The Dead of Winter

by S. J. Parris

  At length I passed a grand palazzo and there before me was the open vista of the river. I had a clear view across to the forbidding walls of the Castel Sant’Angelo, the papal prison, and the famed basilica of San Pietro, greater even than in my childhood memories, the drum of its dome towering above the rooftops of the Vatican palace, though it was encased in scaffolding and the dome itself remained unfinished, as Porta had said. My breath caught in my throat; it seemed absurd that in two days’ time I would stand within those walls, presenting my memory system to the most powerful man in Christendom. It was – as the prior had made sure to remind me – a singular honour for the son of a mercenary soldier from the unremarkable hillside town of Nola, and the potential ramifications seemed suddenly overwhelming. If I were to succeed here – if I could impress His Holiness enough to secure his patronage – my future in the Church could be made. After all – if a goatherd could rise through the Dominican order to become cardinal and then pope, why not a soldier’s son? But that path had never interested me; the religious life had only ever been a means of gaining access to learning. I had not yet finished my theology degree and already the constraints of the Church’s teachings were chafing at me. Over the past year, I had come to feel only truly at home in Gennaro’s dispensary or during the monthly meetings of Porta’s Academy of Secrets, as we argued and encouraged one another to greater daring in our pursuit of new understanding in science and philosophy.

  And there was still the question of Pope Pius’s interest in me. Now that I had been treated to Fra Agostino’s pointed coldness, I found it harder still to believe that he could have spoken so highly of me that the Holy Father had felt compelled to see my brilliance for himself. Fra Agostino, I was certain, was so concerned with his own reputation that he would only ever remember me for the way I had publicly contradicted him, and had the whole congregation of San Domenico laughing in his face. And wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge – to summon me here so that he could watch me humiliated in turn before the most important men in the Church?

  I leaned against the wall of a house and peered out across the Tiber at the seat of power as the sun dipped red and gold towards the jutting supports of the dome, thinking with a shudder of the torture device I had seen in the Campo dei Fiori.

  Naturally, I got lost – which, I acknowledge, does not say much for my celebrated powers of memory. I navigated my way uphill away from the river by the setting sun, but the back streets all looked the same. On occasion, I had the unsettling sense that I was being followed; a prickling at the nape of my neck, as if someone’s eyes were on me, but though I spun around every time I felt it, I could see no one who was not simply going about their business, and convinced myself that my fears were only the result of the gathering dusk and my general apprehension about being in Rome. All the same, I was glad to feel Porta’s knife at my belt, hidden under my cloak.

  By the time I found my way to Santa Maria, I was late for vespers. I circled the church, hoping I could slip in a side door and hide myself in a back pew unnoticed, but all the smaller entrances appeared locked, so that I had no choice but to push open the great main door, which crashed shut behind me, causing every head in the congregation to snap in my direction. Fra Agostino, poised in front of the altar, glowered down the aisle at me with his small eyes, as if he expected no better. I mouthed an apology; he puckered his lips tighter and pointed to a seat close to him, meaning I had to walk the length of the nave in the echoing silence with every friar looking on in judgement. I spent the rest of the office with my gaze firmly fixed on the bright frescoes overhead to avoid eye contact with anyone.

  ‘So – you do not observe the Christmas fast, Brother?’ Fra Agostino remarked, afterwards, when I was seated opposite him by the fire in his study.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You have crumbs all down your habit.’ He flicked his fingers impatiently to indicate.

  I looked down, and brushed away the evidence with a mea culpa grin; he did not smile in return.

  ‘You should have asked permission before you decided to go promenading around the town indulging yourself,’ he said.

  I looked at him, not quite believing he was serious. ‘Fra Agostino – I only went for a walk. I am a man of twenty-one.’

  ‘You are a man in holy orders, Fra Giordano, and I have personally assured your prior that while you are in Rome, you will answer to my authority and I will take it upon myself to keep you out of trouble. This city is full of temptation.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But in this instance, the only pleasure that seduced me was gazing on the beauty of San Pietro.’

