Bernardino was robbed of his usual arrogance today. Under the Abbess’s gaze he felt unworthy of the compliment, and cast about for a diversion. His eye fell on his work, and the man that he drew. ‘Your patron. What manner of man is he? He seemed a person of great nobility.’
‘He is a soldier and a poet and many things besides,’ came the answer. ‘He also has a great faith, which is why he wished to be painted as you portray him here, kneeling in prayer. He feels that our community can transmit the fervour of our faith much to the laity of Milan. See,’ her graceful wave indicated the delimiting wall. ‘This partition divides the Hall of the Nuns from the Hall of the Believers where we are now.’ Bernardino’s lip curled at the irony of the name, and his presence in this room, but the Abbess continued. ‘Ingress and egress can only take place through secret doors in the side chapels, and it is forbidden for the sisters to pass to this side, or the laity to enter our Convent hall. You and I remain the only exceptions to this rule; for you must pass into my world as I must come into yours. And yet we all worship together. Observe,’ she pointed heavenwards. ‘The wall does not reach the ceiling, so the laity can hear our song. And here,’ she indicated the two small grilles hidden in the wall’s panels, ‘these grilles allow us to participate in the most Holy parts of the Mass; through this little door on the Gospel side we can watch the elevation of the Host, and through this grille on the Eucharist side we may adore the Holy Father.’ She smiled her illuminating smile. ‘For this great faith, and the sharing of it, our patron supports our sisterhood and this foundation of Saint Maurice.’
Again Luini was reminded of Anselmo’s story of that Saint. He missed his friend abruptly. ‘Why does Signor Bentivoglio honour Saint Maurice in particular?’
‘Because Signor Bentivoglio served as a condottiere with the Swiss in the battle of Novara. Saint Maurice is greatly revered in Swisserland, and his church stands there in Agaunum. Do you know the tale?’ Bernardino was about to answer in the affirmative, but because he missed Anselmo, and the Abbess recalled him to mind, he said something quite different.
‘Why don’t you tell me, if you have leisure?’
‘During the reign of the co-emperors Diocletian, Maximian, Constantius and Galerius, there was, according to the legend, a Roman legion raised in Upper Egypt, known as the Theban Legion,’ she began. ‘It numbered sixty-six hundred men, all of whom were Christians and commanded by an officer named Maurice.’ Her voice was musical, and she made the story live. Bernardino had never known such a gift before, the gift of making the listener see what was described. He could understand how such a gift must assist her in her calling, for anyone who heard her tell a parable or read a chapter from the scriptures must believe every word at once. Bernardino turned to look at her, and then raised his eyes above her head. In front of his eyes the blank wall, that vast grey space began to warm into colour and take form as she spoke. Bernardino blinked his eyes as the Roman legion marched over Sister Bianca’s head. ‘In the year of our lord 286 the legion was part of a force led by Maximian to quell an uprising among Christians in Gaul. After the revolt was put down, Maximian issued an order that the whole army should attend the offering of sacrifices – including the killing of Christians for the Roman gods – for the success of their mission.’ Bernardino held his temples as he smelled the blood and heard the screams of death. ‘Only the Theban Legion dared to refuse the order to join the rite. The legion withdrew and encamped near Agaunum. Maximian was enraged by the insubordination of Maurice and the legion and ordered it to be decimated.’
‘Decimated?’ questioned Bernardino.
‘Every tenth man was to be executed.’
‘So Maurice and his men stood firm, even though one in every ten of his soldiers were to die? Who would do such a thing? Who would have such strength, or such folly?’
‘A man who truly believed that what he was doing was right. The penalty was carried out, but still the legion refused to comply. Maximian was enraged and another decimation was made. When Maurice and his legion persisted, Maximian ordered that the remaining men should be executed. The men offered no resistance, but went to their deaths convinced that they would become martyrs.’
‘So they all died? All of them? Sixty six hundred men?’
‘Every man was put to the sword, including Maurice and his fellow officers. Those elements of the legion that weren’t at Agaunum were hunted down and executed.’
Bernardino shook his head. Now the scene in front of him ran red with blood, the legion of martyrs lying dead on the field of battle. ‘What a waste.’
‘Why a waste?’ asked Sister Bianca gently. ‘They believed in something enough to die for it. You may think you believe in nothing,’ she looked him full in the eye. ‘But everyone believes in something. Don’t you, Signore, believe in something, or someone, enough to die for it?’
Bernardino was silenced for a moment, for there was one to whom he would give his life in a heartbeat. Yet he persisted. ‘What good has come from such a sacrifice?’
