by S. J. Parris
‘No rumours at all that Este is trying to raise a faction against the Pope in the Sacred College?’
‘Nothing of that nature,’ I said. ‘Everyone spoke most respectfully of His Holiness.’ As we passed through a small piazza the smell of fresh bread drifted from a tavern; I was at once ravenous and nauseous.
‘Hm. And did you see any suggestion of fornication or lewd behaviour?’
His eagerness on this point was off-putting. I could not shake the image of Lucrezia unlacing her bodice and reaching under my habit. ‘Not in my presence. There was dancing, but it did not seem improper.’
‘So you failed to observe anything that might be of value to Cardinal Rebiba,’ Agostino said with a sniff as we crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo. The dark walls of the castle prison loomed ahead and I thought of Cardinal Rebiba locked up there for months on a pope’s whim, while his colleague was strangled in the dark. ‘Whatever other gifts you may have, you are sadly lacking the skills for spying.’
‘I never claimed any such talent,’ I said, pulling my cloak tight against the cold. ‘That was your idea.’ The bridge was crowded and I could see a greater throng of people ahead, pressing towards the Piazza San Pietro for a glimpse of the Holy Father.
‘If you hope for a future in Rome,’ Agostino said with chilly contempt, ‘you would do well to learn that intelligence is the most versatile currency here. Tell me – what did you make of Cardinal d’Este’s sisters?’
‘Oh – I only saw them from a distance. I found them to be modest, gracious women.’
‘Then you are more naïve than I thought. The elder is a notorious Jezebel. Never happier than when she has young men duelling to the death over her. And they say when she tires of her lovers, she finds a way to be rid of them. More than one has found himself on the wrong end of false charges. Those of lower birth don’t even get the courtesy of a trial.’
‘What?’ I turned to him, staring, then quickly dropped my gaze, hoping he had not seen the panic in my eyes.
‘Last year, a groom from the Este household washed up dead on the banks of the Tiber. Supposedly an altercation in a tavern over a bet, but rumour said he had been the lover of Lucrezia and she wanted him silenced.’ There was a particular malicious pleasure in his tone, or perhaps the lack of sleep made me imagine that.
‘Rumour may say much,’ I muttered.
‘But rarely without cause, where women are concerned,’ he said smoothly. ‘You must be relieved you only saw her from a distance.’
‘Greatly relieved.’ For a moment I thought I might be sick on the steps.
Papal guards ushered us into the great draughty basilica of San Pietro and escorted us through the crowd of citizens to the front benches, where the dignitaries of the city’s religious houses were seated, their orders marked by the colours of their habits. Ahead of us, closer to the altar, scarlet robes rippled as the members of the Sacred College of Cardinals took their places. I wished I had been in better shape to appreciate the magnificence of my surroundings; though the dome was unfinished and the roof covering temporary, the sheer size of the basilica made it a marvel of art, geometry and engineering, a bold assertion of Rome’s primacy as the beating heart of the Christian faith. If I had been feeling less delicate I might have experienced a moment of pride at this religious life I had chosen, or paused to ponder the ineffable mysteries of divine grace as we celebrated the incarnation of God in the Nativity. But as the choir’s first clear notes ascended to the heights and I craned around to see the papal procession advancing up the nave, all I could think about were the stories I had just heard concerning Lucrezia d’Este.
After the Mass was over and the Holy Father had left to dispense his blessings from the balcony to the waiting crowd in the piazza, one red-robed figure detached from the flock of cardinals and moved towards us. I saw Fra Agostino’s eyes light up like a girl awaiting her sweetheart, and guessed that this must be his patron, to whom I was expected to show my gratitude.
Cardinal Scipione Rebiba was a tall, broad-chested man, with a full beard still more black than grey despite his sixty years. His rectangular slab of a face looked as if it had been carved from one solid block of marble. He did not smile, and his expression when he looked at me was that of a man who expects to be disappointed.
I lowered my eyes in deference. He held out his hand and Fra Agostino bent to kiss the gold ring he offered.