  ‘That, and the porchetta,’ he said drily, gesturing again to my habit.

  I let him have that, reminding myself that I needed to show deference to his rank, even if the man himself hardly merited it; he was twice my age and it was true that I was obliged by the rule of my order to submit to his authority. Fra Agostino looked as if a bout of fasting would do him no harm; he was fleshy, though it did not sit comfortably on him, as it can on men who have acquired substance through pleasure in good living. Agostino’s bulk seemed a burden to him; he shifted constantly in his seat, and pulled with a finger at his collar, which appeared too tight around his thick neck. His skin had an unhealthy pallor; a mole protruded from his right cheek with a bush of wiry black bristles sprouting from it, the only stubble on his smoothly shaved face. The more I told myself not to stare at it, the more my eyes seemed drawn back by an irresistible force.

  ‘Well, it seems you are to be granted further opportunity to resist temptation while you are here.’ He held up a piece of paper between his finger and thumb. ‘A messenger came this afternoon from the Este household. The cardinal requests your presence at his Christmas Eve celebrations. Very grand connections for a boy like you.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ I bowed my head so he wouldn’t see the tension in my jaw.

  ‘Don’t be.’ His lip curled. ‘Luigi d’Este is like a child in his pursuit of amusement. You will be this week’s novelty, and by St Stephen’s Day he will have forgotten you and moved on to the next musician or poet he has been told is marvellously gifted. Don’t expect consistency from an Este.’

  ‘I’m not expecting anything from him.’

  ‘You know, I’m minded not to let you go at all.’ He tilted his head back and looked along his nose at me, enjoying his small moment of power. ‘Some of the artists under his patronage are of questionable morals. And he shows off with his food and drink in a way quite unseemly for a churchman. I’ve heard more than one person say they have never seen such displays of over-indulgence.’

  Suddenly I wanted to go to Cardinal d’Este’s party more than anything; the prospect of all that food might just get me through a night and day of fasting.

  ‘My prior is keen that I make his acquaintance,’ I said, offering a winning smile.

  ‘Hm. On the other hand …’ His expression grew calculating. ‘My patron, Cardinal Rebiba – who has so kindly brought you to the attention of the Holy Father – is frequently at odds with Cardinal d’Este. They hold quite different views on many points. Rebiba understands that a cardinal’s principal concern should be with virtue, not beauty.’

  ‘May one not appreciate both?’

  ‘I don’t want a theological debate, Fra Giordano – I recall very well how you conduct yourself in those.’ He fixed me with an icy glare just long enough for me to understand that I was not forgiven. ‘But Cardinal Rebiba would no doubt welcome a pair of eyes and ears inside the Este household. You may go tomorrow night, on the condition that you make yourself useful. Provide the cardinal and me with a full report of who was there, what was discussed, if anything was said against the Pope or the other members of the Sacred College. Any debauched behaviour you witness among the guests.’

  ‘You want me to spy on my host?’ I stared at him.

  ‘I simply ask you to give an account of the evening to my patron – who is the reason you’re he
re at all. It would be a fitting way to repay him for his exceptional generosity to you, and you have no loyalty to Cardinal d’Este – unless there is something you haven’t told me?’

  I shook my head, dismayed; he smiled without showing his teeth, one finger absently toying with the bristles on his cheek. ‘You can go now. No doubt you have much to prepare before your audience with His Holiness.’

  I pushed back my chair, unsure of how to respond. Gennaro and Porta were right; I was up to my neck in a nest of vipers. Less than four hours in Rome and already I was being used by one cardinal as a weapon against another.

  ‘May I ask you something, Fra Agostino?’ I said, as I stood.

  He looked up from his papers, irritated to find me still there. ‘What?’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Is that a metaphysical question?’

  ‘I mean – I know that you are angry with me for the way I spoke to you in Naples. And rightly so,’ I added quickly, lowering my eyes. ‘I was disrespectful. So I don’t understand why you would have recommended me to Cardinal Rebiba, when it’s clear that you have no liking for me.’

