The Dead of Winter

by S. J. Parris

  The prior grunted a reluctant acknowledgement. ‘Many of those books forbidden by the Holy Office. He has published writings on natural magic and cryptography which brush too close to occult knowledge, in my view. But he has the patronage of Cardinal Luigi d’Este, so who am I to argue?’

  I said nothing, wondering where the conversation was tending. If the prior knew or suspected that I belonged to the Academy of Secrets, Porta’s underground society for the advancement of scientific knowledge and the sharing of banned books, he would surely have produced some evidence by now. Even so, I felt a trickle of sweat run down my neck, despite the chill of the room. Merely the rumour of such a society’s existence could be enough to warrant interrogation by the Father Inquisitor, and we all knew what that involved.

  ‘Della Porta writes to tell me he has heard of your invitation from His Holiness, and since he plans a Christmas visit to Rome to see his patron, he offers to take you in his coach.’ He pressed his hands together as if in prayer and touched his forefingers to his lips. ‘This would be extremely convenient for me, as it would save us the expense of your journey, and the trouble of sending servants to accompany you. On the other hand, I am not persuaded that della Porta is at all a suitable acquaintance for a young friar so prone to questioning authority as you, Fra Giordano. Two days of travelling with him and God knows what heretical notions he might fill your head with.’

  I lowered my eyes and strove to contain my excitement. ‘Most Reverend Prior, you said yourself that this invitation from His Holiness is a sign of God’s favour. Perhaps, like Our Lord, I must face temptation along the way. If you pray for me, I am certain that my faith will remain strong enough to resist.’

  He blinked. ‘Are you comparing yourself to Christ, Bruno?’

  ‘No. I – that is …’ I could not tell if he was mocking me. ‘Besides, heretical ideas are to be found everywhere.’

  ‘That much is true. And you have distinguished yourself from your earliest novitiate as one with an appetite to seek them out. I shall pray on the matter.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Della Porta says he will introduce you to the cardinal. Este would be a useful man to know, I must say. His family is one of the most influential in Italy, and he is celebrated for his generosity. If you impress him, it would reflect well on San Domenico.’ Though he had his back to me, I could almost hear the clicking of the abacus in his head as he calculated the possible value of these contacts against the potential dangers.

  ‘Then surely it is to the glory of our convent that I make this journey in such company, Most Reverend Prior?’ I asked, all innocence.

  He shot me a knowing look over his shoulder and folded his arms. ‘See – I said you were ambitious,’ he murmured, with that not-quite smile.

  So it was that on the twenty-third of December 1569 I found myself rattling along the Via Appia northwards, wrapped in a wool cloak against the December chill, marvelling at receding vistas of hills ridged with lines of cypress trees and fortress towns. Occasionally I stole a glance at the sharp profile of my companion, who kept his head bent over a book for the most part; he was a seasoned traveller, for whom the journey held few novelties. I had known Giambattista della Porta a little over a year, and was still in awe of him, in the way that a young man looks up to an older one who seems to embody all the virtues and accomplishments he himself aspires to. Porta was the second son of a wealthy nobleman; at only twenty-three, he had published a four-volume encyclopaedia of natural magic, which had been reprinted five times in Latin and translated into Italian, French and Dutch. Now, in his mid-thirties, he was cultivating an international reputation for his poetry and plays, and his treatises on optics, cryptography and the art of memory. His book collection was the envy of universities and religious houses across Naples, but only a select few of his most trusted confidants knew of his secret library and its treasure of occult learning, hidden in a specially constructed inner room lest the Inquisition take too close an interest in his business.

  ‘First time outside the Kingdom of Naples?’ he asked, turning to me with an indulgent smile, taking my frequent gasps for expressions of amazement, when more often they were reactions to the lurching of the carriage. For all its obvious expense, it was spectacularly uncomfortable, its bone-shaking jolts made worse by the state of the roads.

  ‘My father brought me to Rome once as a boy, though I don’t remember much. You visit often, I suppose?’