‘So this is the talented Fra Giordano Bruno?’ He made it sound as if I had given myself the accolade. He stretched his hand to me and then withdrew it hastily. ‘What’s wrong with him, Agostino? He looks like he’s coming down with the plague.’
I was glad I could not see myself in a glass; I was conscious of the sweat glazing my skin.
‘I assure you he’s perfectly well, Your Eminence,’ Fra Agostino said, before I could speak, with an oily little bow. ‘It may be that something disagreed with him last night at Cardinal d’Este’s feast.’
‘Ha. Este disagrees with everyone – it wouldn’t surprise me if his food followed suit. Come on, then, don’t waste my time.’ Rebiba set off down the nave in long strides, cracking a smile at his own wit. Agostino chivvied me along in his wake.
He led us through a side entrance, across a small courtyard and into a chapel that seemed unassuming from the outside, but caused me to cry out as we entered.
‘What?’ Rebiba, halfway across the chapel, turned impatiently to find me rooted to the spot, staring in amazement at the ceiling. ‘Oh, this. Yes, I always forget how it renders people speechless the first time they see it. Bit gaudy for my taste, but he had an eye for spectacle, that Buonarroti.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of my body. I wanted to lie on the floor for a day and take it all in. On every wall, biblical scenes exploded into vivid colour, characters of flesh and muscle, their coiled energy captured as if the master had painted them from life, in the midst of their private dramas. Naples had beautiful churches, but until that moment I had not encountered art possessed by genius. ‘It’s as if his brush was touched by the hand of God.’
‘He certainly thought so,’ Rebiba said drily. ‘Stubborn old goat.’
‘You knew him?’ I stared.
‘He died only five years ago. Nearly ninety, and still arguing with everyone. I never met a man so sure of his own brilliance. Thought his gifts gave him some kind of divine singularity that permitted him to defy popes.’ He pointed a finger in my direction. ‘Don’t take any lessons from him, if you know what’s good for you.’
But I crossed the chapel with my head craned back and my eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the hand of God stretched out to Adam, privately thinking that no pope or cardinal could be closer to the divine mind than the man who had given life to those pictures from his own imagination.
We were accompanied by soldiers from the Papal Guard up a flight of stairs and through a series of rooms no less astonishing in their decoration, until we were shown into a chamber known as the Stanza della Segnatura, and I understood with a tightening of my throat that we were now in the very heart of the Apostolic Palace.
‘This is the Holy Father’s official study,’ Agostino hissed. ‘Where he signs the papal bulls that must be obeyed throughout Christendom. Quite a thought, is it not?’
I nodded. I wondered if this was where he would sign the order of excommunication against Elizabeth of England. Though the high-backed wooden throne at the far end of the room was empty, the setting demanded hushed voices. We were not the only ones waiting for an audience with His Holiness; perhaps a dozen men stood about in small groups, some in silk doublets and fur collars, others in clerical robes or religious habits, heads bent, conferring in whispers. At our arrival they fell silent, looked from me to Cardinal Rebiba and fell back to their murmuring, eyes still fixed on us.
‘Who are all these people?’ I asked Agostino.
He shrugged. ‘Ambassadors. Papal legates. Courtiers. Perhaps other young m
en gifted in the art of memory, also invited to impress him, who knows.’ He looked at me sidelong with a finely honed sneer. My mouth dried; I had not anticipated an audience. I was already regretting the waste of my best performance on Cardinal d’Este and his sisters the night before, and would have given anything for a cup of the coca tea from the New World that Porta served at the meetings of his secret Academy. To ward off the waves of dizziness I concentrated on the painting opposite, fixing my eyes on the receding arches through which the figures of Plato and Aristotle strolled, books in hand, deep in conversation. Imagine walking into that picture and eavesdropping on their debate! You’d have to step over Diogenes to reach them, but it would be worth it just to—
‘Don’t try to be clever with His Holiness,’ Rebiba muttered suddenly, making me jump, his breath hot in my ear. ‘He won’t appreciate it.’
