A Christmas Requiem

by S. J. Parris

  I thanked him again, and tore the paper open on the way to my cell, too upset and impatient to consider discretion.

  The message came from Porta.

  I need to speak to you urgently. Accusations have been made against you. Best that you leave Rome tonight – I will help you, but I can’t get away until later. Meet me at 10 by the Theatre of Marcellus with your bag and I will see you safely on the road.

  GdP

  For the second time that day, I felt the ground tremble under my feet, as if I could no longer trust it to hold me. Accusations: it could only mean that the lady Lucrezia, to cover her pride, had given out that I had tried to force myself on her. I would have laughed, if my position had not been so precarious. I had already fallen foul of the Pope; if Lucrezia accused me of assaulting her, Cardinal d’Este might feel obliged to act, even if he didn’t believe her. Leonora had said she would speak for me, but would anyone listen? Thank God for Porta, I thought, and how far-sighted of Gennaro to know that I would need a friend like him to defend me, in a city where even cardinals could be strangled to death while everyone looked the other way.

  I sat alone at supper on the end of a long table, trying to ignore the open laughter and behind-the-hand muttering directed at me from the other brothers; when we stood for the benediction, I heard the word ‘witch’ whispered among the novices like wind through a copse, accompanied by sniggers. Agostino had clearly wasted no time in spreading the story of my papal audience through the convent. At vespers he preached a sermon about the example of Christ’s humility in the Nativity, and how fitting it was this Christmas that one of our number should have been taught a valuable lesson about humility by our Holy Father himself; how, by this example, the community should guard itself against the sin of intellectual pride. I endured this and the office of compline in silence, making sure no one could fault my piety, and when the convent retired to bed, I packed my bag and lay on my bed, waiting for the bells to count out the hours.

  Shortly after half-past nine, I crept out of the cell and into the rear courtyard with Porta’s knife strapped to my belt under my cloak. Since the discretion of the gatekeeper was clearly for sale to the highest bidder, I decided it was best to give him nothing to trade with; I checked to see that the courtyard was empty, slung my bag over the wall, knotted my habit above my knees and shinned up after it.

  A silver half-moon gave enough light to stumble through the streets, its edge sharp against the dark. I glanced up at the stars, regretting my careless comments to the lady Leonora about the possibility of other worlds. What if she should mention that to her brother, when I had already narrowly dodged an accusation of heresy by the Pope? When I paused to consider, I regretted most of what I’d said since arriving in Rome. At least the cold air had finally dispelled the fog in my head.

  I remembered the Theatre of Marcellus; Porta’s coachman had pointed it out as we entered the city. I found my way to the river and followed it south, one hand under my cloak ready to grasp the knife, but the only people abroad were Christmas revellers still on the right side of festive good cheer, and my habit seemed to afford me some protection; if anyone looked at me for too long, I made the sign of the cross and offered a Christmas blessing, at which they usually dipped their heads, mumbled their thanks and scurried off with a guilty expression. No one wants to be reminded of God when they’re indulging in festive pleasures.

  I arrived early, and took my place beneath the great arches of the ruined amphitheatre, looking towards the lights of the city. At my back, beyond the Theatre of Marcellus, lay the open wasteland of the Forum with its ancient pillars and tumbled walls; nothing but layers of darkness and the occasional glint that might be a watchful eye or a blade. I drew Porta’s knife and held it tight at my side. In the dark spaces between the columns, shadows moved; I guessed the recesses provided shelter for vagrants, and I could not have been more conspicuous in my white robe, with a travelling pack on my back just asking to be stolen by desperate men.

  After ten minutes the waiting began to chafe at me. Dogs slunk around my feet, sniffing; I kicked at them, muttering threats, and they scattered to snarl from a distance before creeping back. I needed to move; again that uneasy sensation that I was being observed from the shadows crawled up my neck. I made a circuit of the walls, watching for movement, gripping the knife with freezing fingers. It was only as I progressed slowly past the arches, peering into blackness, that it occurred to me to doubt the message. It had not been Porta’s writing, but I had been so distracted earlier by my brush with the Pope and the effects of the night before that I had assumed he must have dictated it. As my chest tightened with the cold realisation that I might have blundered directly into an ambush, I heard a hiss from the shadows of an entrance.