  ‘I used to. Though I haven’t been for three years – not since Pope Pius was elected. I wonder if they are any closer to finishing the great basilica of San Pietro. I doubt it. Since Michelangelo Buonarroti died there is no one worthy to take over the work. It will be a miracle if the dome is on before the Second Coming.’ He leaned back in his seat and crossed one leg over another. ‘Rome is a remarkable city for studying the art of geometry in architecture. The Florentines think they invented the rebirth of the classical style, but their inspiration came from the imperial ruins in Rome, and Rome perfected it. Oh, and you must see Buonarroti’s frescoes in the Sistine Chapel before you leave. An artist whose genius will not be seen again in Italy. Not under this pope, anyway a man with no vision except to castigate everything that brings pleasure or enlightenment.’ His lip curled. ‘You know that Pope Pius was a goatherd until he joined the Dominican order at fourteen? No wonder he has so little refinement or feeling for beauty.’

  ‘I was also running about the hillsides until I joined the Dominicans,’ I said, somewhat defensive. ‘Growing up in the country does not in itself confer narrowness of mind. That’s a flaw that afflicts people of all stations.’

  ‘True.’ He bowed his head by way of apology. ‘I have known plenty of men raised in grand palazzi among all the advantages of art and learning, with less wit to appreciate them than that horse.’ He gestured out of the window, where his bodyguard, Tito, rode alongside the carriage, with three other armed men under his command. ‘And Pope Pius has had fifty years of immersion in all the scholarship of the Dominicans, and still he thinks only of purging heresy – and by heresy, he means anything he can’t understand. Watch your step with him.’ His face grew serious, and his golden eyes darkened. ‘When he was head of the Inquisition in Como, he had to be recalled for being too enthusiastic in his persecution of miscreants. He’s executed bishops before now. He will know exactly how to trip you up, if he has a mind to it.’

  ‘I heard he made the Jews in Rome wear badges to mark them out,’ I said.

  He grimaced. ‘And he has sodomites burned alive in the public piazzas. Often on no more than hearsay.’ He fell silent and turned back to the window. I knew it was whispered of him, a man of his age with no wife or children, though I had never dared ask if there was truth in the rumours. I wondered if that was what had kept him away from Rome for so long.

  ‘Still,’ he continued, ‘from what I hear, Pius is too busy worrying about Elizabeth Tudor to spare much thought for your misdemeanours.’

  ‘Who?’

  He laughed. ‘The queen of England, Bruno. You must know that her father broke from Rome and declared himself head of his own Church, and Elizabeth – who is considered a bastard by the Catholics – persists in his heresy. I heard the Pope is considering a bull to excommunicate her, which would as good as give her Catholic subjects licence to regicide.’

  I did not see the relevance. I could barely have pointed to England on a map; in my limited knowledge, it was a miserable, bitterly divided country of never-ending rain, constantly burning its subjects every time it switched religion, and whether its sovereign was excommunicated was of little interest to me. It was not as if I had any intention of going there.

  A sickly smell of decay began to seep through the gaps in the carriage windows. We had experienced this before along the Via Appia, but now the smell had intensified. Porta took out a scented kerchief and pressed it to his nose and mouth; then, seeing I had none, offered it to me.

  ‘The perfume of the Eternal City,’ he remarked, nodding to the w
indow. I peered out, counting the corpses lying at the roadside, fly-blown and hacked apart by carrion birds.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  He shrugged. ‘Malaria. Bandits. Or someone wanted to be rid of them and preferred the body not to be found inside the city walls. Same as happens everywhere.’ He gave me a knowing look. ‘What a waste, eh.’

  I breathed hard through my mouth and nodded. He did not mean of human life; he meant of available bodies. Fra Gennaro, along with other members of the Academy, would have given anything to get his hands on this many corpses for anatomising, but in Naples the prohibition on such things was so severe that bodies had to be acquired on the black market, with all the risks that entailed.

  ‘We could take a few home as a gift,’ I suggested, half-smiling, glad again of Porta’s armed outriders, and the fact that I was not facing down bandits alone on this road with only the convent servants for company.

