The Oracle of Cumae

by Melissa Hardy

  “A great kindness—”

  I cut him off. “First we talk,” I said, “about what happened yesterday.”

  “About what? What happened? I can’t remember. My memory,” he tittered. “It’s going, you know.”

  “But I imagine you remember what happened before that?” Lady Sibylla spoke; her voice sounded as though it was coming from all directions at once, crystal clear and not quite human. “At my grotto.”

  Eusebio’s watery eyes opened wide. He shrank into the bedclothes. “Who is that?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  The old man looked wildly around the room. “Show yourself!”

  “I cannot be seen. I am none the less here.”

  “The witch? Is it the witch?”

  Lady Sibylla was indignant. “What? A witch? Is that what you think I am? No, you wretch, I am not a witch. I am a Speaking Virgin—one of the only four Speaking Virgins that the world has ever known! At least, last time I checked.”

  “How did you come to be here?” he cried.

  “Too many questions!”

  “I’m sorry!” He cowered in his bed. “He made me do it! My Bishop. The Prior, too. They don’t understand that there are rules that cannot be broken, lines that cannot be crossed. They don’t understand that you have been there since the beginning. I know. My mother taught me. The Bishop’s to blame. If you want to punish anyone, punish him!”

  “You wish me to spare you?” Sibylla asked.

  “Yes, oh, please, yes!”

  “Then you must tell us about the body—the body found under the floor of your little chapel. You do know I caused the earth tremor that tumbled your decrepit little clerestory, don’t you? Not my finest work, but I’m a little rusty.”

  “You caused the earth tremor?” creaked Eusebio.

  “Mama did warn the Prior,” I reminded him. “He didn’t listen.”

  “I can do worse, now that I’m warmed up. Don’t be a fool, old man. Tell us what you know, or I’ll open up a sinkhole under that bed and send you straight to Hades.”

  “All right! All right! I’ll tell you! But I’m an old man and don’t remember so well and, in any case, you’re making me very nervous!”

  “Take a deep breath,” I instructed him. “Now let it out slowly. One. Two. Three.”

  After a few such calming breaths Padre Eusebio cleared his throat and, in a halting voice, told the following tale.

  Padre Eusebio heard confessions on Wednesdays after Vespers. Not that many people actually confessed to Padre Eusebio. Most people went to the Duomo or to San Francesco. Eusebio found this arrangement entirely to his liking; it meant that he wasn’t forced to listen to anyone’s tedious prattling and he could go home early.

  Nevertheless, to maintain appearances, Eusebio showed up, as always, at the posted hour and took his place on the appropriate side of the grille with the intention of remaining there for a quarter of an hour, no more, no less. During this time, he usually trimmed his nails, humming, or nibbled on a plate of biscuits, or closed his eyes and, leaning the side of his head against the wooden wall of the confessional, napped.

  On this particular Wednesday, however, he stewed. Just the week before, Adeodatus’s predecessor as Bishop, Prospero Sordello, had humiliated him in front of all of Casteldurante by setting him up to play the fool. Knowing full well that the old priest’s toenails were sorely afflicted with fungus and that his feet exuded an unpleasant, yeasty odor, Prospero had nevertheless insisted upon him being one of three priests whose feet he would ceremonially wash at the service on Holy Thursday. Then, when it actually came time for him to perform this ritual in front of the entire congregation, Prospero knelt before him, took one look at his feet and pretended to gag before crying out, “What have we here, Father? Hooves? Are you the Devil then?” The other two priests on the dais erupted in laughter, followed by the entire congregation. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” they roared. “Good one, Bishop!”

  For a dreadful moment it had seemed to Eusebio that he was utterly paralyzed. A darkness passed before his eyes, accompanied by a lurch in his stomach that sent bile surging up his throat. A second later up came his dinner (a lumpy repast of polenta and chunks of fish), a good deal of which sprayed the lower portion of Prospero’s chasuble. Eusebio staggered to his much-maligned feet, tumbled off the dais, and exited the Duomo by its side door, propelled forward on rolling swells of laughter from the congregation.

