Hunger's Brides

by W. Paul Anderson

  She padded back, greenish eyes curious, my pale Angolan warrior princess in a torn nightshirt.

  “Put something on your feet—here take my slippers—how can you walk around like that? As soon as it is light, I want you to go to the palace and try to find the Sicilian. First thing on a Sunday morning it should not be too hard, if he is in fact staying there. Ask him to come at his earliest convenience—but bring him back with you if you can.”

  “I could wake the turnkeeper right now.”

  “No, we may need the favour later. Go down and get dressed—it’s cold enough for snow. By the time you’re ready I’ll have a note for you to take to him….”

  I laid my hand on the cover of soft red leather…. Vieyra’s sermon was a famous one. Less for its content than for its origins: Christina of Sweden’s drawing room in Rome. Vieyra had just arrived from Portugal to seek the Pope’s protection from the Inquisition. He’d had the general idea for his oratory already, but during a visit to her apartments improvised the exposition with such stunning success Christina asked that very day that he become her spiritual director. Which he declined. Vieyra served one man alone, the King of Portugal.

  Here it was … ‘The Tears of Heraclitus Defended in Rome against the Laughter of Democritus.’

  Democritus laughed, because the affairs of Man seemed to spring from ignorance; whereas Heraclitus wept, because these same affairs seemed miseries. Heraclitus therefore had greater reason to weep than did Democritus to laugh, for in this world there exists such a host of miseries that owe nothing to ignorance, and yet no ignorance that is not a misery …

  What ignorance was a misery, an ignorance of mine? These emblems were not threads fallen together at random. These were the makings of a message—and I knew what it was. The message Baron Crisafi had brought me in the gift of Campanella’s Scelta: the Archbishop was not mad.

  In the two hours Antonia was away at the palace I had the idea of launching a counterattack.

  None of the libels in the other pamphlets mattered, but those penned by the second Soldier, those we had to answer. For in them the Holy Office was sounding out its own arguments. But even more urgent now was to repair the horrible, gaping breach Palavicino had opened in my defences. This nightmare of the Soldier’s cruel lance in my side, as in the side of an innocent lamb, as in the side of Christ….

  Just then, seeing Antonia come swiftly up the steps, cheeks flushed, a strident scarlet ribbon in her hair, it came to me how we might do it. The wound in the side, there was no wiping away the image—but if we changed the soldier, the wound, the side … the lance. The shepherdess Camilla. Virgil’s own Amazon, I had her right in front of me. It could not be be more perfect. It must be Camilla’s lance, through another side altogether….

  The Tyrrenian giant Ornithus advances through a wood. He is a colossus dwarfing his little war pony and bearing savage arms never before seen. Espying Camilla in a clearing he turns and bears down on the one he has been searching out. Her flock scattered, she stands firm, watching him come—draped over his shoulders is a hide ripped from a bullock, his helm the gaping jaws of a giant wolf. A rough-hewn prod, thick as an oak bole, is clasped just behind the iron goad by a massive hand of granite. Ornithus springs from his war pony—three swift strides swallow up the meadow. Smoothly, quietly, swift as Achilles, she runs him through the chest with her lance….

  And then the insult as he falls.

  ‘And did you think, my friend, to come into these woods hunting game? The day has arrived for your vaunting to find its reply in a woman’s arms. To the afterworld, hie!—and when you get there tell the shades of your fathers that the one who sent you, and how swiftly, was a woman!’

  I looked into her greenish eyes. She read mine. “Work …” Antonia said, her smile engagingly grim.

  Yes, work. Something for us both to do. We would answer Sor Philothea with a letter of our own, published in this case under a pseudonym—Sor Seraphina de Cristo. Christ’s finest angel. And even as it poked a little angelical fun at our devoted follower and friend, and this for missing the point of a certain recent letter of ours, missing even whom it was meant to address, we would make it clear that dim Philothea had been involved in it all from the start, indeed had commanded that the sword be made, only to grasp it from the wrong end.