  He laughed. ‘You’ll have to get your own coach for that, I’m afraid. Now – let us talk of happier things. Cardinal d’Este wants you at his Christmas Eve feast tomorrow night. He’s going to be delighted with you – and so are his unmarried sisters.’ He winked. ‘The cardinal likes to fill his house with artists and musicians, especially during the festive season, and he keeps the best table in the Papal States. Now he is a man with an insatiable curiosity for the new learning – quite the opposite of the Pope. There are few in his position would be bold enough to give patronage to someone like me.’ He caught my expression. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Nothing. Only – it seems strange to me that you would need patronage.’

  ‘Because I am rich, you mean?’

  ‘And you have a family name.’

  ‘Those things will only protect you so far. And they are better protection against the law than against the Church. I could more easily buy my way out of a murder charge – hypothetically – than one of heresy. For that, it is useful to have a cardinal who will speak for you. Este would be a valuable friend to you too, if you mean to pursue your studies outside the confines of what your order permits. He will want to hear about your memory system.’

  ‘But I’m under strict instructions from the prior to go straight to Fra Agostino at Santa Maria sopra Minerva,’ I said, despondent. ‘I would need his permission. He is to be my guardian while I am in Rome.’

  ‘Your—’ Porta let out a bark of laughter. ‘For God’s sake, Bruno – does your prior think you are a virgin girl, who must be chaperoned everywhere?’

  ‘He thinks I am susceptible to getting myself into trouble. He fears that in your company I will have my head turned by new ideas.’

  ‘Let us hope so. The only chance for humanity is men who are prepared to risk new ideas, and there are few enough of those in Italy. Even fewer inside the Vatican.’ He slapped a hand on my leg for emphasis. ‘Your Fra Agostino will not dare defy a cardinal, if he has any care for his position in Rome.’

  ‘Is everything a matter of political manoeuvring here?’ I asked.

  Porta laughed, but there was a weariness in it. ‘Not just in Rome,’ he said, turning back to the window. ‘But Rome is the worst – always has been. In fact – I have an early Christmas gift for you. I thought you’d be better off having it now.’ He reached into the bag at his feet and drew out a short knife with a silver handle and a sheath of soft black leather.

  I turned it over in my hands, admiring the work, and looked up at him. ‘It’s beautiful. But – I am a friar. I can’t go about armed.’

  ‘You can in Rome,’ he said. ‘Even cardinals keep a weapon up their sleeves. Now – behold what remains of the greatest empire in history.’

  He pointed to the window. I tried to crane out to see the two crenellated towers of the Porto San Sebastiano as we approached, but it would not open far enough. Seeing my efforts, Porta rapped on the roof for the coachman to stop.

  ‘Appearance is everything in this city,’ he said, affecting seriousness, ‘and arriving in stately fashion in a well-appointed carriage is vital to making an impression. However – if you don’t care about any of that, you are welcome to sit up front and see the sights.’

  I did not need further encouragement; I sprang out and clambered up to join the driver, pressing a sleeve over my mouth to keep out the dust of the road. I could hardly stop myself exclaiming with wonder as we passed under the archway of the great stone gatehouse and along a straight, paved road that led through an extraordinary kind of wilderness; a vast, parched field scattered with fallen stones. Majestic arches, half-ruined walls, and columns jutted from the undergrowth like broken teeth; to our right, the remains of a giant circular amphitheatre could be seen in the distance.

  ‘Dio mio!’ I shouted, half out of my seat, so loudly that it startled the horses. ‘This must be the Forum! Porta’ – I leaned down and banged my fist against the side of the carriage – ‘Cicero himself spoke to the crowds here! Can you believe it?’

  Over the rattling of the wheels I heard him chuckle. ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

  ‘I never want to leave!’ I yelled back, laughing with delight. ‘And look – that must be the Colosseum! Where they held the chariot races – can you picture it, before it was all overgrown with trees? If only we could step back in time and see it! Shame it’s no longer in use.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bruno,’ Porta said cheerfully, from inside the carriage. ‘They still throw people to the lions, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Fra Agostino is occupied with his duties at present,’ said the young novice who showed me to my cell at the convent of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, puffed up with the importance of his task. ‘He will see you after vespers.’