  He stroked the bristles on his face and considered how to answer.

  ‘Put it this way,’ he said, after a moment. ‘If I had a dog that had been taught to perform tricks, I would want to show it to my neighbours. It does not follow that I would allow that dog to sleep in my bed.’

  ‘I was not expecting to sleep in your bed, Brother.’ I aimed for a light-hearted tone, but he merely looked at me with even greater disgust.

  ‘You are right to think that I dislike your manners. I find you uncouth, arrogant, wilful, disobedient and too pleased with the sound of your own voice. Because you are clever, you think yourself above the normal rules of deference and respect that apply to the rest of society, and particularly the Church. You have an abundance of self-regard and none of the humility befitting someone of your years and background.’

  ‘But apart from that, I’m exemplary,’ I said. His expression remained stony. I needed to stop trying to win him with humour; it was not working.

  ‘And you are also flippant and trivial. But apart from that, you are undeniably gifted. I recall the afternoon at San Domenico when you recited psalm after psalm with no notes, in Latin, Hebrew and Italian – any psalm people requested, and sometimes backwards – though I felt that was an unnecessary flourish which provoked too much mirth among your brothers at the expense of the holy scriptures, and added nothing to our understanding. I was more impressed that you had great swathes of St Thomas Aquinas by heart.’ He folded his hands together. ‘The art of memory has always been one of the strengths of the Dominicans, though other orders try to claim it as their tradition. But it is we who refined it. I felt that a talent as exceptional as yours should not be hidden away in Naples, but used to reflect greater glory on our order. His Holiness Pope Pius V, though he condemns frivolity, is always pleased by men who will use their abilities to further our understanding of God’s truth, particularly when they come from his own order.’

  In other words, he thought I might be a useful passport into the Pope’s favour; if I met with approval, he and his Cardinal Rebiba would take all the credit.

  ‘As long as you remember not to answer back, and don’t try to be funny, I’m sure the Holy Father will see the gold in the dross,’ he added, drawing his thick brows together. ‘Of course, I need not elaborate what the consequences will be if you do or say anything to bring me, the cardinal or this convent into disrepute.’

  I was about to come back with a witty response, but thought better of it, and closed my mouth.

  Cardinal d’Este’s palazzo, off the Piazza Navona, was so vast it would have taken me twenty minutes of walking around the perimeter walls to find the entrance, if Fra Agostino had not instructed one of the convent servants to show me the way. I noticed the man carried a thick wooden stave at his side, and I was glad of it, since I had left Porta’s knife in my cell, thinking it might be unwise to turn up armed at a cardinal’s party. Fra Agostino, it seemed, was attentive to the safety of his performing dog. Or his spy; the weight of that commission sat heavy on my shoulders as I was shown into a cavernous entrance hall and had my cloak lifted from me by a swarm of attendants. I wondered what harmless lies I might invent that would satisfy Fra Agostino and Cardinal Rebiba without making Porta feel I had betrayed him and his patron in any way.

  I was led along a carpeted corridor bright with banks of candles, up a wide flight of stairs and into a chamber grander than anything I had seen in Naples. The ceiling must have been two storeys high, the walls faced with red and cream marble and every surface painted with frescoes of heroic scenes in scorching colours: rich cobalts, vermilions, ochres. The place blazed with light, as silver candelabra the size of cartwheels swayed from the roof beams. Branches of stone pine, laurel, juniper and winterberries had been wreathed into garlands to decorate the window embrasures for the Christmas season; at one end of the room, a trio of musicians with pipe, lute and viola de gamba played a lively dance tune. Overwhelmed by so much magnificence, I hovered in the doorway, feeling conspicuous in my Dominican habit. I was by no means the only man there in religious robes – I thought I glimpsed the scarlet of a cardinal’s skirts whisking through the crowd – but it was the costumes of the women that dazzled the eyes. So many women! In silk and brocade; cascades of lace and embroidery; jewelled sleeves, pearl headdresses and glass beads that caught the light, faces glowing as they tilted back their heads to laugh at a suitor’s joke, falls of gold or chestnut hair rippling as they moved. I found myself sincerely hoping that Fra Agostino had been right in his predictions of debauchery.

