City of Secrets

by Mary Hoffman

  But another voice rose above the singing.

  ‘The Manoush may have no last words, but I should like to speak for them.’

  It was Professor Constantin. Antonio knew him as a learned teacher at the University. And it was true that there was a Padavian tradition of letting the condemned or a representative speak a farewell. The Governor nodded and Constantin climbed the steps to the stage, accompanied by a slight young man who trod cautiously, like an invalid.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the Cardinal. But the Manoush had fallen silent.

  ‘It is my job at the University,’ began Constantin. ‘To teach the art of Rhetoric. Every year young men come to me to learn the art of persuasion and advocacy through the power of words. And yet today I stand before you as one bereft of the power of speech. What is about to happen here is an affront to the dignity of all human beings – both the executed and the executors.

  ‘Have we not come further than this in the centuries since our beloved city was founded by the Remans or in the three hundred and fifty years since our university was instituted? You see before you some thirty souls, men, women and children, who are about to be sent to their deaths in the cruellest way possible.

  ‘And what is their crime? To do something that was not against the law a month ago and may not be again in another month.’

  Antonio looked as if he was about to protest but Constantin continued.

  ‘They were practising their religion,’ he said. ‘Oh, I know it is not the same as the religion of most of us here – though I suspect there are some others in the city who follow the goddess – but it is just that: their religion. They are believers, just as we all are. They have their ceremonies and their rites – all harmless, all representing no threat or offence to any citizen of Padavia.

  ‘This young man here,’ he said, ‘is one of my students. Recently he delivered a speech on a set subject – When is it Right to Kill a Man? He had given the matter a lot of thought. And I’d like to ask him to repeat his conclusions for everyone gathered here. Tell the people, Luciano, what good reasons you listed for when the taking of another human life is right.’

  As Luciano stepped forward to speak, the other members of their group began to file unobtrusively through the crowd, positioning themselves each as close as possible to one of the as yet unlit bonfires, leaving the two nearest the stage for Luciano and Constantin.

  ‘Thank you, Magister,’ said Luciano. ‘I began by citing the example of seeing a man about to stab a child. Which of us, I asked would not kill the attacker to save the child? And yet, today you are about to witness the deaths of half a dozen children and will do nothing to stop it.

  ‘To defend the weaker, to save one’s comrade, to liberate one’s country or one’s city from a tyrant. To fight in time of war. To protect one’s family or one’s home. In extreme cases to save one’s own life.

  ‘But I ask you, citizens, whose family or home is threatened by the Manoush? Does their religious celebration harm a single one of us? Do they bring war or tyranny within the city walls? Is any one of them a threat to any one of us? And yet we would have them burn?’

  Luciano addressed the crowd but his eyes were fixed firmly on William Dethridge, who gave him a very slight nod and held up one hand with the fingers spread, as if to say ‘five minutes more’.

  ‘Today I was nearly killed myself,’ Luciano went on. He had the full attention of the crowd. And particularly of the two di Chimici cousins, one on the platform behind him, the other in the piazza. Neither of them was sure whether this was indeed the Cavaliere or the boy Matteo under a glamour, such as the Stravaganti had effected twice before, or so the di Chimici believed.

  ‘Such an experience makes one dwell on the nature of life and death,’ said Luciano. ‘The body is a fragile thing and yet it contains something even more important – the soul.’

  There was a sighing in the piazza like a hundred little gusts of wind. It made the flames of the torches flicker on this still night.

  ‘It is a terrible thing to take another life,’ said Luciano. ‘But even greater than the harm we would do to these bodies bound here before us, is the loss of some thirty souls, doomed to join their fellow-departed without any ceremony. It is enough to anger the dead.’

  The sighs were louder now and it seemed to every person in the square that they could see shadowy forms, creatures made of mist and moonshine, congregating around each bonfire.

  ‘And to anger the goddess that these people worship,’ said Luciano quietly. ‘Are we all so sure that our own faith is the only true one? Look at the moon, the embodiment of the Lady they worship. See, doesn’t she look angry? Are those not tears of blood forming on her face?’

