The Dead of Winter

by S. J. Parris

  ‘You’re in luck,’ he whispered, casting his eyes from left to right to make sure no one was watching. ‘The prior has gone out to a meeting across town. I need to get this key back before anyone notices I am not in church. Hurry – I hope you’re in time.’

  ‘Lock that behind me,’ I said, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Let them think I can walk through walls. You have my undying devotion.’

  I raced off to the stables, where I sought out the boy who had provided Gennaro with the horse the other night, and told him that the infirmarian had sent me. He stammered something about needing permission; I insisted it was an emergency, I was acting on Fra Gennaro’s instructions, and lunged at the first horse I could see. Cowed, he saddled it for me and I had spurred it on in a cloud of dust before he had even fully opened the gate. I knew the boy would be punished, Gennaro would be furious with me, and Paolo would also find himself in serious trouble when my flight was discovered. But none of that seemed as urgent as the need to stop Raffaele thinking he could do what he liked with Fiammetta.

  I made the journey to Vomero in half the time on horseback, urging the poor beast around sharp corners and up the hill at breakneck pace, several times almost colliding with carts coming down to the city, earning furious curses and fist-shaking from those I nearly trampled. When I reached Porta’s villa, I hammered on the garden gate until my knuckles bled, but there was no response. I strained to listen, but could hear no sound of struggle, or protest. Perhaps he had dragged her to some remote part of the grounds – or perhaps I was so late that he had already finished his business with her and left. But then, I reasoned, I would have seen him on the road here. I tethered the horse to a tree, knotted my habit above my knees and shinned up the wall, dropping down the other side.

  The terrace was deserted. I scoured the ground around the gate for any sign of violence, but the earth was baked hard from weeks without rain, and the marks in the dust could have been anything. I stood, helplessly looking around, when my eye was drawn by a splash of colour. I bent and found the blue ribbon from Fiammetta’s hair caught in the grass at the foot of a tree. Had she dropped it there as a sign to me? Or had it been torn from her? I set off along the path through the lemon grove, my heart pounding in my throat. Ahead, the villa’s tiled roof was visible over the trees, and eventually I found my way to the grotto where we had emerged from the underground chambers the day before. I tried the entrance and was surprised to find it unlocked. But once below ground, I realised I had lost my way; the interlinking passageways all looked the same, and I had been too distracted by Fiammetta the last time to have properly mapped it in my mind. I navigated by instinct, taking a left branch and then a right, until I heard footsteps coming the other way; I was reaching into my habit for my knife, when Ercole rounded the corner with what looked like a winding sheet in his arms.

  ‘Ah. Good afternoon, sir.’ He seemed entirely unruffled to find me there. ‘You were not expected today, I don’t think?’

  ‘I—’ I stared at him. He was impossible to read. Surely he knew I was meeting Fiammetta, that I had been all week? ‘Fiammetta?’ I asked, too anxious to dissemble. ‘Is she—’

  He dipped his head. ‘The lady Fiammetta is quite well. But her father has sent servants to accompany her back to Vico Equense. She is packing for the journey and I’m afraid is unable to receive visitors today.’

  I could fathom nothing from his expressionless face. I wanted to shake him.

  ‘But she’s not – he didn’t hurt her?’

  His eyebrow raised a quarter-inch. ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘A man – you didn’t see him? A Dominican?’ I gestured to my own habit, as if he might not know how to recognise one.

  ‘There have been no Dominicans here today, sir, except yourself. But I must tell you, my master thinks it would be wise if no one from your order is seen here for the next while. He sends his apologies, and trusts that you will understand the need for discretion.’

  ‘He is back, then? From Capodimonte?’

  Ercole gave a patient smile. ‘I’m afraid I must show you out now, sir, we’re extremely busy.’ He took me gently but firmly by the elbow and steered me along the passage until we reached the meeting chamber of the Academy.

  ‘You promise me Fiammetta is unharmed?’ I said, as he took me to the door.