  By twenty-one I was not a stranger to women, despite my vows. At San Domenico, the prior picked his battles shrewdly and had evidently decided that the rule of celibacy was not one he was prepared to expend much energy enforcing; as long as no brother was foolish enough to get himself caught up in a paternity suit or attacked by a wronged husband, a blind eye was generally turned if young men slipped out through a garden door at night to visit local taverns like the Cerriglio, whose upper rooms served as a brothel. My experience in that regard was not so extensive as some of my brothers; my father’s stories of the horrors he had witnessed among his fellow-soldiers on campaign had instilled in me a healthy fear of the French pox, so I had generally kept away from professional women. The year before, I had imagined myself briefly in love with Porta’s niece, Fiammetta, though I had not seen her since she had left Naples to be married. But I had never, before that night, been in a room with so many beautiful and expensively dressed women; I cast my eyes around the party, mute with amazement at the bare shoulders and low-cut bodices, and noticed a few coquettish glances directed my way. It occurred to me that a number of these women might be courtesans, and I hoped I could get through the evening without making a fool of myself in front of Porta and his cardinal. I began to understand now why Fra Agostino and his patron disapproved of Cardinal d’Este, and found myself all the more disposed to like the man.

  A servant dressed in Este colours pressed a silver goblet of spiced wine into my hand and melted away; at the same time, I saw Porta weaving through the crowd, his arms outstretched in greeting, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Here he is! The talk of the town. Come – let me introduce you to the cardinal.’ He took my arm and marched me the length of the room; as the crowds parted, I saw a group of people seated near the great fireplace.

  ‘Am I really?’ I asked, as Porta strode towards them. ‘The talk of the town?’

  He laughed. ‘Well. Not yet. But you will be. People here love new blood.’

  This did not sound especially reassuring, but before I could ask any more, he thrust me forward into the presence of the seated group and the young man in scarlet at its centre sprang to his feet and held out his hand to me.

  I stared at him, briefly confused, but recovered myself quickly enough to drop to my knee and kiss the ring on his prof
fered hand. The only cardinal I had seen in the flesh was an old greybeard, and so I had pictured all churchmen of his rank to be well advanced in years, but I remembered now that many were significantly younger, thrust into the Sacred College by ambitious families to further represent their interests.

  Cardinal d’Este could not have been much over thirty; he had a full head of dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and eyes that gleamed with mischief as he gestured impatiently for me to rise. He gave the appearance of being a vigorous young nobleman who had dressed up as a cardinal for a game – which was, perhaps, not so many miles from the truth, except that the game was deadly serious.

  ‘So this is your young genius from Naples, Porta?’ He clasped me by the shoulders and looked me up and down. ‘You’re here to astound the Holy Father, I hear?’

  ‘I intend to do my best, Most Reverend Lord Cardinal,’ I said, bowing my head.

  ‘Give us a taste of it, then. Porta says you can do the psalms on request.’ He looked over his shoulder to the seated company. ‘What would you like to hear, Sisters?’

  I followed his gaze to the two women he had addressed; they too were around the cardinal’s age, and not the elderly spinsters I had anticipated. Both were strikingly handsome, with the same dark hair and long, straight nose as their brother, their gowns exquisite confections that shimmered in the light. Though they looked so similar, there was a marked difference in their manner; the one on the left, in a low-bodiced dress of deep red velvet with a collar of rubies at her throat, looked directly at me from under her painted brows with a mix of amusement and knowing. The other, in gold-veined white silk, her shoulders and décolletage covered more modestly with a silver shawl, sat back in her chair and regarded me as if reserving judgement.