebbia. Does this ring a bell in your learned head, my love? It is the very Trebbia where Hannibal enjoyed his great victory in, I believe, the year 218.
Today, only two days after Frundsberg’s death, the landsknechts converged on Bourbon’s tent like a band of cannibals, out for blood. To his credit, Bourbon faced up to them squarely. He assured them that he was their leader now and that he would care for them as much as for his own men. He invoked “Mahomet’s law” on their behalf, giving them the right to take their pay in plunder and pillage. And to back up his rhetoric he brought out from his tent every silver vessel and ring and jewel and treasure he possessed and offered to share his possessions with them, reserving for himself only the clothes he had on and the gleaming surcoat of silver he wears over his armor by which his men can recognize him in the turmoil of battle. The landsknechts were won over. They ended their mutiny swearing to serve him until the end even if it led them to the devil.
Between the world as it is here in the camp and as it is imagined in Roma stretches a chasm so deep that I cannot find the words to fill it. This army is rapidly approaching the point of no return. Each mile they advance takes them farther from home and closer to the Holy City. Yesterday Bourbon consulted with his astrologers and was assured by them that all the omens are in his favor. Today he makes preparations to break camp and march south into Toscana. Perhaps when this deadly war machine of his is pointed at the heart of Firenze the Pope will see the light and send the 150,000 ducats needed to avert the sack of his own city.
On a lighter note, Danilo adds a postscript to his previous letter. What a boy we have made together, my love. His beauty and modesty make me the most enviable of fathers and you, of mothers. Is it too late for us to duplicate our triumph in producing him? I mean to test the proposition with the utmost perseverance on my return — nightly, if it please you.
Oh, lady, be proud. You have conquered this fierce warrior. First, I was captivated by your grace and courage. In time, I began to value your wisdom. But always, I remained my own man. Now a barrier has been breached within me. I am yours, Grazia, forever.
(initialed) PG.
Postscript:
Dearest Mama, I forgot to tell you that even before we visited the German camp, we audienced with the Duke of Bourbon. He greeted Lord Pirro in a brotherly way. They are old companions in the service of the French king and distant kinsmen as well through the Gonzaga connection. It made no matter to either one that they now fight on different sides of this conflict. Lord Pirro says that a true knight ranks kinship and friendship above partisanship. Is that not a noble sentiment?
To be frank, Mama, I find this Bourbon a disappointment. He dresses himself poorly and is most unkempt. The only garment he wears that is worthy of his rank is his silver surcoat. But for it, you could easily mistake him for a common captain. Nor is his manner commanding. He speaks low and looks sideways. For my part, I would more willingly follow Lord Pirro into battle than this Bourbon, even with his silver surcoat.
With deepest respects and most affectionate love, Madonna Madre, I am your obedient son, (signed) D.
to grazia dei rossi del medigo
Grazia, most treasured wife:
There is no heaven on earth, but if there were, it would be this fair city of Constantinople. Fear not, I will not attempt to beguile you with pictures of flower-laden bowers and perfumed gardens. Instead, I will describe for you an oasis of peace, dignity, and freedom unimagined even by me until now.
In our first meeting, the Magnificent Suleiman received me standing up. This is a wonderful compliment for a Moslem to pay an unbeliever. He then seated me at his right — an expression of his trust, I am told — and begged me to consider him as a father. Indeed, he has treated me like a son since my arrival, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats twenty times a day. Jewish physicians are traditionally held in the greatest esteem in this court. The Sultan himself confessed to me that the Ottoman kings have always preferred us to Christian doctors and even to Mohammedans. What they value is our skill, education, secrecy, and discretion. These are Suleiman’s words exactly.
Although newly arrived, I am elevated to coequal status with his first physician, Moses Maymon, whose father, Joseph, held the same post with Suleiman’s father. Here is what Moses Maymon had to say to me at our first meeting. Listen, Grazia.
“The Sultan has opened this country to us with the wand of his mercy,” he said in his old-fashioned, formal way. “Here the gates are ever open to equal position and the unhindered practice of Jewish worship. Here, thou canst renew thine inner life, change thy condition, recover thine ancient truths, and abandon practices thou hast been compelled to adopt by the violent nations among whom thou wast an exile. Welcome to great Turkey, wanderer.”
You belong here at my side, Grazia. Roma is becoming an increasingly dangerous place. My son deserves to be safe. He belongs in the synagogue in which he was raised. Do not betray us, I
beg you.
(signed in his own hand) Judah del Medigo
By sea from Constantinople, February 18, 1527.
58
The night Judah sailed away to seek safe harbor with the great Suleiman I sat at this table and, quill in hand, made a vow to trace for you the long road that has led from my own childhood through your birth and up to the present. Tonight when I took up my pen I realized that I have come to the end of the journey. My libro segreto is done. My tale is told. You know all. What you make of it and how you use it is up to you.
This year, 1527, is a year of decision for Italy, for me and for you. When it is done you will have chosen a religion and a father. I know you will choose wisely. You need only follow your heart. It is a good heart, sturdy and brave and wise. Trust yourself. Whatever you decide, do it with your whole heart. Remember: carpe diem. Seize the day. With both hands.
Tomorrow you will return from the camps of Lombardy having fallen in love, you say, with war. Lord Pirro has begun the long process of claiming the son he was denied. Judah continues to hold out the promise of heaven on earth in Turkey and the threat of hell on earth in Italy.
I will admit to you that Judah’s arguments weigh heavily on me. He, not Jehiel, was the oracle in the family all along. Before anyone else, he foretold the threat we now face from Charles V and his armies. He heard the hoofbeats of the Colonna raiders and the echo of trumpets as Frundsberg’s landsknechts crossed over the Alps, heard it louder as they forded the treacherous Po and scaled the wintry peaks of the Apennines, and louder still as they rolled southward, painfully and at great cost but ever closer to us here in Roma. I was too occupied living out my own odyssey of love and betrayal, of friends lost and found, and of opposing loyalties to hear those warning flourishes. But looking back, I see that this gathering chorale of violence has been a part of my tale from its beginning. Reading your fine letters to me from the battlefield tell me that it is a part of your story, too, a story that is about to begin as mine reaches its end.
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 64