  There was not a person in the square now except the rescue party, who were not looking at the sky. A redness was creeping over the face of the moon. And a darkness. As they watched the moon’s face was being slowly engulfed.

  ‘This is madness!’ shouted Rinaldo, jumping to his feet. ‘The Professor and his student have spoken for too long. Light the fires!’

  The guards looked uncertain. But Messer Antonio, white-faced, gave the signal. The guards approached with torches, reluctant to get near the misty shapes that sighed round each pyre. The Manoush were quite silent, now, even the children, though whether comforted by the shades of their ancestors or terrified by them, no one knew. Ludo’s heart was beating so loudly in his ears he did not know that the entire crowd was silent, holding its breath.

  Then one guard ran forward and thrust his torch into the brushwood. Flames leapt up as all the others followed suit.

  A woman’s voice howled from the crowd.

  ‘Shame on you! Can’t you see that the moon is grieving for her people? Fetch water!’

  At that moment the entire face of the moon was covered and the square plunged in darkness save for the flames. All was confusion. The citizens of Padavia, whether swayed by rhetoric or influenced by the loss of the moon, had changed their minds. Some ran to get buckets of water, others snatched torches from the guards and headed towards the platform, though with what aim it was not clear.

  Only the Stravaganti and their followers had a clear plan of action. Constantin helped Luciano off the stage in the dark and they made for the nearest bonfires. Every rescuer had three Manoush to release. Among Matt’s was Ludo.

  The young Stravagante looked at the red-haired traveller as he pulled him and two women away from the bonfire.

  ‘Quick, follow me,’ he said. ‘There are horses and carts waiting for you outside the city wall. You will be taken to Bellezza. You will be safe there.’

  In the square people were running about aimlessly, terrified by the disappearance of the moon.

  ‘Yt woll laste at leaste an houre,’ Dethridge had told the rescuers. ‘Plentye of time to gette all the Manoushe out of the citye.’

  At the Western Gate, sympathisers were waiting with the bundles the Manoush had left at their houses; Giunta had organised that well. But before Matt and the others had reached the walls, another cry went up.

  ‘Fire! Fire! The city is on fire!’

  Matt heard a groan in the darkness. It was Rodolfo.

  ‘Stravaganti! To me! To me! Arianna and Cesare, if you can hear me, take the Manoush to the gate with the others. All Stravaganti to me – we must save the city from the flames!’

  ‘You go,’ Ludo told Matt. ‘I will help the others.’

  Matt took out a small velvet bag and gave it to the Manoush. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I won’t need to tell your father what you said, now, whoever he may be. But it would have been true. You faced death bravely.’

  He clapped Ludo on the shoulder then plunged back into the city.

  *

  Flames were licking at the edges of wooden buildings. There was so much that was combustible about the city. Rodolfo led the others to the cathedral square where the wide open space in front was so far free of fire.

  ‘Don’t they have a fire brigad
e or something?’ Matt asked Luciano. They were both panting and had black smudges on their faces. ‘You look like as much of a printer’s devil as I do,’ said Matt.

  ‘There is a fire team,’ said Constantin, ‘financed by the city. But the University has taken the money for equipment and spent it on salaries for professors. I’m afraid that Padavia will burn if we don’t do something.’

  He turned his face away, frightened for his books and manuscripts and his wooden presses. He did not want the other Stravaganti to see the tears on his face. After all, the Manoush had been saved and that was the most important thing.

  ‘But we can do something,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Is there not a swamp in the south of the city?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luciano. ‘Enrico lodges near there.’

  ‘That is indeed the nearest water supply,’ said Constantin. ‘But without enough firemen, no chain of buckets could reach the centre. The University will soon be in flames.’

  ‘To the swamp, then,’ said Rodolfo.

  They sprinted as fast as they could. Luciano, still not recovered from the di Chimicis’ poison, was by now running on adrenalin alone. He didn’t know how much more he had to give.