  ‘Porta?’ I clutched the knife.

  ‘This way,’ a voice said; I caught the flicker of a lantern before it disappeared into the depths. I followed the light through a passageway, and emerged into the vast inner space of the amphitheatre. I had lost sight of the lantern; I stubbed my foot against a lump of rubble and cursed. The place was silent, but it was the silence of held breath; I felt eyes on me. I began to back away, towards the passage through the banks of tiered seating. God, what a fool I had been! Porta would never have dragged me out here and left me stumbling in the dark; the best I could hope for now was to run. It took a moment for my legs to catch up with the command; in the instant I turned to flee, I felt the cold edge of a blade against my throat from behind and hot breath against my hair, the barest hint of a laugh.

  Instinct took over; blindly I thrust back my right arm and plunged the knife; I felt it sink, deep, and in my ear I heard a gasp, muted, intimate, as if in shock rather than pain. The steel at my neck clattered to the ground; I looked down and saw the silver sheen of a sword, a gentleman’s weapon. I pulled out the knife with one firm tug, my hand came away hot and wet as the man behind me emitted a sound almost like pleasure as he staggered back, hands pressed to his stomach. I turned to see Renzo Arduino doubled over, staring at me, eyes bright with amazement, his mouth working to speak.

  ‘You have killed me,’ he said, as if he could hardly believe the audacity, and crumpled to his knees.

  Even in that moment, God forgive me, I experienced a flash of impatience. ‘Of course I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Lie down. Press hard on the wound. Jesus’ sake – what did you expect? You put a sword to a man’s throat in the dark, he’s going to fight back.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be armed,’ he said weakly.

  I flattened my hands over the wound; Gennaro had shown me how to staunch bleeding, but on that occasion I had been furnished with lights, clean linen and hot water. It was too dark in the shadows of the amphitheatre to judge the damage, but I could feel the force of Renzo’s blood coursing over my hands as I pressed and I began to shake; my impatience with him ebbed away as the blood pumped faster. The knife had gone deep into his gut; I had felt it.

  ‘I only meant to frighten you,’ he croaked.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ I spoke with anger, but it was directed at myself. ‘You lure me out to this godforsaken place in the middle of the night for what – a chat? You threatened to cut me and dump me in the river. You wouldn’t even fight like a man – you were going to slit my throat from behind.’

  ‘I just wanted to see you piss yourself. My lady said you made an attempt on her honour.’

  ‘It’s not true.’ Even in my panic I had time to think: Jesus, who talks like that? Bleeding to death and he’s still pretending he’s in a tale of chivalry. ‘I didn’t touch her.’ Not strictly true, but the spirit of it was close enough.

  ‘Thought you needed to be taught a lesson. Neapolitan dog.’ He struggled to sit up, and cried out with the pain.

  ‘Shh, shh – don’t move.’ I eased him down. I could feel a rage boiling up in me, at all of them – him, her, Agostino, the Pope – for everything that had led to this. ‘Why did you have to sneak up on me?’ I pushed harder agains
t the wound, but I could see it was having no effect.

  ‘Why did you have a knife? You’re meant to be a friar.’

  I folded his hands under mine. ‘Here, you press. I’m going for a doctor.’

  There would be an infirmarian at Santa Maria, but I knew I would not make it there and back in time. If I could find a religious house closer at hand, it was possible a physician might be found, but that would be as good as confessing to murder.

  ‘No. Don’t leave me alone,’ he said, clutching at my wrist. I glanced around; I could see nothing but shadows, though the sense of being watched had only intensified.

  ‘Are you alone?’ I asked. ‘No servants with you?’

  ‘Didn’t want witnesses.’ His voice was growing fainter. I could hear my own blood thudding in my ears. Was that a confession that he had meant to kill me after all? I supposed I would never know now.