  Then we would see what the world thought of clever Philothea. In this affair there was mud enough to cast about.

  For our purposes today, Antonia, think of irony as having not two surfaces but three, its blade a triangle9 in cross-section—inserted, the wound it inflicts takes a good deal longer to heal.

  Baron Anthonio Crisafi arrived by three, having cancelled one appointment and rescheduled another for that evening. He cut a dignified figure, in a fitted velvet doublet of an almond brown, a high collar, and across his chest a heavy emerald-studded chain. A matching jewelled band girdled his brown velvet hat, and a heavy calf-length cape with a satin lining hung by fastening cords about his shoulders. I could not help noticing as he sat close by the grille that one eye was slightly skewed in its orbit.

  “The Countess of Paredes sends expressions of her love and concern…. They are in Seville, at the home of her brother-in-law. The Medinaceli Palace has every imaginable comfort. As you may know, her husband, the Marquis …”

  The Sicilian could tell me no more than that Tomás was still unwell. Baron Crisafi had only been there two days, and did not see him. Preparing to leave just as my manuscript arrived, the Baron stayed on an extra few hours at María Luisa’s request and sent his affairs ahead to Cadiz by carriage.

  “The Countess asks me to tell you that your second volume is ready for the printer in Seville. All that lacks are the endorsements and licences. She is holding the text you asked for, in hopes of ‘a climate more favourable for ice.’ Did I get that correctly?”

  “Yes, thank you, Baron.”

  “She also emphatically agrees with the idea of publishing in Spain your letter on the Vieyra affair—of having it approved there before it can be formally condemned here in Mexico. She already has letters of enthusiastic support from nine poets, but the theological endorsements are not coming so quickly. She wishes you to know that in every free moment she is working to that end—and I can assure you she is working with great passion and energy. So far she has three….”

  “She had thirty for Castalian Flood.”

  “So she said, yes. Vieyra is an enormous figure in Seville—not much less revered than he is in Portugal. But during King John’s suppression of the Holy Office in Portugal, many Inquisitors took refuge in Seville. Few theologians want anything to do with the matter as long as the Inquisition is pursuing him. What the Countess wanted you to know was this: while soliciting approvals she has learned that certain distinguished officers of the Church in Seville already know something about the Vieyra controversy here in Mexico.”

  My guess had been correct. The Archbishop’s correspondent had hinted, the merest hint of a hint, that His Grace was perhaps not quite so unstable as was thought here. “Baron Crisafi, I do not know how to thank you. Perhaps one day I may be in a position to render you some small service.”

  “I am afraid, Sor Juana, there is more. This was the Countess’s message before your package arrived. What I am about to tell you now, she had not wanted to worry you with, at first. You see, it appears the Archbishop’s correspondent in Seville has also read a good deal about you.” The Baron leaned forward, lowering his voice. He did his best to meet my eyes. The emerald chain about his neck swung free, sparkling in the light, sending splinters of green across the chocolate doublet.

  “The Archbishop has never given the slightest sign he knows I exist.”

  “But Sor Juana, that is exactly right, that is precisely how the correspondent put it. On bad days, His Grace the Lord Archbishop pretends you live in someone else’s archdiocese.”

  “Does he indeed, sir. Why, this happens also to me. But then I take it His Grace has his good days as well. Tru
ly does one wonder what such days might be like.”

  “I will tell you. On a good day, apparently, he almost manages to forget you are alive.”

  Baron Crisafi looked genuinely pained to have said something so unpleasant. He assured me the Countess had reread my note accompanying Philothea’s publication of my arguments three times before finally deciding this was information I simply had to have now. “The Archbishop’s correspondent,” the Baron continued,“spoke of an antipathy dating back to the year 1683. The Countess said you would remember. And I am afraid that’s all I know, Sor Juana. I should be getting back,” he said, straightening in his seat. “This is not a day to be away from the palace—especially for foreigners.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see what you mean.”

  “My quarters are just down the hall from the French Viscount’s. He mentioned you have met. Yes? Well it appears the Viscount d’Anjou has made an unannounced departure.”