‘Yes, Your Eminence,’ I said. ‘And my prior warned me not to be stupid, so I will aim somewhere between the two.’
He sucked in air through his teeth.
‘The Holy Father wants to see evidence of your memory, not your wit,’ he said. ‘No one is interested in that. His Holiness is skilled at asking difficult questions, as I’m sure you know. You would do well to concentrate all your attention on making sure you give him the right answers.’
He drifted away, and I was left staring at the philosophers, my hands clenched into fists and my bowels turned to water.
A ripple of shuffling and straightening in the room brought me back to myself; Agostino nudged me and I followed his gaze to the door. The onlookers sank to their knees as the papal party entered, and I raised my eyes enough to take a look at Christ’s vicar on earth. Pope Pius V was unassuming in appearance, a crabbed little man in white robes with a red velvet cape and hat, scowl lines etched into his brow above small dark eyes that swept the room with suspicion, as if there might be heretics lurking behind the furniture. He walked stiffly; though I knew him to be in his mid-sixties, his long white beard and awkward gait aged him. Flanked by two cardinals, he took his seat and arranged his skirts fussily, like an old dowager. I fixed my eyes on the rings flashing from his bony fingers and wondered how many people those hands had tortured to death, directly or indirectly.
‘Get up, then.’ He sounded irritated, but he spoke with a commanding voice for such a pinched-looking man. The assembled guests straightened and the Pope peered over their heads. ‘Well, Cardinal Rebiba. Where is this boy from Naples you insist I see?’
Rebiba shoved me forward with a hand in my back; the rest of the crowd withdrew a few paces and I stumbled into the holy presence.
He held out his hand and I bent to kiss the ring he offered.
‘Stand up. Let me look at you.’ Though I kept my eyes down, I could feel the force of his scrutiny. ‘They tell me you are unnaturally gifted in the art of memory.’
Was that an accusation? I cleared my throat, but my words still came out in a squeak.
‘Such gifts as I have, Your Holiness, are quite natural, I assure you, and the result of diligent study.’
‘I see. So you do not credit God for them?’
‘I – well, yes, of course – I thank Him for whatever modest talents He has allowed me to refine.’ My palms had grown sticky with sweat. All I could think was don’t let him corner you; don’t say anything heretical; don’t for God’s sake pass out.
‘Let’s hear you, then. Apparently you have the psalms by heart.’ He folded his hands in his lap.
‘Which would you like to hear, Your Holiness?’ I wished I could summon the verve and confidence I had felt the night before, when I was trying to impress Cardinal d’Este’s guests and sisters.
The Pope considered. We watched one another and under his gaze my throat tightened; he had the eyes of a crow.
‘I think,’ he said at length, ‘I should like to hear something seasonal. Give us Psalm 110, which foretells the coming of Christ.’
I took a deep breath. On occasion, I had hung about the Commedia Vecchia in Naples, talking to the actors, and had learned from them that the secret to a successful performance was to banish all other thoughts and immerse yourself entirely in the moment on stage.
‘The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand,’ I began, in Latin, more confidently than I felt, ‘until I make thine enemies thy footstool.’ I hesitated, my mouth drying. What was next? All I could summon was an image of Lucrezia d’Este in firelight, her breasts spilling over her bodice.
‘Every schoolboy learns that scripture,’ muttered one of the cardinals.
Pope Pius merely blinked and gestured for me to continue.
I closed my eyes, banished Lucrezia and turned inwards, through the rooms of my memory palace, through the concentric circles of the system I had adapted from the mystic Ramon Llull, to seek out the words I knew were hidden in the depths of my mind’s inner rooms. When I had finished, I opened my eyes to silence.
‘And now – what if I ask you to recite it backwards?’ the Pope leaned forward, crow eyes fastened on me.
I darted a swift glance at Cardinal Rebiba, whose face gave nothing away.
‘If you wish, Your Holiness.’ When he said nothing, I began, but after a few lines he held up a hand as if to ward off an attack.
‘Stop! I will not have this blasphemy in the Apostolic Palace.’