  In the south of the city, the oval swamp lay still under the obscured moon. It was an unhealthy place, full of biting insects and noxious smells. The five Stravaganti stopped at its northern edge.

  ‘Now,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Unless you have a better idea, Dottore, I propose we lift this rotten marsh and lay it over the centre of the city like a wet handkerchief.’

  ‘My owne thoughte exactly!’ said the Doctor.

  Matt felt hysterical with exhaustion.

  ‘That’s fine then,’ he said. ‘We’ll just do that, shall we? Shouldn’t be much of a problem.’

  Constantin put an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘Now you will see what the power of thought can do,’ he said. ‘What the Stravaganti are capable of. What you are capable of.’

  Rodolfo made them all stand in a line on the edge of the swamp, the two younger ones each flanked by the older Stravaganti.

  ‘Concentrate!’ said Rodolfo. ‘Lock minds.’

  Matt felt a jolt through his head that felt like being struck by lightning.

  ‘Now,’ said Rodolfo. ‘We don’t want the city to burn. We don’t want it to die instead of the Manoush. Our friends are safe. Now we must save Padavia. Think of the swamp.’

  Matt’s mind filled with the image of the green, rank-smelling oval.

  ‘There is enough water and weed here to smother the fire,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Think of it. Slimy green sludge coating the flames, cutting off the air that feeds them. Now, everyone at once, take the swamp and put it where it’s needed.’

  Matt felt panic rising in his throat as he visualised the wet green mass rising, rising from its quiet bed and moving above him. What if his concentration should fail and the swamp fall on them? They would all be drowned. But the Stravaganti had linked arms, without his being aware of it, and being between Constantin and Dethridge gave him courage.

  He was caught up in something much bigger than himself now and couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. Slowly, he felt the mass of water move towards the fire.

  *

  The citizens of Padavia were rushing around in panic. As soon as they had realised that the city was on fire, they had abandoned the Manoush and the bonfires. It was doubtful that they even knew the prisoners had been rescued. Some ran uselessly to wells to fetch buckets of water but the fire had taken hold on some wooden buildings near the market and was already beyond suppression by such small-scale efforts.

  Other householders had decided to flee and were leaving their houses with bags and bundles. But the city was still dark, the moon’s face hidden from its people, so that citizens blundered into one another, set off in the wrong direction, lost one another in the choking smoke and darkness.

  Biagio the printer had run to the Scriptorium, aware of the damage to all the papers and books, secret and public, that the fire could do. He had rescued his Manoush and put them into the hands of the disguised Duchessa of Bellezza but nothing would persuade him to leave his city while it burned.

  There was no sign of the Professor and Biagio didn’t know what to do for the best. He pulled out a key to the Scriptorium and was about to go in, willing to die alongside the wooden presses rather than abandon his post.

  But then he sensed a strange new smell on the air. Above the fiery reek coming from the smouldering buildings about to burst into flames, came a dank, stifling stench like the very worst of open drains or swampy marshland. Biagio stared up at the sky and rubbed his eyes.

  He couldn’t see anything because of the hidden moon but he sensed an even darker shadow crossing her face – an impossibly large oval shape moving slowly across the heavens. And the smell was coming from that shape. It seemed to hover in the air for a few moments before rushing down towards the centre of the city like a black cloud of swamp gas.

  Other citizens had noticed it now and stood staring up at the sky. Neither they nor Biagio understood what they were seeing; some were inclined to think it was the end of the world and to lay down their bundles and themselves in the cobbled streets and give themselves up to their fate.

  But Biagio realised that whatever was coming presented a new danger and flung open the door to the Scriptorium, calling everyone on Salt Street to take cover. Soon the silent presses were surrounded by a crowd of babbling hysterical Padavians. As Biagio slammed the door shut, a weight of water and weed fell on the city, pouring past the window like a slimy green rain.