  The recollection of this recent humiliation had so consumed him that Wednesday in the confessional that he failed to notice when a penitent inconveniently slipped into its other compartment. “Hello!” said the person after a moment. “Is anyone there?”

  Eusebio pulled himself together and reluctantly slid open the grille. “What is it, my son?”

  “I have come to confess my sins, Father.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you had come to sell me a goat! What is it you wish to confess? And, if you don’t mind, could you be quick about it? My dinner is getting cold and I’m in a very bad mood.”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—”

  The priest interrupted him. “Don’t you want to know why I am in a bad mood?”

  “Not really.”

  “That says it all, doesn’t it?” Eusebio fumed. “You don’t care about me, but I’m supposed to care about you. I get it. Go on. Continue. But be brief, I beg you. God knows what you have done. I don’t need the details.”

  There was a pause, then, “It is not what I have done so much as what I am about to do.”

  “There’s no point confessing to sins you have yet to commit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t work that way. You can’t confess in advance, because you can’t feel genuine remorse in advance. You can only imagine that you will feel remorse. And that’s not good enough.”

  “What about Indulgences?”

  “What about them?”

  “You can purchase Indulgences in advance to reduce the amount of time you have to spend in Purgatory.”

  “Ah, but that’s different. That’s advance planning.”

  “And repenting in advance isn’t?”

  “Yes, but with Indulgences, actual money exchanges hands,” Eusebio pointed out. “That’s the difference. It’s a big difference.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said the penitent. “If I pay you, you’ll absolve me for sins I have yet to commit?”

  Eusebio entertained the notion for a moment, then thought better of it. What if Prospero learned that he had accepted money for absolution? Not that the bishop would think it was a bad idea. He would probably think it a good idea. He would just be peeved that the penitent had not come to him. And who was to say that this was not a setup, that Prospero had not put this man up to this to frame him? After all, the bishop was clearly out to get him. “I can’t do that,” he told the penitent. “I tell you what. Go commit your sin. Come back next Wednesday at this time. Confess, and I’ll absolve you. That’s the way the system works. Now, if you are quite through…?” And he made as if to close the grille.

  “But I can’t come back next Wednesday!” the penitent protested.

  “Why not?” The priest was losing what little patience he had. “Are you traveling to another town? Are you moving to Austria or Moldavia? In that case, make confession to whatever priest there is to be found. My feelings will not be hurt.”

  “I won’t be able to confess because…well…because I’ll be dead.”

  “Dead? What are you talking about? Dead? How do you know you will be dead? Do you have a fatal illness?”

  “No. The truth is…well, the truth is I plan to kill myself. Very shortly. Within the week.”

  “You plan to take your own life?” Eusebio asked.
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br />   “Yes.”

  “Suicide?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You realize that suicide is a mortal sin?”

  “I do,” replied the petitioner. “That’s the reason I’m here. Because I’m about to commit a mortal sin and I need absolution.”

  “You do realize that you’re going to Hell?” Eusebio asked. “Because you are. No two ways about it.”

  “Actually, I’m rather hoping for Purgatory.”

  “Impossible. Suicides go to Hell. Everyone knows that!”

  “I’m hoping to negotiate my position.”

  “With whom? With God?” Eusebio snorted. “Good luck with that!” Once again he made as if to close the grille.

  “No, Father, wait!” the petitioner pled. “Just a minute, I beg of you. For you see, I am not like other men and, this being the case, can I not hope to be treated differently?”

  Eusebio frowned. “How are you not like other men?”

  “I have a condition. A rare condition. I…well, I’m a jettatore.”

  Eusebio was struck dumb. A jettatore? Someone who, without wishing it, casts the evil eye on whatever happens to be the object of his gaze? Eusebio understood that such unfortunate beings existed—just as giants and other freaks of nature did—but he had certainly never encountered one.