‘But you asked—’ I caught Cardinal Rebiba’s warning glance just in time.
‘When I was Inquisitor in Como,’ the Pope said, with a regretful expression that suggested he missed those days, ‘it was my sad duty to prosecute witches who among their devilish incantations would recite the Pater Noster backwards to summon demons.’
A gasp of horror susurrated around the room; one of the cardinals crossed himself. I felt as if all the blood had left my body. ‘There is no blasphemy here, Your Holiness,’ I managed, though the words emerged hoarse and panicked.
‘No? Why else would you learn to say the psalms backwards? How can that possibly show respect for the scriptures? It is a well-known trick of witches and magicians in their spells, this deliberate perversion of holy rites.’
‘No – it’s just a …’ I dried.
‘Just what, my son?’ The gentleness of his tone made the look in his eyes even worse.
‘A bit of fun,’ I said lamely.
‘Fun?’
‘You know. A game. To demonstrate the art. To show off, if you like.’ I smiled eagerly, as if that would make him like me.
‘To show off? Did you hear that, brothers?’ He turned to the audience with a mild expression of shock. ‘This young man thinks the word of God is a toy to buy cheap applause, like the flaming torches the jongleurs throw and catch in the marketplace, no doubt. And when you defended the heresies of the Protestants, was that also a bit of fun, to show off to your friends?’
My hands had begun to shake; I gripped them together but I could feel every man in the room looking at me, relishing the fact that he was not the one squirming on the end of a hook.
‘I do not defend the heresies of the Protestants, Your Holiness.’
‘I have it on good authority that in’ – he leaned across and muttered something to Cardinal Rebiba, who whispered in return – ‘September of this year, 1569, during a disputation at the convent of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples, you called Fra Agostino da Montalcino a fool for saying the Protestants were ignorant. Do you deny it?’
I glanced over my shoulder at Fra Agostino. His expression was sombre, except for the tiniest twitch at the corners of his lips. So this was why I was here; so that he could have his petty revenge. The treachery of it stung so sharply that defiance overruled good sense. I drew myself up and looked directly at the Pope.
‘Yes, I do.’ Another sharp intake of breath from the crowd behind me – they sensed sport – but I spoke firmly. ‘I didn’t call him a fool. I said his argument was ignorant.’
‘Foolish, ignorant – what is the difference?’
‘An intelligent man may make
an ignorant point, if he speaks without due consideration,’ I said. ‘I believed, on that occasion, that it was ignorant and reductive for Fra Agostino to dismiss all the Protestant thinkers as stupid, when many of them are learned scholars.’
The room had fallen silent, but I could feel the held breath of the crowd behind me, could almost hear the rustle of silk as they gripped their neighbour’s sleeve in apprehension.
‘Do you say so? Then you do not believe the Protestants are wrong?’ He was looking at me as if we were the only two people in the room.
‘Naturally, they are wrong, Your Holiness. But I don’t think they are stupid. And I do not believe that dismissing our enemies as ignorant is the most effective way to persuade them of the rightness of our faith.’
‘So you think we should give credence to the beliefs of the Protestants? We should engage with their heretical arguments?’
‘We should perhaps at least try to understand why men of undeniable learning and scholarship have come to believe as they do, and why their arguments carry so many people with them.’
‘Interesting. There are many supposedly great scholars among the Jews and the Infidels – no doubt you admire their work, and think we should seek enlightenment from their writings too?’
‘I do not, Your Holiness.’ I did, and had even read some in Porta’s secret library. ‘We have to draw a line somewhere.’
‘Oh, do we? And you have appointed yourself to decide where? Perhaps you consider yourself better qualified to judge than the Holy Office?’ Before I could answer, he continued, ‘So tell me, boy – which of the Protestant theologians do you favour?’ His black eyes glittered.
‘I did not say I favour them—’
‘Whose learned writings do you most admire? Luther? Calvin? John Knox? Philip Melanchthon? Don’t gape at me, boy – I have read a few books. Or did you think you would find me a goatherd still?’