  ‘I assure you, sir, no one in this house would allow a hair on her head to be touched. We are all extremely vigilant where she is concerned.’ He glanced down at my hands as he said this. If he noticed the ribbon I had wound tight around my finger, he did not mention it.

  ‘I can’t say goodbye to her?’ I knew what his answer would be, but I had to try.

  He bowed his head in apology. ‘Best not. She will understand. We will see you here again before too long, sir, I’m sure of it,’ he added, as he opened the door in the cliff and left me there in the road, like Adam shut out of Paradise, unable to make sense of what had happened.

  The stable boy told me no one except the head groom had noticed the horse missing, and he had managed to spin a tale that was more or less believed; I promised I would give him money if he kept his mouth shut. I slipped through the grounds unseen and rushed straight up the stairs to the infirmary. Gennaro looked up from the bedside of an elderly brother and swore vehemently at the sight of me.

  ‘I thought you were locked up?’

  ‘I am. I was. I need you to put me to bed here and tell the prior that when you came to bring me water, I was running such a fever you feared for my life, so you made the decision to countermand his authority and bring me here for treatment.’

  ‘Dio cane, I will give you reason to fear for your life if you keep putting me in this position. What has happened now?’

  I told him I would explain everything in due course, but I could not let Paolo get into trouble for letting me out. He shook his head and muttered at me, but pointed me to an empty bed at the far end of a row. ‘As long as you have not endangered the Academy?’ he asked, in a low voice, as he bent and tucked a sheet around me. I hung my head.

  ‘Raffaele knows I’ve been going to Vomero, to della Porta’s house,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘He says he hasn’t told anyone, but I don’t know if I believe him. And if he hasn’t yet, he certainly will after today.’

  ‘What happened today?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. But I think he was thwarted, and that will make him all the hotter for revenge.’

  He straightened up and folded his arms, his eyes cold with fury. ‘Giambattista was right,’ he said, through his teeth. ‘You are too young and foolish to be trusted with something like the Academy, for all your brilliance. I was the one who persuaded them to accept you. Now your recklessness will bring us all to ruin.’

  I called after him, but he strode away. I passed a wretched few hours, tormented by unanswered questions. I knew I had put Fiammetta in danger, exposed the Academy, and left Gennaro, Paolo and the stable boy to be punished for my carelessness. Late in the evening, I heard the prior’s voice; he and Gennaro argued outside the door of the infirmary, though I could not hear what they were saying. I half-opened my eyes to find the prior standing over my bed, and feigned delirium; I heard Gennaro assuring him that my condition was serious, and though I guessed he trusted neither of us, he left without insisting I be moved. When he had gone, Gennaro sat heavily on the edge of my bed, with an air of defeat that was unlike him.

  ‘Pompous old fool,’ I said, propping myself up on my elbow. I expected Gennaro to agree; instead, he reached out as if by reflex and cuffed me around the head with the back of his hand.

  ‘Ow! Well, he is.’

  ‘Pompous he may be,’ he said, ‘but he is no fool. He’s a very shrewd politician. You can’t see it because you’re twenty and all you can think about is where to put your rod next. You should know that the Spanish would love to get rid of our prior and replace him with someone more biddable, and your antics may just have given them the excuse.’

  I sat back, stu
ng. I had never heard such quiet anger in his voice. ‘Why do they want to get rid of him?’

  He sighed. ‘Do you really not know this? The Spanish want to introduce their version of the Inquisition here, with their own people. San Domenico has been instrumental in resisting that, largely thanks to our prior.’

  I grunted. ‘Only because he doesn’t want to give up the power that comes with appointing Inquisitors himself.’

  ‘Partly that,’ Gennaro conceded, ‘but it’s also because he has a sense of justice. The Spanish Inquisition makes our Neapolitan version look positively forgiving. Our law at least requires two witnesses to any charge of heresy – under the Spanish Inquisition, anyone can be arrested and interrogated on the basis of a single accusation. Do you understand what that would mean for someone like Porta? Or you, or me? Or anyone whose neighbour or jealous wife has a grudge against him? One vindictive accusation, and any of us could be tortured until we confess to every crime under the sun.’ He passed a hand over his forehead; I could see his perspiration gleaming in the candlelight. ‘If Raffaele goes to his father, who is in the pocket of the viceroy, with reports that friars from San Domenico are close associates of Giambattista della Porta, they could use that to depose the prior and put in one of their own puppets. Then we could all say goodbye to the limited freedom we enjoy now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, chastened. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No. You didn’t think. You need to open your eyes, Bruno. Everything is political, whether you like it or not. Now – drink this.’