  I thanked him and set my bag down on the narrow bed. No apology from my host, then. The slight was deliberate, but I was determined not to rise to it; I needed to nurture Fra Agostino’s goodwill, at least until my audience with the Pope was over. I had been reluctant to say goodbye to Porta when he dropped me at the door; now I was alone, and at the mercy of a man who, as Fra Gennaro had pointed out, had every reason to resent me.

  Santa Maria sopra Minerva, being the headquarters of the Dominican order in Rome, was hardly austere, but I had been lodged in a sparely furnished room, with little by way of worldly comforts except a thin mattress and thinner blankets, and a heavy crucifix glowering from the wall. It looked like the sort of cell a brother might be put in while doing penance, to concentrate his mind on humility, not somewhere for an esteemed visitor set to dazzle the Holy Father. This, too, I suspected to be deliberate. Perhaps it was meant to spare me the sin of pride. At least I had Cardinal d’Este’s Christmas Eve feast to look forward to the following night, I consoled myself, although I wondered if Porta might have over-praised his patron; I was dubious about the degree of entertainment one might expect from some elderly cardinal and his spinster sisters.

  ‘What time is supper?’ I asked the boy. I had not eaten since midday and my stomach was cramping with hunger. He stared at me as if I had uttered an outrageous blasphemy.

  ‘It is the Christmas fast, Brother. Surely you know that? There is no supper tonight. We are supposed to spend the time in prayer.’

  ‘Already?’ I almost swore, but thought better of it; there was every chance this sententious boy was a spy, sent to report my every careless word to Fra Agostino. At San Domenico, our tradition was to fast after the evening meal on the twenty-third of December until the celebration of Christmas Eve; I had hoped for one last supper in Rome before the enforced deprivation. As a young man of vigorous appetites, I had never found that abstinence from food focused my mind on holy things; quite the reverse. Once, after a day of fasting as a novice, I had contemplated an image of poor San Lorenzo being griddled over the fire and found myself salivating at the thought of roast meat. On reflection, perhaps that should have been a sign that I was not suited to religious life. ‘Then I shall begin my period of prayer this minute, if you would be kind enough to leave me.’

  He h
esitated, which only confirmed my suspicion that he had been instructed to observe me, but I fixed him with such a stern glare that eventually he withered under the force of it – he could not have been more than sixteen – and backed out of the room, saying he would fetch me for vespers.

  When the boy’s footsteps had receded along the passageway, I took a purse of money from my travelling bag, wrapped my cloak around my shoulders and closed the door of my cell silently behind me. I was prepared to deliver some excuse about wishing to pray in the chapel if I should run into any of the brothers on my way out, but the convent appeared to be deserted; perhaps they were all solemnly at their devotions, as the novice had suggested. The only living soul who saw me leave was the old servant at the gate who had admitted me only a quarter hour earlier; I nodded to him, but he asked no questions and I stepped through into the streets of Rome, giddy with a sense of freedom.

  The hour was just past four, the winter sun low over the rooftops, gilding red tiles, white marble churches and the pale stones of ruins. The whole city clamoured for my attention. In the streets behind the convent I found the Pantheon and a temple to Hadrian, and marvelled at the craftsmanship that had endured centuries; further afield I stumbled on ancient columns and sunken gardens with the remains of baths and water conduits. I wandered south through narrow streets of artisans’ shops – crossbow-makers, milliners and tailors beginning to pack up their wares as the light faded – and emerged into a small piazza with a busy market and taverns around its perimeter. I stopped at one – the Taverna della Vacca – to buy bread and porchetta with a cup of spiced wine; the girl who served it told me the place was called the Campo dei Fiori, this tavern had once been owned by the Borgia Pope’s mistress, and I should come back on a Monday or a Saturday for the horse fair if I really wanted to see it looking lively. I didn’t linger; for all its bustle and festive crowds, there was no escaping the sight of the tall pole erected in the centre of the square, a pulley fixed to its cross-beam, instantly recognisable to anyone who has witnessed il tormento della corda – the torture that hoists a victim aloft by his wrists tied behind his back, then drops him in a series of sharp jolts so as to dislocate his shoulders. It was a favourite method of the Inquisition, and the thought of the cheerful little market transformed into a place of public execution cast a chill over my mood. I left the Campo dei Fiori and resolved to take a different route back.