The Alchemist of Rome

by M C Dulac

  It was with mixed feelings that I disembarked, for as soon as I saw the sweaty men and dirty-faced children, I was aware of how much I had changed since I set off for Rome. I had not told my parents I was coming. Indeed, I had never told them I was now a servant. I walked toward my old home, passing women washing clothes and men carrying bricks, avoiding the dogs who wandered into my path and snapped my heels. My coat that day was velvet and I’d worn a silk shirt. My hair was shiny and my skin was bright. I had become a copy of Price. As I neared my old district, the women paused and stared, and the children stopped their games. No one recognised me. They must have thought I was a gentleman who had lost his way.

  My mother was emptying a bucket of water onto the street. My sister was beside her, sleeves rolled up over her strong brown arms. They were scrubbing clothes - probably for the rich ladies of the town. Under the scrubbing bucket was a small child. He must have been my youngest brother, who had been no more than an infant when I left home.

  They all stopped and stared.

  Then my mother spoke with disbelief, “Antonio?”

  Other faces gathered around. How different everyone looked - tired and careworn and older. I was starting to get unsettled at everything - the dirt, the stench and the incessant noise.

  I should have opened my arms, and they should have embraced me. Instead, we stood around awkwardly.

  Then my father emerged from the crowd, his shirt encrusted with sweat. He reached out and shook my hand. He led me inside to the small room divided by curtains, where my family had lived their whole lives.

  I sat down and everyone kept their distance.

  I explained that I had left the workshop in Rome and found a position with a wealthy scientist. I gave out the presents. My mother was pleased with the rosaries and placed them in the little shrine by the window. I gave the dolls to my youngest siblings. My sisters’ dirty hands touched the lace with amazement and I felt ashamed that the dolls’ clothes were better than their own. I gave suede hats to my youngest brothers, but realised I should have bought them shirts and coats and breeches as well, although why would they need such clothes in this district? They put on the hats and grinned cheekily at each other.

  My father started to talk. He told me the King was building a new road. He fell silent, then gestured for me to speak. My words came slowly. How could I tell them about the churches of Rome and the fine villas of the Amalfi Coast?

  My mother set a plate before me. It was good hearty food, but my mind drifted to the sweet meats and cheese I had tasted in the palazzo.

  The younger ones looked hungry. I offered them my food. Thoughts were crowding my mind. Did I really have so many brothers and sisters? Was I welcome here? Did my parents need me? Wasn’t their aim in life to be free of the burden of so many children?

  My older brother stared at me in silence. Beside him was a surly girl. I remembered she lived in the house across the street. Maybe she was his wife now. My brother had always been strong and muscular. He would help my father build roads for the King. I was the artistic one, with fingers too fine to shovel dirt and haul bricks all day. They had encouraged me to leave. And now I had returned, proving how different I was.

  My mother told me which of my friends had married, and my father told me more about the new road. Eventually, it became clear we had nothing further to say. There were jobs to return to and tasks to get on with.

  My nona sat in her usual chair by the shrine. It seemed she hadn’t moved in years. She said nothing, although her dark eyes never left me. When I got up to leave, I said goodbye, shaking my nona’s frail, gnarled hand.

  She whispered something. I leaned forward.

  “Evil.”

  Luckily her voice was soft. No one seemed to have heard her.

  I walked down the hillside, with a stream of motley attendants - my family, the other families in the street, shoeless children, stray dogs, sweaty bricklayers and astonished washerwomen. They left me at the edge of the neighbourhood, as if I was a curiosity they could not fathom. They looked so sure of their place in the world, even if it was a dirty, difficult life.

  As I walked on alone, I reflected that my family had rejected me and my grandmother had just called me evil. I did not belong here, but where did I belong?

  Once I reached the wealthier districts near the bay, my confidence returned. Price had said I could stay overnight in Naples, but there was nothing I wanted more than to be out of this city.

  Storm clouds were rolling across the bay. The smooth surface of the water was creased by waves. Mount Vesuvius was covered in mist. The light on the horizon was slicing the clouds, and a cold wind was blowing in all directions. It was not good weather for a crossing.

  I walked along the waterfront, searching for someone prepared to cross the bay.

  “How much?” a sailor asked.

  I showed him Price’s gold.

  “The storm is coming. I’m not taking my boat out, but my nephew can take you. There is another rich man paying good money for a passage.”

  The birds were flocking in from the sea. The water had turned steel grey and the waves were crashing against the sea wall.

  The sailor’s nephew was a strong youth, with the muscular build of many men in Naples. He beckoned me toward the boat.

  “This way,” he said.

  The boat was swaying. I pulled my coat around me and found a sheltered spot under the sails. The young sailor made the sign of the cross. Followed by shouts from the other boatmen, the boat took off from the shore.

  I watched Naples receding in the distance. Then I turned to face the wild sea, and saw the other passenger standing at the bow. Instead of lying low to avoid the sea spray and misty rain, the passenger seemed to relish the drama of the sky and ocean.

  He turned around and a flicker of recognition lit up his face. I frowned, for I felt uneasy to see him again.

  “You are Price’s servant,” Schumann had a voice louder than the distant thunder.

  “Sir,” I bowed my head.

  Schumann sat beside me, “Italy makes me feel alive. Everything here is wild and free.”

  I said nothing. It was not my place to speak to a gentleman.

  But Schumann leaned closer, “Your coat is very fine, Antonio - I believe that is your name. But then, I suppose being Price’s servant is very lucrative.”

  The waves were high. The storm was coming and our tiny craft was heading into its path. The sailor was pushing the oars with all his strength. There was danger behind us and before us. Our only hope was to reach the opposite shore.

  “You must know a great deal of your master’s secrets,” Schumann had a friendly grin, “Do you know that all of the Amalfi Coast is abuzz with rumours of what he is doing in the Duke’s cellar?”

  I kept my eye on the distant coastline.

  “Price is a wise man,” Schumann went on, “I thought that he was a young man too, although it appears I am mistaken. But then, if he is what people say he is, isn’t that one of his powers?”

  If I moved, the boat might tip over. The sailor was already straining to balance us. Schumann’s massive weight kept us upright, but one move and we would all be in a watery grave.

  “What do people say he is?” I asked eventually.

  “That he is a scientist of great powers. One of a brotherhood of scientists who know ancient secrets. Those that brew elixirs that hold the key to life - to eternal youth.”

  I scowled and watched the frothing waves.

  “I wish I were young again,” Schumann said, “I am forty-four, Antonio. Middle age has me in its merciless jaws. How I would love to taste that sweet brew.”

  “What brew?”

  “The elixir of life.”

  “The elixir is a myth,” I muttered.

  “How do you know? There are many secrets of science that are selfishly concealed and passed only among the chosen few - the secret of life, of youth, of wealth. The secret of freedom.”

  I remembered the sweet
taste of the potion in Price’s laboratory. One drop was enough for me.

  I looked closely at Schumann. He was the same age as my father. But my father’s hair was grey, and worry and fatigue were carved into his features. Fortune had given Schumann a soft face and he had only a few creases on his fleshy forehead. He had never known hardship. Even the way Schumann breathed the air was greedy and uninhibited.

  “I know nothing of my master’s work, sir.”

  “Nothing? Haven’t you seen the laboratory the Duke has given him? Haven’t you seen the furnace that lies in the palace cellar?”

  “I will strike any servant who has spoken of this.”

  “No one has spoken of Price’s secrets, because no one has been in the palazzo since Price arrived. All the town saw the Duke’s men carry Price’s equipment up the cliff path. It is well known that there was an armory in the cellar a century ago. A learned man, with a little extra knowledge, can guess what Price is doing.”

  “My master is a man of honour.”

  A mist of rain was blowing over the bay. It pelted our faces from all directions. The salt spray stung my lips. There was nowhere to shelter.

  “This is a dangerous journey,” Schumann admitted, “A voyage out of mythology. Are we like Dante, crossing the River Styx on a descent into the underworld? Let us hope the gods bring us to safety.”

  In the changing wind, we were far from shore.

  “So tell me, what is Price doing in the cellar?” Schumann murmured.

  “He is engaged by the Duke. Also a man of honour.”

  “I would not have too high an opinion of the Duke. Everyone is motivated by money and power.”

  “Not my master, sir.”

  Schumann gave me a pitying smile, then gazed at the misty outline of Mount Vesuvius, “Perhaps you don’t know what he is doing?”

  “My master pays me well, sir. To be silent.”

  “Then maybe I should pay you more. I hear he has many ancient books. Of course, he would not let you see them.”

  There was a taunt in his eyes. I glared at him through the rain. He took off his hat and shook the water from it, but there was little we could do to avoid getting wet.

  “I hope Price deserves your loyalty.”

  “Price has treated me well.”

  “Price will save his own skin when it comes to it. Remember that, Antonio. Get whatever gold you can from him now, while he offers it. You will be forgotten in time.”

  The waves were grey. Schumann’s words stung like the salty water. I was used to my new life. I could not return to my old one. But without Price, how could I live this way?

  Schumann sighed, “Never have I been so close to such great knowledge, and I have a fool of a servant boy who will not speak. I suppose you are too stupid to understand. I came to Italy in search of treasures from the ancient world. But now I could go home with Price’s secrets, the greatest riches of all.”

  “I am not a fool.”

  “Really? So you know your master is making gold?”

  I tried not to react. I thought about that slippery liquid we had poured into the vat, the powders we had sprinkled into the mixture and the hot pipes that Price had assembled.

  “My master is no forger,” I said quickly, more to reassure myself.

  “Indeed, he is not a forger. Price is not wanted all over Europe because the gold he makes is fake. He is wanted because it is real.”

  The shore was in sight now. The storm cut over the bay behind us, a wild veil of wind and rain. The boatman was concentrating hard, for the waves could still smash us against the rocks.

  “Are you sure he does not have the elixir of eternal youth? Maybe that is why Price, a man who appears to be no more than twenty, was seen in the court of the Russian Tsar, over fifty years ago.”