  “Father? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I mean. You aren’t by any chance looking at me, are you? Because my health is delicate at the best of times.”

  “Never fear,” the penitent assured him. “I am wearing an eye patch. Would you care to hear my story? Then you might have more compassion for me.”

  “I doubt that!” Eusebio replied. “But go ahead. It’s bound to be interesting.”

  “Interesting, but tragic,” the penitent agreed. He cleared his throat and began: “After I had inadvertently caused my poor mother to sicken and die within a week of my birth, my nonna took me in, much against the wishes of our fellow villagers, I might add. She was a wise woman—some said a witch. She diagnosed my condition immediately and fashioned a patch for me that covered my offending eye, as a result of which I lived. Oh, but that she had not!”

  “I don’t understand. As long as your eye remains covered, what’s the problem?”

  “People would not let me be. They would not tolerate me living among them. When my nonna died, the villagers turned on me and drove me from my home near San Sisto. I was just fourteen at the time, but resilient and resourceful beyond my years. My affliction compelled me to be. I traveled to a town in Umbria—Madonnuccia it was called, near Sansepulcro. There, a kind old tinker taught me his trade and I lived with him and his wife for five years. Then, one night, while I was sleeping, he tugged ever so gently at my eye patch to see what it concealed (he was as curious as a cat, old Pietro). But he did not tug gently enough. Startled (for, as you can imagine, I am a light sleeper), I opened my eye and the old man’s fate was sealed. He became very ill with diarrhea and died within the week, leaving me his tools. While he was ill, however, and delirious, he revealed my secret to his wife, who told the entire town. Again I was forced to flee. This same story has repeated itself time and time again throughout the last twenty years. After the first few attempts at settling someplace, I gave up. Instead, I became a traveling tinker, moving from village to village, leaving before anyone discovered my terrible secret. Sometimes I did not leave in time and then there were consequences. This then has been the sad story of my life, Padre. No friends. No family. No place to call home. The constant danger that I will harm innocent creatures. As you might imagine I am sick to death of the whole thing.”

  “I can see your point,” reflected Padre Eusebio. “Still, to kill yourself…”

  “I did not make myself this way. God did. The way I see it, He owes me.”

  “Hush! He might hear you!”

  “And do what to me? How could He make my life any more miserable than it already is?”

  Eusebio considered this. “He could give you boils,” he suggested.

  “Just do me this small kindness, Father: Forgive me for the sin I am about to commit. After all, what skin is it off your nose?”

  “A great deal of skin!” Eusebio retorted. “If I do what you ask, I endanger my own soul, and for what? Unless…unless…”

  As he was speaking, an idea had occurred to him, inchoate as yet and shapeless as a squall, but it involved Prospero and, therefore, interested him greatly—as all things having to do with his new archenemy did.

  “Unless what?” the tinker asked.

  “I’m thinking!”

  If he could get the tinker to cast his Evil Eye on Prospero, then…. Then what? All his problems would be solved! But how to persuade him? How? His disinclination to harm others was clear.

  “If you want money…” the tinker began.

  “Money? No, I don’t want money! But there is one thing you could do for me.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You could cast your Evil Eye on my enemy.”

  The tinker was shocked. “You’re asking me to deliberately and knowingly harm another human being? Something I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid!”

  “I didn’t say you’d like it.”

  “Well, I don’t!”

  “Fine! That’s the deal. Absolution for assassination. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll leave it, thank you very much!”

  “All right, then. We’re through here. Go away. Scoot and good riddance!” Again Eusebio reached for the grille.

  “No, wait! Don’t leave!” the tinker pleaded. “Tell me about him. Your enemy. Is he a wicked man?”

  “He’s a jackal,” Eusebio replied. “A hyena.”

  “He’s a criminal then? A murderer? Perhaps a rapist?”

  “Well, he’s been very unpleasant to me if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “He’s beaten you? Robbed you? Tortured you?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Details are unimportant.”

  “But he is a villain, deserving of death?”