The Abbess waved her ringed hand. ‘This foundation is built in his name and will give succour to many of the poor and needy in Milan. And not just this foundation, but many are built to honour the Saint. Our patron feels as I do, that it is a story of hope. Hope and faith do not die, and nor does love. A church was built on Maurice’s grave. Here, Signor Bentivoglio is doing the same.’
‘You seem to know his mind very well.’
‘I should. For when I lived in the world, before God named me Sister Bianca, my name was Alessandra Sforza Bentivoglio. Our Patron is my father.’
Bernardino turned away in shock and confusion. Little wonder the Abbess reminded him of Anselmo – she was the priest’s natural sister! Did she know that such a brother existed? Had her father told this unworldly woman of his sins?
Sister Bianca saw him turn, and made her own interpretation. ‘You wish to work. I’ll leave you now.’
Bernardino turned back, to reassure her that he did not wish her gone, but she had disappeared back to the nuns’ side of the monastery. He climbed down from his perch and looked at the wall where he had witnessed the scenes that she and her brother described. The blood was gone, the dead legionaries gone. ‘Love does not die,’ he said to himself. ‘No indeed, Simonetta.’ (He did not know that a good man of a different faith, had spoken the same words to Simonetta; not in a chapel, but in a grove of almonds.) As he watched, the green grass grew and a city was built before his eyes. Saint Maurice, young strong and alive again, founded his church on the bones of the sixty-six hundred. Hope sprung from the ground. Furiously, before the image faded, Bernardino began to draw.
CHAPTER 25
The Still
‘What will you do now?’
Simonetta and Manodorata sat on the floor of the treasure cellar. It was not a comfortable place; cold, with remnants of almond shells scattering the floor, but Manodorata had seemed to wish for privacy. He had sat down first, cross-legged like a moor, and she, clad again in Lorenzo’s clothes had copied him, and found the posture surprisingly comfortable. Simonetta sighed. ‘I do not know.’
Manodorata looked down. ‘This artist man. Luini. He has gone.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Simonetta spoke forcefully, to keep her voice from cracking. ‘Yes. He has gone.’
Manodorata nodded sagely. She felt no need to explain herself to him, nor to ask how he knew what had passed in a church that was not his own. She knew he would not judge her. He had said she would fall in love again and he had been right. He had not said it would hurt more than the first time. His grey eyes, so like another’s and yet not so, held a world of sympathy and understanding. He began to speak. ‘It is well he has gone. The Cardinal is a vengeful man. His thirst for revenge knows no bounds. He hates and he waits.’
Simonetta drew her cape about her, feeling the threat like a draught. ‘You know of this man?’
Manodorata let out a breath in defeat, like the wind’s end when the sail dr
ops. ‘I do. For it was he that took my hand from me.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘there is a time to tell every tale and the time for this one is now. You shall know how it went with me.’ He picked a rotten almond from the floor and peeled it, one handed, as he spoke. ‘In Toledo, three years past, Gabriel Solis de Gonzales was a Cardinal in the employ of a new institution called the Holy Office.’
Simonetta looked blank.
‘It has another name. The Inquisition.’
Did she imagine it, or did Manodorata lower his voice as he uttered the word of terror? ‘Toledo was my home. I was a banker, a moneylender of good repute. I had lately married Rebecca and Elijah and Jovaphet were babies.’ He smiled at the memory, but the smile soon faded. ‘We loved each other greatly, but the world began to hate us. We were forced to live in a Juderia, a place the Venetians would call a ghetto.’
Like Jews’ Street in Saronno, thought Simonetta.
‘But this was not enough. Under the new influence of the Inquisition I was forced to convert to Christianity, or leave the country.’
Simonetta gasped – she could not imagine what he had suffered to be brought to such a pass. Manodorata reacted defensively to her exclamation. ‘Yes, it is not something of which I am proud. It was for show only, and at home we carried on our religious observances in secret. But I wanted to protect my family and my home.’
Simonetta reached out in the gloom and laid a hand upon his arm. ‘You mistake me,’ she said. ‘I do not judge you, only those that forced you to do such a thing.’
He nodded, and went on. ‘They made us give the boys Christian names and we chose Evangelista for Elijah and Giovan Pietro for Jovaphet, as they at least sounded close to the boys’ own. We attempted to live as Christians for the outside world, yet we were still derided. They called us Mar ranos. Pigs.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, the Inquisition were not satisfied. I was arrested and questioned by the very man that seeks your love, Gabriel Solis de Gonzales himself, who had found good odour with the Holy Office by holding the hardest line he could against my people.’
Now it was Simonetta’s turn to shake her head. What evil chance had brought the Cardinal here, right into the path of one he had already damaged so much? She had little time to contemplate on the littleness of the globe, as Manodorata’s exotic accents came again, like the tide bringing ill news.