  I did not want to listen. If Price were forging gold, we were in great danger. But where did his endless coin come from? And hadn’t I become stronger since I had drunk the potion? Even my painting skills were a rival to Caravaggio’s.

  “Be quiet!” I was surprised at my own insolence, “How dare you accuse my master of making gold and practising magic? He has the protection of the Duke himself. If you speak against the Duke, he will have your head cut off in the town square of Naples in front of all the peasants!”

  “Oh dear, Antonio,” Schumann smiled, “You are an ignorant fool. Price is not working for the Duke of Naples. He works for the Duke of Sicily. And if the King of Naples were to learn that Price is practising magic in his lands, it would be your execution, not mine, that the peasants would be cheering.”

  His words chilled me. I had assumed we had permission from the local nobility for our work. Now Schumann had told me we were working for the King’s rivals. What would happen to us if the King found out?

  The boat was skimming across the water. A crowd had gathered on the shore. The boatman would be a hero among his friends tonight.

  Schumann rose. His cloak was wet, although the fine fabric was not as drenched as my coat. His eyes scanned the shore. There was a carriage waiting by the dock.

  “Remember, Antonio, look after yourself. Your master is a complex man, and there are dangers ahead. Do you still not know what I am saying?”

  “I do not want to know.”

  “Price is an alchemist,” Schumann whispered.

  He took a great leap from the boat, landing in the shallows. He strode off toward the carriage.

  The men dragged me to safety. I felt weak among their strong limbs. I was soaked and miserable. It was getting dark, and there was no carriage to collect me. I found a room in an inn. With the chickens outside and the stench of pigs below, I slept in a bed of hay. It was as though I were back in the barn in Rome. Schumann’s words rolled through my mind.

  Was Price an alchemist? Alchemists practiced evil magic. They knew the secret of gold and the secret of immortal life. They brewed forbidden elixirs and tempted nature and God.

  What did that make me? What exactly had I drunk?

  My grandmother’s words came back to me. Was I evil? My dreams that night were troubled, as though I could feel the elixir of life pounding in my blood.

  chapter fourteen

  There was no way back to the palazzo except by foot, so I began the long walk the next morning. The day was overcast and the road was muddy, and as I walked on, it began to rain. The dim sky did not disturb me however, for it was the sun that I feared.

  Schumann’s words had unsettled me. It was no business of mine what my master did. But the word alchemy chilled my bones. I thought of the priest in our church in Naples, warning against arrogance and sin. I thought of the statues of the martyrs and saints, so strong, while we were weak. And I thought of my grandmother and her grim belief in the evil side of human nature. Alchemy was the practice of magic, forbidden magic, against the law of God. It was certainly against the law of the land to make gold, for only the King had that power. And the creation of elixirs that changed the path of destiny and made men live beyond their normal lifespan, was certainly evil.

  I should have had a fever after spending the night in wet clothes. But I walked on steadily. It was only my thoughts that gave me pain.

  Price was nowhere to be seen when I arrived at the palazzo. I supposed he was in the cellar. He had not slept one night in the extravagant bedroom upstairs. When the Duke’s servant came to inspect the palazzo each week, he was curious why the bed was never slept in, or why my master did not need food. So I pretended to make up the bed and ate the fine foods in the pantry myself. My head ached at all the things I had done to conceal Price’s eccentricities and all the things I had ignored.

  I went to Price’s bedroom that morning and opened the shutters. There was a movement in the hedges below. A flash of bright silk disappeared into the trees. It was not Price. Who could it be?

  My clothes stank after my night in the inn. I could not confront the trespasser dressed like this. I went to my room, poured water over my face and neck, combed my hair
and slipped into dry clothes. In my fine frock coat and fresh lace shirt, I ran down the stairs and into the garden.

  I reached the lower terrace. Above me was the white villa, our only neighbour. Today, the windows of the villa were open.

  Suddenly a beautiful young woman emerged through the trees. Her figure was shapely and her skin was soft and pale. Her dark hair was luscious and piled high on her head. She wore a pink dress of finest silk and a pink ribbon around her neck. Her eyes were dark and shy and her mouth was as full as a red rose.

  She took a deep breath of surprise. Then she curtsied.

  “Excuse me, Signor,” her voice was light and gentle, “Have I intruded upon your garden? I do not know where the boundary lies.”

  She gazed at the lawn that linked the palazzo with the villa.

  “We have arrived only this morning,” she went on, as she stepped elegantly across the lawn. She picked a flower, and cast me a hesitant glance. Then she smiled, a smile as radiant as the dawn, “The Duchess said you would be our neighbour. You must be Signor Albert Price.”

  She curtsied again and gazed shyly under lashes so long they grazed her milky cheeks. The low neckline of her dress was very distracting, but her innocence made me feel guilty to have such thoughts.

  “No, Signorina, my master is inside. I am Antonio, his servant.”

  The young lady straightened up, her cheeks flushing red. She glanced nervously at the windows of the villa.

  “My apologies, Signorina,” I had to accept the blame, even if I wished that smile had been for me. I had gravely embarrassed her. I should have made clear my role at once, but I was dumbstruck in her presence.