  “The stewards have checked the silverware by now, I hope.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, Sor Juana. You see, a treasury official was found murdered last night. His wife says he left home late yesterday afternoon in great excitement to be meeting a very distinguished foreign visitor, but could not say more.”

  “You are going to tell me this official is privy to information about the silver fleets.”

  “It appears a shipment left for the coast recently.”

  “The Viceroy will be happy to see you are still among us.”

  “I am hoping he has not sent out a search party. It might be hard to convince his men I was on my way back to the palace.”

  After thanking him, urging him to come again and expressing the very keen regret that he had not arrived in Mexico much sooner—last year, just for instance—I rose to let him go.

  Two entire days the Baron had spent with María Luisa—just weeks ago. I wanted to ask him about each minute, I wanted to ask him how she was, how she moved, if she smiled.

  I could keep Baron Crisafi no longer.

  I hoped he might come back, and gave a little wave as I stood at the grille, which was as close as I might come to seeing him out.

  The fourth of October, 1683, was among the greatest days of my life, but also of the Archbishop’s.10 At the time I did not give much thought to this, but without a doubt he chose that day, knowing perfectly well….

  The city had been awaiting the new Archbishop’s entry from Michoacan for weeks. The speculations were endless as to the reasons for the delay. His selection had been mysterious enough, for Bishop Santa Cruz’s election had already been announced. But now all the talk was of my Trials of a Noble House, an entire festival authored exclusively by me. María Luisa and I had been rehearsing the actors for weeks here in the courtyard outside the locutory. A professional theatre company within the walls of a convent—truly a testament to María Luisa’s influence, as actresses are known to be prostitutes and actors thought to be men.

  The Archbishop chose Monday, October 4th. On short notice the cathedral chapter threw together an uninspired triumphal arch to celebrate his entry. A solemn Mass of reception was celebrated in the cathedral. A stirring Te Deum was sung. It had all been quite nice, no doubt.

  My festival ran for hours, an entire evening of festivities, well past midnight, and dances until dawn. A loa to begin, sainetes after each act, and another play within a play to conclude. Usually these are all written by different authors; all were written by Juana Inés de la Cruz, Sor. Monday, October the fourth, 1683.

  Trials of a Noble House. He would have died rather than come, I would have given ten years of my life to be there. Perhaps, in some way, I had.

  Gutiérrez did not come until Thursday morning. From Sunday to Thursday it snowed. I could not remember five consecutive days of snow down in the valley. As he entered the locutory the enormous capuchon of the Augustinian habit was drawn up, obscuring his face. It was the cold, I knew, but I could not help thinking he did not want to be seen entering. The hem of his habit was sugared in snow, even the long black cincture that hung at ankle-height was white-tipped, like a tail. He shrugged back the hood. His face was ruddy with the chill. I remembered that his mother was Flemish and, as I recalled, a Lutheran.

  He was sorry to have been so long. It was a busy time at the Holy Office. He said this as only Gutiérrez could, the tone light. I apologized for my pique in the locutory last week. He answered that I was holding up better than most.

  Today the novices were hopeless, dropping things in the back, hands trembling as they set down cups of hot spiced chocolate for us. Again I told myself it was the cold. And again there were no platters of convent delicacies for our guest. The kitchen says no, Tomasina whispered, wide-eyed. They won’t say why.

  I asked Gutiérrez if he thought Xavier Palavicino was doing someone else’s bidding. My defender was of course a learned fool, bent on showing us how much he knew. But did he not perhaps know too much? How many people knew of the carols for Saint Catherine—was it not conceivable that Palavicino was acting in concert with Bishop Santa Cruz?

  “Well if he is,” Gutiérrez ventured, “he should look to himself.” He looked down gratefully at the cup of chocolate warming his hands, bent his head to sip.

  “But then,” I added, though not quite believing it, “perhaps everyone’s forgotten the sermon already—with the vanished Viscount and the murdered treasury agent to gossip about.”