  That night, as if by some divine joke, I did develop a strange fever, which left me drifting in and out of troubled dreams for hours. At one point, I thought Paolo was sitting beside my bed, saying something about Raffaele disappearing; later, I opened my eyes to see Gennaro laying a cold cloth on my head, telling me I had been shouting in my delirium. By the time the fever broke, I had no idea how many days had passed.

  ‘You’re back with us, are you?’ Gennaro said, tipping a cup of cold water to my lips. ‘You’ve been sick for two days. You’ve missed all the drama.’

  I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Did you give me a dose of poison?’

  He didn’t answer; only crossed to the window and stood with his back to me. The infirmary was empty apart from one elderly brother at the far end, snoring like the beginnings of an earth tremor.

  ‘What drama?’ I asked. ‘Was Paolo here? He said something about Raffaele—’

  ‘Raffaele is dead,’ Gennaro said, not turning around.

  ‘What?’ I scrambled to sit up. ‘How?’

  ‘No one knows. Sometimes God calls His servants home in the flower of their youth. Not for us to question His ways. Pray for your brother’s soul, Bruno.’

  Raffaele had been found at dawn, two days earlier, lying beneath the shrine of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Capodimonte, an unlit candle in his hands. The two widows who had come to pray thought he was asleep at first, he looked so peaceful; there was not a mark on his body, except three faint scratches on his cheek, which might have been made by an animal. When his corpse was brought back to the city, Gennaro examined him and found nothing to suggest how he had died, certainly no evidence of foul play or assault. Raffaele’s father, Don Umberto, mistrusting the Dominicans, had his own private physician carry out a further examination of the body, but he too could see no obvious explanation. Gennaro offered to anatomise him, in order to confirm or deny fears of poisoning, but Don Umberto was a superstitious man and could not countenance the thought of his son being butchered before burial, even if he was only a bastard.

  It was concluded, therefore, that Fra Raffaele da Monte, while making a pilgrimage to offer his devotions to Our Lady, had been taken by some unexplained seizure or heat-stroke, may God have mercy on his soul. Inevitably, there were rumours of witchcraft, but no one seemed to know quite where to direct them. Raffaele’s friends knew, of course, that he had made me his enemy, but it was also well known that I had been laid up in the infirmary with a severe fever at the time, so how could I have any connection with his death? I waited, sick with anxiety, for questions, but after a week had passed and Raffaele had been buried, with a great show of mourning, I gradually allowed myself to believe that he had told the truth about not mentioning Vomero to anyone.

  I was careful, for a while. I observed the rules, stayed in my cell at night, turned up punctually for the holy offices and applied myself diligently to my studies and my duties; I gave no one reason to criticise me. But I felt the prior’s eyes on me in church and in the refectory, as if he were weighing me up. I wondered if he felt Raffaele’s death had liberated him, or compromised his position further, but I could not ask, and I was relieved when he did not mention the dead man to me. But as September passed into October, despite everything, a murk of suspicion about Raffaele’s death hung in the air of San Domenico like the autumnal mists off the bay, and seemed to concentrate around me.

  I did not leave the convent at night again until the next meeting of the Academy. Porta greeted me warmly, but gave no indication that he knew of anything that had passed between me and his niece; I wanted to ask after her, but he moved briskly on to speak to others. When the coca tea had been served, he took the floor, eager to share the results of his latest experimentation.