  ‘Get a priest,’ he said urgently. He had begun to shiver violently. ‘I am afraid.’

  I wanted to tell him to stop making a fuss, he’d be fine in a minute, but in my heart I knew he was right.

  ‘I’m a priest,’ I said, and was surprised to find that I was crying. This was also not strictly true; I was not yet ordained, but I had taken vows and that had to count for something.

  He mumbled something that sounded like ‘absolve me’, and fell silent; I stammered my way through the last rites as I felt his grip slacken. He took ten more minutes to die, his breath rattling and gurgling in his throat, until I saw his eyes glass over, fixed past my shoulder to the stars and whatever lay beyond them.

  In the moments after he died, the world seemed to have stopped with him. The city had fallen silent; no dogs barked, no owls cried; the only sound was my own breathing, quick and shallow. I stayed there, unable to move, until a distant church bell chimed the half hour and brought me back to myself. I sat up on my haunches and looked around.

  I had killed a man, and now I had to work out what to do about it. My mind thrashed like a pigeon trapped in a room, hurtling into walls; I forced myself to slow my breathing as I did when I was about to perform my memory tricks, trying to order my thoughts more clearly. Though I could still see no sign of movement, I knew the amphitheatre must be full of vagrants; some of them might even be sober enough to recall what they had witnessed and repeat it to a magistrate. They would certainly remember the man in a Dominican habit. I picked up Porta’s knife – I could not leave that, decorated with his emblem, at the scene – and wiped it clean on the dead man’s clothes before tucking it into my belt. The white cloth of my habit was soaked with his blood, but it hardly showed on my black cloak; if I pulled it tight around me, I could hide the worst of the damage in dark streets until I had a chance to change, though I would need to wash first and I had no idea how to go about that – even the lowest inn would think twice before admitting a man covered in gore.

  I grabbed Renzo under his arms and dragged his body out of the main arena, laying him down behind a pile of fallen masonry. I knew that my best hope was to delay discovery of the body while I put some distance between myself and Rome. I returned to pick up his sword and swung it speculatively back and forth; I had never held such an expensive weapon. Briefly I considered throwing it in the river, but the sight of a friar hurling a sword into the water would be memorable for anyone who happened to be passing. As I stood, testing its weight, the silence was broken by a scattering of stones from beneath the arches, as if someone had fled in a hurry. I whipped around, but could make out nothing in the shadows; dogs, perhaps. I decided to leave the sword by the body. I smeared it with blood from Renzo’s side and placed it by his right hand, so that whoever found him might think he had taken his life for love.

  I hurtled through the streets, holding my habit above my knees, as if the Devil were at my heels, blindly running for the Este palazzo. Porta was the only person who could help me now; I was not sure he would be willing to dirty his hands with this situation, but beneath his genial good manners there was a ruthlessness, and I knew that he had experience in making bodies disappear. I followed the river until I began to recognise landmarks, and after a few wrong turns, found myself at the entrance to the rear courtyard where I had been shown out the night before. If the guards on the gate recognised me, they gave no sign; breathless, wild-eyed and bloodied as I appeared, I could hardly blame them.

  When I asked for Porta, I saw the guards exchange a glance, before they informed me that the family had retired for the night and were not admitting visitors. I pulled my cloak tight around me to hide the blood on my habit, but I suspected there was plenty smeared across my face. I insisted that it was urgent; one of the men raised his pikestaff, but to my great good fortune a servant arrived at the gate leading a horse and I saw that it was the groom who had taken me home the night before.

  ‘This man knows me,’ I cried, lunging at him so that the horse reared its head back, white-eyed, and whinnied. The groom steadied her, cast a glance at me and nodded reluctantly to the guards to let me in. I followed him into the courtyard and saw the lady Leonora walking by herself, gazing up at the stars, fur cape tight around her shoulders. At the commotion, she turned her head and her mouth dropped open at the sight of me. I rushed across; she was far more likely to find Porta for me than any servant.

  ‘You should not be here,’ she hissed, darting a glance behind her to the house. ‘My sister has accused you of trying to rape her. She has your belt as proof.’

  ‘I didn’t, I swear. I turned her down.’

  ‘I believe you. But I did warn you. Luigi does not intend to do anything about it, she’ll calm down eventually – but you can’t be seen here while she’s still insisting you attacked her. That does seem needlessly provocative.’

  ‘I’ll go, but I must see Don Giambattista – please, it’s urgent.’

  She took in my appearance for the first time. ‘Madonna santa, what has happened to you? Is that blood on your face?’

  ‘I – I was assaulted,’ I said. It was the first thing that came to mind. ‘In the street.’

  ‘How dreadful. Are you hurt?’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘Should we call for the watch?’

  ‘No,’ I said, too quickly. ‘I’m fine – I just – I must speak with Porta, this minute.’

  ‘You’re shaking. Come with me.’ She looked back at the house again, then led me across to the stable block, where she pushed open the door of an empty stall. ‘Stay in here. Don’t let anyone see you – if Lucrezia finds out you’re in the grounds, she’ll clamour for your arrest and that will put my brother the cardinal in a very difficult position. Here.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, licked it and rubbed a spot on my cheek. ‘That’s better. You look like you’ve come from the battlefield.’ She smiled and dropped her gaze, as if suddenly shy. I found myself thinking that she was not as obviously beautiful as her sister, but she had kind eyes. ‘I was looking at the stars again,’ she said, as if I had asked for an explanation. ‘I’ve been pondering what you said about other worlds.’

  ‘Please don’t repeat that,’ I said. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard. The Holy Father accused you of witchcraft.’

  ‘He didn’t— how did you know?’

  ‘Oh, you’re quite the centre of attention among the cardinals. They’re saying it’s a Christmas miracle you got out in one piece. Rebiba will be terribly disappointed.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I will fetch Porta to you.’

  I sat down on a bale of straw and a wave of exhaustion crashed over me; Leonora was right, I was trembling all over like someone in the grip of a fever. It was not the first time I had seen a man die. I had been assisting Fra Gennaro in the infirmary since I was sixteen; every autumn, when the fogs rolling in off the Bay of Naples brought the influenza, it always took a few of the elderly brothers. I had watched others die of tumours, agues, infected wounds or, in one case, from falling off a roof. Once or twice I even thought I could pinpoint the moment when the
soul left the body, as I stood by the bed with a fumigation while one of the senior brothers gave extreme unction. But I had never, until today, watched a man die at my hands. I stretched them out in front of me and examined my bloodstained palms. I was a murderer. Self-defence, accident; call it what you will, I had taken the life of a young man, barely older than me, who should have had decades left to live. Not only that, he was related to a prince. I thought of the strappado, the torture device I had seen in the Campo dei Fiori. I was a dead man. I put my head in my hands and began to cry.

  ‘Hey, hey – none of that.’ Porta’s voice, almost fatherly, cut through my self-pity. The flame of his lantern sent a wavering light up the wall. ‘No one believes Lucrezia, not even her brother. If anything, they feel sorry for you – they think she probably jumped on you. But it was not a good idea to come here. Lie low till she’s forgotten about it.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I stood and opened my cloak to show him my blood-spattered habit. ‘It’s worse.’

  He kept a hand pressed over his mouth as I told my story, nodding at intervals until I hiccupped my way to the end. He was silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on my clothes, while he made his calculations. Eventually he started to laugh softly.

  ‘What?’ I stared at him, incredulous.

  ‘You’ve been here two days, Bruno, and already you’re accused of rape by a cardinal’s sister, the Pope has called you a witch, and now you’ve killed a man in a duel. Such havoc has not been wrought in the city since the Sack of Rome forty years ago. Imagine if you stayed a week.’

  ‘Jesus, Porta – it’s not funny. And it wasn’t a duel. I told you – he ambushed me.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘Renzo Arduino is no great loss to Italy, I assure you. You know he had the French pox? He would have died young anyway, in exquisite agony, after his nose and cock rotted off – in many ways you’ve done him a favour.’

  ‘I don’t think the law will see it like that. Or his family.’