  He looked up at me sharply. “Hardly. Since one of the last places either was seen was here in the chapel on Friday.”

  “The treasury man was here?”

  “As was a convicted seditionist called Samuel, also a foreigner, I believe. And who, like the Viscount, has also disappeared. It would have been a convenient place to exchange messages.”

  “But were they seen together?”

  “People have seen all manner of things—including horns on the Frenchman and a halo on the poor fellow from the treasury.” Gutiérrez scratched speculatively at the scruff of his beard. “Such rumours are sometimes of some use to us, but I would not want to be the secular authorities trying to find out what actually happened.”

  It had been two months, and I had never congratulated him on his promotion. Examining Magistrate. Something of a change from correcting and censoring texts. Was it more awkward for him to come here? No, not so far. Lowering my voice I asked if he had ever heard of any arrangements to intercept my mail. He looked startled that I would ask such a thing of him so baldly. Before answering he glanced over at Antonia and the novices.

  “No, but I’ll look into it,” he said quietly. “You know I can’t tell you what I learn….”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you would feel better if I knew.”

  “Much.”

  “You’ve been careful.”

  “About doctrine, yes, careful enough. About certain personages, I’m not so sure. If Núñez, for example, has intercepted certain letters and shown them to Santa Cruz …”

  “I see. As I said, I can’t tell you what I learn. But I can let you know when I know—if and when.”

  “Gracias, Gutiérrez. Don’t take too many risks. San Jerónimo can hardly be considered neutral ground at the Holy Office these days.”

  “No, Sor Juana,” he said, “but then it never was.”

  He set down his empty cup, and added after a moment that if I could think of anything to do to help myself, I should do it. It came out a little coldly, but he was anxious to be going. There was some checking he needed to do. For me but also for himself, I saw. He did not credit the poisoning story. The Archbishop had been crying poison for ten years. But to the possibility that I had raised—that the Archbishop’s madness might be a device of some kind—this, Gutiérrez was giving some sober thought. It was not often I saw that insouciance falter. I could only imagine how many of his own actions he was re-examining in this light. And he confessed now that one thing had been bothering him for weeks: the rift one might have expected between
Núñez and the Archbishop over the Vieyra affair … there was as yet no sign that it had opened.

  He promised to return soon. The last time he promised this he was gone six weeks.

  If I could think of anything to do to help myself …

  Yes, and if Bishop Santa Cruz was still thinking of swooping in as my Redeemer, he should swoop very soon.

  Antonia, who had doubtless heard every word Gutiérrez said, insisted we finish our Seraphina letter and send it to Santa Cruz. I did not have the heart to tell her the letter was ridiculous.

  Satirical verses are like wolves: once loosed they close straight on the weakest, fattest offering. Whoever the second soldier proved to be, the first still stood every chance of having been His Grace. If in my letter on the Vieyra sermon I had struck the Archbishop a glancing blow, the Seraphina letter was making straight for His Grace’s throat….

  Worse, I was no longer at all sure who the second Soldier was. It had startled me to hear Palavicino protesting that he was not the Soldier. Not once had it occurred to me that people could suppose it was anyone but Núñez. The thing was so obvious—Sapphic hymns—the phrase was his; the charges of heresy, especially that of Arian, were precisely those Nunez had threatened me with. It had to be him. Or someone wishing to sound like him….

  But who could have managed this? Master Examiner Dorantes could.

  Dorantes did not come to Palavicino’s sermon, did not want to seem to be involved, though this had not stopped him offering to help Cantor de Ribera—what, rewrite, repair?—my lyrics on Saint Peter.

  Why had no rift appeared between Núñez and the Archbishop? Could the second Soldier have been Dorantes, doing Santa Cruz’s bidding? But then what if Núñez had never been involved? Just listen to me—such contortions to believe Núñez was not the one. Why could I not bring myself to think the worst of him? Why after all these years, after everything that had come between us, had I not rid myself of my affection for him? Father Antonio Núñez de Miranda was not my father.