  The streets were awash with foul-smelling water, reeds and the occasional startled fish. Padavians ran in all directions, seeking shelter from the water in buildings they had shunned a short time before, when they were afraid of being trapped by fire.

  The five Stravaganti had walked slowly in a line from the site of the swamp to the centre of the city, carrying the weight of water above and before them until Rodolfo, at one end of the line, gave the order to lower the swamp over the heart of the fire.

  Matt felt the intolerable strain of lowering the swamp slowly enough to avoid drowning the citizens but he was aware of their not holding it firmly enough. It seemed to slip from their minds and land on the burning city with a sound like a magnified sigh. And then the whole of Padavia steamed and hissed like a giant bonfire in a thunderstorm.

  *

  Arianna paused at the gate to look back over the city. At first she could see nothing. The moon was still dark and there were no torches burning. That was right: there were no flames of any kind. It was as if the whole city had been snuffed out by a blanket.

  ‘The fire’s gone out,’ she said to Ludo, who had come to stand beside her.

  ‘They’ve done it then,’ he said. ‘Saved the city as well as us.’

  ‘You must get away,’ said Arianna. ‘Get all your people into the carts.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ asked Ludo.

  ‘Of course,’ said Arianna.

  And she turned away from the gate. It had never been harder but she knew that her duty was to get the Manoush back to Bellezza. Yet every nerve screamed to her to run back to Luciano and the others, to check that they were all safe.

  ‘I’m sure they’re all right,’ said a familiar voice at her shoulder. It was Cesare.

  As he came to stand by her, the moon slowly began appear again.

  And by the time they were on the road to the coast, she had come out of the red shadow and was shining down on her people, clear and silver, with all stain of blood and fire wiped from her face.

  .

  Acknowledgements

  .

  I want to thank Nigel Roche, Curator of the St Bride’s Print Museum in the City of London, for his patient help and answering of queries about sixteenth century printing processes, and Dr Martin Maw, Archivist at the Oxford University Press for additional help and comments. The demonstration of a wooden press in action at the Plantin
-Moretus Museum in Antwerp was a revelation. Thanks too to Mafra Gagliardi and her family for their interest and hospitality in Padua, Rose Sharp for her expert help on dyslexia, Alison Debenham for providing the invaluable plot-planning template and, as always, the completely wonderful London Library.

  Epilogue:New Beginnings

  The Manoush stayed in Bellezza till Christmas. They had a festival around that time too. A lot had changed since the first night of their rescue, when they had all congregated in the courtyard of the Ducal Palace to complete their rites for the Day of the Dead. It was Ottavio who convinced them that this was the right thing to do and it was true that, by daybreak, the Manoush were all sleeping peacefully on their bedrolls and the shadowy shapes that had travelled with them from Padavia were no more to be seen.

  ‘We can’t keep them all here,’ Silvia told Arianna. ‘How are petitioners to get through the courtyard? Or Senators and Councillors to come into the palace?’

  ‘I don’t think they will stay,’ said Arianna, who was looking down on the sleeping travellers from the stone gallery on the first floor. ‘They needed a refuge after their ordeal in Padavia and somewhere to carry out their rituals but I think now that they will make their own arrangements in this city as they do in any other.’

  She thought that she would never forget that night journey under the full moon. Getting the Manoush to understand that they must all travel by water to the lagoon city and then ferrying them to the Piazzetta in the fleet of mandolas that Silvia had waiting for them. And all the time not knowing if Luciano and her father and their other friends had escaped the fire.

  Cesare had been wonderful and, surprisingly, so had Enrico the spy. Biagio was the only one of the rescuers, apart from the Stravaganti, who had not travelled with them. Once the Manoush had been loaded into the carts, the pressman had hurried back to the Scriptorium, as anxious as Constantin about the presses and all the printed paper.

  Just before dawn, Arianna had arrived, filthy and weary in her room, but before she woke Barbara to change places with her, she had run to Rodolfo’s mirrors. And there they were, Rodolfo, Luciano and William Dethridge, all waiting up to send her the thought message she needed: