Scarpia

by Piers Paul Read

  ‘Prince Naselli will give me a post.’

  Spoletta nodded.

  ‘I am kicking my heels here,’ said Scarpia.

  ‘It is your home.’

  ‘I put down roots in Rome,’ said Scarpia.

  ‘I would not trust the princess,’ said Spoletta. ‘She wants to get back into the good graces of the king and queen.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Scarpia. ‘I am under no illusions. But I cannot bring her here. Nor can I separate her from the children. If I wish to be with them, I must go to Rome.’

  4

  On 19 January 1800, the start of Rome’s first carnival season of the new century was marked by a ball at the Alibert theatre. A decorated pavilion had been built on the stage to serve as a ballroom and the boxes were festooned with the Bourbon colours – white silk trimmed with gold. Two boxes had been knocked into one to accommodate the governor of the city, Prince Naselli, and his entourage. There were 1,200 guests, among them the ambassadors of the friendly powers, officers from the Neapolitan, Austrian, Russian and Turkish armies, and Roman patricians – legitimists mingling with former republicans, some cutting their erstwhile enemies, others affecting a particularly Roman disdain for political differences: ‘Sub specie aeternitatis,’ said the Prince Paducci to the Chevalier Spinelli, ‘what do these little squabbles matter? And Rome is, after all, the Eternal City.’

  ‘And we mustn’t be outdone by the Scarpias,’ said Letizia di Comastri. ‘Look at them, arm in arm, the cut-throat Sicilian with the grenadier’s whore.’

  ‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Spinelli, ‘the late Major General Jouve was a hussar, not a grenadier.’

  ‘But you do not dispute the rank of the lady in question?’

  ‘The rank? No. Promoted by the great Ringel to the first whore of Rome.’

  ‘And now she plays the Magdalene,’ said Paducci.

  ‘And she plays it well,’ said Letizia. ‘That blue dress clinging to her body. She must have lost at least twenty libbra grossa during her month with the nuns.’

  ‘And him,’ said the Prince Paducci, fingering the scar on his cheek. ‘Ruffo’s sbirro. Didn’t we always say he was a murderer?’

  ‘But he has done well out of it,’ said Count Malaspina, still the cavaliere servente of Letizia di Comastri. ‘Look at the orders and ribbons on his chest. And they say King Ferdinand has given him estates in Calabria twice the size of Rubosa.’

  The Alibert theatre was lit by a thousand lamps and candles, but the light and the warmth they gave out could not smother a sense of unease. As the revellers gossiped, danced, drank the wine and ate the delicacies served by bewigged footmen, they could not forget that outside in the streets the people were hungry. Bread was expensive and the flour adulterated with barley, fava beans and even hay. There had been riots; bakeries had to be protected by armed guards; and republican agitators were back at work. On the same night as the ball at the Alibert theatre, a young lawyer, Gregorio Silvestri, convicted of a Jacobin conspiracy, was executed on the Piazza del Popolo.

  The timing of the execution – one of only two for sedition – was to impress the guest of honour in the governor’s double box at the Alibert, the first minister of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the Englishman General Acton. He had come to Rome on a tour of inspection because although the dispatches from Naselli to Palermo had reassured King Ferdinand and Queen Maria Carolina that all was well, Acton had heard from a number of other sources that Naselli’s administration was ineffective; that hunger had led to desperation; that murder and theft were commonplace and went unpunished; that while the French had kept order under the republic through fear, the allied forces were ridiculed and despised.

  The Scarpias had taken a box with the Marcisanos and the Marchese di Ordelaffi, the husband of Graziella di Pozzo. They could see across the theatre the box of the Comastris with Paducci, Spinelli and Malaspina in attendance; and also that of Marchese and Marchesa Attavanti, with the painter Mario Cavaradossi seated next to the beautiful marchesa. Under the terms of the treaty, republican sympathisers like the Attavantis were to be unmolested, but there remained a froideur between legitimists and patriots: few paid calls on the boxes of those of a different political persuasion. Ludovico had been a patriot, but the presence of Scarpia in his box frightened off his former friends; and, for Paola, cutting republicans such as Domenica Attavanti was a necessary proof of her firm purpose of amendment.

  Halfway through the evening, a young officer in the uniform of the Neapolitan army came to the Marcisanos’ box and, after saluting Scarpia – blushing with pride to be addressing this celebrated leader of the sanfedisti – presented the compliments of General Acton and his request that Baron Scarpia spare a moment to visit him in his box. Scarpia rose, gave an apologetic nod to his wife and his sister-in-law Fulvia, and followed the young Neapolitan out of the box. He was led along the semicircular gallery past the entrance to Prince Naselli’s double box to one next to it, which, when he entered, was empty except for Acton, adorned with bejewelled orders, and a secretary wearing a drab suit. The curtain was half drawn and the two men sat at the back of the box, out of sight of the throng and less exposed to the hubbub that came from the music and chatter.

  Acton rose and greeted Scarpia as he entered. ‘I am sorry to interrupt your festivities,’ he said.

  ‘I am at your service.’

  The young officer withdrew. The secretary moved to a seat next to the door while Acton drew up a gilt chair for Scarpia, before returning to his place on the upholstered banquette at the back of the box. ‘This may seem a strange place to attend to business,’ said Acton, ‘but it is convenient to have all those one might want to see under one roof.’

  ‘I am at your service.’

  Scarpia knew Acton already: he had seen him a dozen times in Palermo and, while he did not warm to the bloodless Englishman, he did not share the loathing felt by his friend Damas. There had been times when Scarpia was ready to feel affronted that no Neapolitan or Sicilian was thought competent to act as first minister to the king, but he recognised Acton’s abilities – his pragmatism and efficiency – and when he ran through in his mind the likely candidates he concluded that the kingdom was better ruled by a man with no clan or family to fatten from the trough.

  ‘I have been asked by His Majesty, King Ferdinand,’ said Acton, ‘to report on what is going on here in Rome. Prince Naselli has assured us that all is well, but it appears that this is not so.’

  ‘He has faced particular difficulties,’ said Scarpia.

  ‘Of course,’ said Acton. ‘But it seems to me that his administration is ineffective. The people go hungry while grain rots on the quays at Civitavecchia and there is crime in the streets.’

  ‘Prince Naselli is constrained by the terms of the treaty.’

  ‘But the treaty does not prevent him imposing order.’

  ‘The Romans only acknowledge the authority of their Pope,’ said Scarpia. ‘The state of sede vacante has always meant a measure of anarchy – even at the best of times.’

  ‘But we cannot simply await a new pope,’ said Acton. ‘And there is no knowing who it will be. Consalvi seems the obvious choice, but the emperor won’t have him. And it is not just what is going on in Venice that concerns me, but events in Paris.’

  ‘Bonaparte . . .’

  ‘Precisely. He calls himself First Consul but to all intents and purposes he is a dictator. He now commands not just the army but the whole French nation, and it is only a matter of time before he returns to Italy. There will be war in the spring, and for that reason it is vital that Rome should be secured.’

  ‘Do you mean to strengthen the garrison?’

  ‘A garrison can hold the Castel Sant’Angelo but it cannot contain the enemy within. We must eradicate the Jacobins . . .’

  ‘But the treaty . . .’

  ‘The treaty. Of course. We cannot have a purge as in Naples. But the amnesty covers sedition only until the signing of the treaty. Any s
ubsequent conspiracies – any plots now to revive the republic – can be punished with the full rigour of the law. Silvestri, who was hanged tonight, planned to raise a force of six thousand Jacobins to attack our troops from the rear. Perhaps six thousand is an exaggeration, but there are without doubt a number of so-called patriots who are only biding their time. Many of those who were to leave with the French remain in Civitavecchia. I have been told that Angelotti is planning to return. We cannot incarcerate all of the Jacobins, but we can deal with their leaders. A snake without a head may slither, but it cannot sting.’

  ‘The prince surely understands this.’

  ‘We cannot count on Naselli,’ said Acton. ‘He dithers. He is soft. Nor do I have much faith in the people he has appointed to enforce the law. In Naples perhaps we have gone too far, but here we have not gone far enough. His Giunta di Stato is useless.’

  ‘This is Rome,’ said Scarpia. ‘The public prosecutor is a priest – Monsignor Barberi. Agostino Valle, who defends the accused, is a former Jesuit who once worked for the Rota and runs rings around the judges, knows how to exploit the different jurisdictions, adjourn cases sine die, and even after a conviction, count on a pardon from the Pope.’

  ‘That is the point,’ said Acton. ‘Sooner or later, there will be a new pope, and once he returns to govern Rome then all hope of eradicating our enemies will be gone.’ He paused. ‘Do you remember Gennaro Valentino?’

  ‘I will never forget him.’

  ‘Shot by the French with the gleeful Jacobins like Angelotti rubbing their hands. Is he not to be avenged?’

  ‘If Angelotti ever returns to Rome –’

  ‘It is not just Angelotti. There are others, here in Rome and in Civitavecchia, strutting around as if no one can touch them. We must act now, and I have been asked by the king to offer you a commission to hunt down his enemies. You are the only man we can trust.’

  Scarpia hesitated. ‘Am I to serve under Prince Naselli?’

  ‘You are to serve apart from Prince Naselli. You will have a warrant direct from the king. You will work from the Palazzo Farnese and the Castel Sant’Angelo. Naselli will not interfere. You must be implacable, Scarpia. Do not let sentiment cloud your judgement. You must ensure that, when a new pope returns to the holy city, the Jacobin monster has no head.’

  *

  The interview was at an end. At a gesture from Acton, his secretary – the pale young man who had remained silent throughout the two men’s conversation in the corner of the box, hidden from the revellers by the curtain – now rose and summoned the officer to escort the baron back to his box. When Scarpia had left, the secretary returned to his chair.

  Acton was weary. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down as if studying the buckles of his shoes. After a minute or so, he sat up, looked out of the box at the glittering spectacle of boisterous Romans, then turned to his young secretary.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It was an honour to meet such a hero.’

  ‘A hero, yes. Scarpia is courageous and also able. We saw that in Basilicata. He is loyal to the king and he loathes Jacobins. All that is clear enough. My only misgiving is that he has picked up from Ruffo a propensity to show mercy. He is unwilling to go for a kill when his man is down.’

  ‘You are thinking of Palmieri?’

  ‘Apparently he ordered the balls removed from the muskets for a fake execution.’

  ‘Certainly Palmieri remains alive. He is with the French.’

  Acton brooded, then said: ‘Doesn’t Scarpia have a man, Spoletta?’

  ‘Yes. He is his servant, his adjutant, his bravo.’

  ‘Talk to this man Spoletta. Find out the truth of the matter and, if the story is true, make it clear to him that the position of his master and his own prospects would be jeopardised if such a thing were to happen again.’

  5

  It was now more than a month since Scarpia had returned to Rome. He had not upon arrival gone to the Villa Larunda but had stayed at the Oratory as a guest of Father Simone Alberti. He had confessed his sins to the priest, among them his surrender to passion in the pagan surroundings of Taormina; and later had a number of long conversations with the Oratorian on many subjects – the unease he felt about the terrible cruelty of some of the sanfedisti; the sin, if it was a sin, of letting Palmieri go free to rejoin the Jacobin armies; the sin, if it was a sin, of accidia – the dejection that had come over him after the war was won.

  Father Simone reassured him. ‘You are a soldier, my dear Baron, and in performing our duty as a soldier you have had to take the lives of your enemies and perhaps of necessity do cruel things. But even in the heat of battle, a man may be pure in spirit; he may love his enemy, yet he takes his life. Remember the centurion who begs Jesus to cure his daughter but feels unworthy that he should come to his house. Our good Lord tells him to return home where he will find his daughter cured, but he does not tell him to give up his profession. And another centurion, Cornelius, whom St Peter visits and welcomes into the community of Christians – a soldier of the Ithaca cohort stationed at Caesarea but a devout and God-fearing man – he has no doubt killed the enemies of Rome in performing his duties, but Peter does not ask him to lay down his sword. No, a soldier may also be a saint.’

  Scarpia confided to Father Simone the conflicting feelings which tormented him – a longing to live with his children and reluctance to return to his faithless wife. The priest had repeated what he had said in his letter: that to forgive was a clear commandment of Christ; that Paola was repentant and it would be sinful to spurn her contrition. He must now go back to his wife and children.

  *

  Four days after his return to Rome, Scarpia had left the Oratory for the Villa Larunda. The household had been forewarned of his arrival. Paola was awaiting him in the atrium with Pietro and Francesca. She was dressed demurely in a simple but elegant dress with a modest décolletage. Her hair was raised in a bun exposing her graceful neck. Her face was pale but, as Letizia di Comastri had observed, she had lost the plumpness that had come over her during the feasting and roistering with Jouve. As Scarpia approached, she gave a deep curtsy. ‘Welcome home,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes, welcome home, Signor Padre,’ chimed in the children, as if this was a line that they had rehearsed. Each took hold of a hand to kiss it; he gathered them up in an embrace.

  As Paola rose from her curtsy, Scarpia might have stepped forward to embrace her too, but he felt no inclination to do so. The curtsy and lowered eyes, their expression hidden by the lids, denoted a readiness to surrender, an acquiescence to his will – but even as this became apparent a voice whispered in his ear: ‘Is she play-acting?’ ‘Is she posing for a painting by Ringel – Penelope at the Return of Odysseus?’

  That night, Scarpia returned to his bedroom, Paola to hers. Nothing seemed to have changed except for a prie-dieu installed in Paola’s bedroom facing an ebony crucifix with an ivory figure of Christ. The base of the prie-dieu showed the impress of two knees, and looped over the side was a rosary with silver links and ebony beads. When both Nunzi and Scarpia’s valet had retired, Scarpia glanced through the open door to Paola’s bedroom and saw her on her knees telling the beads. Sensing his presence, she rose, rehung her rosary on the prie-dieu, and turned towards him. She looked exquisite in a soft silk gown; a delightful scent lingered in the air. ‘We are so pleased that you have returned,’ she said to Scarpia, looking directly into his eyes. What were they expressing? He could not tell. Was she inviting him into her bed? Or conveying a penitential acquiescence should he choose to reclaim his rights as her husband? Did she want him to make love to her, faute de mieux? Scarpia could not tell. Did he want to make love to her? Back in the setting of their early passion, the sight of the bed on which they had known so much joy might have kindled a mature desire had it not been blocked by the thought that on that same bed Paola had made love to her French brigadier. The mind might forgive, but the body has a will of its
own, and Scarpia could not bring himself to embrace a woman who, for all the scent dabbed on her body, still held the odour of another man.

  *

  In the weeks that followed, Baron Scarpia and his wife, Princess Paola di Marcisano, lived as might a brother and sister under the same roof. If Paola felt spurned, she did not show it, apparently willing to be a good wife in any way her husband might choose. It seemed as if Scarpia’s imaginary rival that had once been Bonaparte was now Christ. To all outward appearances, the month’s mortification of the flesh in the Carmelite convent had not just led Paola to lose weight but had brought about an inner conversion. The French novels were gone; instead, open on the escritoire, was St Teresa of Avila’s Way of Perfection. Nor did Paola see any of her old friends such as Graziella di Pozzo or Domenica Attavanti: he even heard Paola mention the latter to Pietro as ‘a very wicked woman who has led many astray’.

  Paola was often out of the house. She went to Mass at six every morning at the nearby church of Santa Maria della Pace, returned for breakfast with Scarpia and the children, then often went out again, either to visit her now decrepit parents or, three times a week, to the women’s hospital, San Salvatore, where, with other noble ladies, she donned an apron and bathed the sick. She also visited the Sisters of Our Lady of Loretto, whose particular apostolate was to reconcile separated husbands and wives. She made little of her charitable works, and only told Scarpia about them when asked, saying, ‘There is so much suffering,’ and, ‘Providence has been so good to me, and I have done so little in return.’

  Among the few visitors to the Villa Larunda was her brother Ludovico, who seemed to have had a similar change of heart. At first Ludovico was awkward in Scarpia’s presence – apologetic, almost obsequious. ‘You saw things so clearly,’ he said. ‘You were immune to all the folly.’ He said this as if intending a compliment, but he could not purge from his way of saying it a trace of his old condescension, as if Scarpia’s immunity from radical thinking, although to be welcomed, was somehow the product of his less than princely Sicilian origins. Like Paola, he too had become ostensibly more devout, resuming his work at the charitable confraternities.