  “Of course,” Eusebio replied. “Would I ask you to curse him if he were not a villain? What do you take me for?”

  The tinker sighed deeply. “Where can I find him?”

  Eusebio’s heart did a little jig. “In the Duomo.”

  This surprised the tinker. “What’s he doing in the Duomo?”

  “Saying Mass.”

  “He’s a priest?”

  “Actually, he’s the bishop. You’ll recognize him by the outfit. You know. Crozier. Mitre.”

  “Are you crazy?” the tinker demanded. “I can’t cast the mal’occhio on a bishop!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because!”

  “Because why?”

  “Because he’s a bishop! That’s why! Think about it!”

  Eusebio snorted. “I have thought about it! Obviously! And I see nothing wrong with it. A man of the cloth can be as wicked as the next man! The Pope comes to mind!” Despite his bravado he saw that he was losing the tinker. He had to come up with something else he could offer him. Something to sweeten the pot. “Just how is it that you plan to kill yourself?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Hanging, I think.”

  “Messy,” said Eusebio. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather poison yourself? Although, come to think of it, that’s messy too. All that vomiting and rolling about in agony.”

  “I’ve settled on hanging.”

  “And where exactly had you planned on doing this?”

  “Just outside the wall of the cemetery of San Vivaldo. There’s a very tall oak with a sturdy branch that is at least twelve feet from the ground. It should do nicely.”

  “Near San Vivaldo, eh? That’s rather ironic, don’t you think?�
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  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. As a suicide you can’t be buried in hallowed ground. So, you hang yourself just outside the wall of the cemetery and there you will remain for eternity—separated from God’s love by the wall of sin. Sure, I can absolve you in advance of your sin, but your body…that must lie forever beyond the pale. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you modify your plan.”

  “In what way?”

  “You wait. You hang yourself here, in the Cappella, rather than outside the cemetery. There’s quite the drop from the corbel that extends out from the choir. All you would have to do is to climb the stairs to the choir, fasten one end of your rope to the corbel and the noose around your neck and jump. Your neck would snap instantly. No struggle. No pain. You could do this at night, when no one is here. Of course I would know the plan, be in on it, as it were, but I couldn’t be here. Much too upsetting. Not that I am fond of you or anything. Just…death.” Eusebio shuddered. “Worrisome. Then, later on that night or early in the morning, I could creep in, cut you down and bury you in one of the empty vaults behind the altar. That way you would be absolved, buried in holy ground, and no one but you and I would know about it.”

  “That’s brilliant!”

  “Of course, all this is predicated on your doing what I want,” Eusebio reminded him. “Which is to say—”

  “That I cast the mal’occhio on the bishop.”

  “Exactly.”

  This time the tinker considered the proposition for only a matter of moments. “All right,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain and, in the end, it’s too good a deal to pass up. Count me in.”

  “Excellent!” declared Eusebio. “Now you go away and look at the bishop. If he falls grievously ill, or, better yet, dies, then come to me straightaway and I shall absolve you in advance of the sin of suicide and we will carry out the rest of our plan that very night.”

  And so it was that, following hard on the heels of the four o’clock Mass on the Monday after Easter, 1784, Bishop Prospero Sordello complained of a stomach ache and gas pains. He described these to his entourage as feeling like, “rats gnawing at my entrails” before collapsing in a heap of clerical trappings in the foyer of the Episcopal Palace. It required four men to get him to his feet and then manhandle him upstairs; the bishop was a big man and unwieldy as a mattress. No sooner had they heaved him into his bed than the vomiting, at times projectile, began, then the diarrhea. The physician was called for, but apart from applying a few leeches to the bishop’s chest in the brief intervals between spew, could only surmise from the suddenness and severity of the symptoms that the bishop had eaten a bad sausage—a very bad sausage. The following Sunday, Eusebio’s nemesis was lying in state in the Duomo amid much lamentation on the part of the congregation as a whole and just a little well-masked jubilation on the part of the priest of Cappella di Cola.