  ‘As you know, gentlemen, our part of the world is always teetering on the edge of apocalypse. The mountains all around the Bay of Naples rumble with volcanic activity – this is the background to our lives. But my curiosity was piqued by rumours of an unusual cave in the hills of Capodimonte. It’s famous among the locals – the goatherds especially – for killing dogs.’ He glanced around the company, eyes bright with excitement, but his gaze skated over me. ‘If a dog runs into this cave, they told me, within a few minutes it will collapse as if it has fallen suddenly into a faint. If you catch the dog in time, and throw it into a stream or pool of cold water in this state, it will revive. But if you leave it, after a few minutes more it will be stone dead. Why?’

  There was a chorus of theories from the benches around the wall, mostly to do with noxious fumes from the volcanic rock.

  ‘Exactly.’ Porta was fairly dancing on tiptoe in his enthusiasm. ‘Some invisible poison enters the dog’s body – either through its eyes or ears or mouth – that snuffs out its vital spirits. And not just dogs – I learned a tragic tale from a few years back, of two beggar children who sought refuge in the cave during a storm and were found dead there in the morning, looking for all the world as if they were merely sleeping, not a mark on them.’

  I glanced at Gennaro and caught his eye; he looked away.

  ‘But what, precisely, is taking away the life force?’ Porta continued. ‘There is nothing visible in the cave, no smoke or gases to be seen seeping through the rock, as we might see from volcanic fissures. And whatever it is does not take effect if the dog is near the mouth of the cave, close to fresher air he must be led further in. I’m afraid we got through rather a lot of dogs in the course of my experiments, though they were mostly old and lame strays we had rounded up. Those died much quicker than strong, healthy dogs, which leads me to conclude that—’

  ‘Would it work on a man?’ I interrupted. Everyone turned to look at me. I cleared my throat. ‘Would it be strong enough to kill a grown man, this invisible poison?’

  Porta pretended to consider. ‘Well,’ he said, pulling at his beard. ‘I can say from my own experience that you begin to feel faint and nauseous after a few minutes, and at that point you rush for the entrance to gulp down the air outside. So in theory, I suppose a man could die, but it would take a good deal longer, and he would almost certainly note enough warning symptoms to escape first. Which leads me to suspect this poison possibly enters the body through the breath, since I found I was able to stay in for much longer with a wet cloth tied around my mouth and nose—’

  ‘So for a young, healthy man to die in this cave, he would have to be held there against his will?’ I persisted. Gennaro gave a warn
ing cough, but Porta only smiled.

  ‘That would be the logical conclusion,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t progressed to that level of experimentation yet. It’s hard to find the volunteers.’

  A ripple of indulgent laughter passed around the room, and I fell silent.

  I hung back after the meeting was over, hoping to speak further with him. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘No more questions about caves, Bruno, understand? Not all secrets are meant to be uncovered. By the way, you must come back and use the library again, when things are a little less … heated at San Domenico. I understand you didn’t get much reading done last time.’ He winked. I blushed to the tip of my ears.

  ‘You’re not angry?’

  ‘Why should I be angry? My niece is a young woman who knows her own mind and can make her own choices. I would only be angry if a young man felt he was entitled to her, regardless of what she wanted.’ His mouth tightened and for a moment he struggled to master himself. In that fleeting expression, I saw that, for all his geniality, Porta could be ruthless. I wondered if those blazing lynx-eyes were the last thing Raffaele saw in that cave, before he fell into his final sleep.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Porta added, before I could ask any further questions. From his sleeve he drew out a folded paper. I turned it over to find it sealed with red wax.

  ‘She used one of my ciphers,’ he said, quietly proud. ‘Even so, you should burn it after reading.’

  Holed up in the infirmary, I borrowed Gennaro’s copy of Porta’s book on ciphers and painstakingly decoded the letter.

  My dear wolfhound,

  By the time you read this, I will be preparing for my wedding. I’m sorry we didn’t have the chance to say goodbye that last time; I understand that you were unavoidably detained. The man who came to tell me so did not have your gracious manner, I regret to say. Fortunately, like most girls, I have learned how to fight like a vixen, as my uncle calls me (did you guess at last?). He says my face denotes strength, stubbornness and force of character; he predicts an unsettled future for me, which I suppose at least would not be boring.