‘I was asked to denounce others of my race, other Con versos who had accepted the Christian faith as a mask for their Judaism. And here, I reached the end of the road. I had given away much of my own person, and my own dignity for the sake of my family. I had abrogated my faith and my place in Abraham’s bosom. But all this I did on my own account. It was not my right to make that decision for others. I looked him in his pale Devil’s eyes and told him: this, I would not do.’ He paused before delivering the blow; lopping off each word abruptly. ‘They took my hand from me.’
Simonetta did not breathe.
‘I remember the stench of my own hand burning as Gonzales’s eyes shone brighter than the flames that took it. They let me go when they knew I would not tell them. One night my friend Abiathar came to me and warned me that the Cardinal sought my life. He had only released me so that I may lead him to other prominent Jews. The next day we sailed for Genoa. When we came to these shores I had the Florentines make me a hand of gold as an act of defiance. We settled here, in this quiet place, for here we hoped we might find tolerance. And we did.’
Simonetta was astonished. ‘You call what you experience here tolerance? And what I myself…’ her voice tailed away.
Manodorata smiled a thin smile. ‘Words? Insults? The spittle of ignorant men? Such things do not really hurt. For my kind, tolerance is a day without a broken bone. A day when you come home and your house is not aflame. A day when your property is not stolen, and your children and womenfolk left to walk in peace, undefiled. These are the days we have lived in Saronno. Until this day, when ill wind blew this Cardinal into my path again.’
Simonetta drew her brows together. ‘What do you mean? Is he still here?’
Manodorata laughed shortly. ‘Not he. He will return to his palace in Milan, to his comforts and luxury, but he has left his miasma behind him. In his search for your friend he has found our houses and our businesses, and seen the Jew living and working in his See. He will not let us lie here long.’
Simonetta was silent. They were both outcasts now, for as she had run blindly from the church last week the citizens had jeered her and one or two had spat in her path. She had never fully understood before what Manodorata endured every day, until now.
Manodorata broke into her reverie. ‘So, I have come to say this. If you decide to stay here, we must move swiftly to secure your fate. For I may not be able to help you for long.’
‘Do you…you don’t mean Gonzales will seek to harm you?’
Manodorata meant exactly that, but sought to reassure Simonetta. ‘Of course not. He does not know that I live here. I meant only that he may seek the property of my kind, or prevent us from trading. So,’ his voice took on a businesslike bent. ‘Our conversation has sailed full circle. Will you stay here?’
Simonetta stared, as if mesmerised, at the almond in Manodorata’s hand. It represented Lorenzo’s family and her own, and all that was here at Villa Castello. ‘Yes,’ she said, and in an echo of what she had told him a year ago. ‘I have nowhere else to go. You of all people know the lengths to which a person will go to secure their home.’
He nodded, understanding. ‘Very well. I will engage a gang of Jewish labourers on the morrow. They will bring axes and we will fell your groves and till the soil for farm land. I know of some good Arabic practices whereby, by rotating your crops from field to field, the soil stays rich from one year to the next.’
She nodded, and he pitched the nut from his hand into the dark and made to get up.
The nut landed with a chink of glass in the dark. The two looked at each other and Simonetta scrambled to her feet. She moved gingerly into the dark corner and emerged holding a strange arrangement of bottles connected by tubes. Manodorata followed her and found a brazier and a copper dish in the gloomy corner.
Simonetta set the thing down with wonder. ‘What can it be?’
Manodorata laughed. ‘It’s a still. Someone has been brewing liquor here.’ He sniffed one of the bottles. ‘Grappa. And here,’ he took a cork from the neck of a clay amphora and moved his head swiftly away as if struck; ‘Brandy.’
‘How does it work?’ Simonetta examined the odd machinery, cold and sticky in her hands.
‘It’s a very ancient art, and one unfamiliar to me. But I think the principles are that you place your fermented juices here.’
‘Juices from what?’
‘You can make liquor from anything. Grappa, that evil brew, is made from grape seeds. You heat them from below, till they condense…become liquid again, here, and pass through this filter here…’
‘How did it come to be here…not Lorenzo…he only had taste for wine.’
Manodorata smiled wryly. ‘I would have asked your squire. He always looked well jug-bitten.’
Simonetta would have smiled too, but the events of last week, and Gregorio’s cruel exposure of her sins was too raw. She took the amphora and made to throw it away. Manodorata held her wrist. ‘I am no medic, Simonetta, but if I were you, I would take this bottle to bed and get yourself a night’s sleep. For you have not slept since mass, if I am not mistook.’
Indeed she had not. She could not rest while she thought of Bernardino, and the manner of his leavetaking. Manodorata took his own leave before she could demur. Alone, she looked at the amphora, shrugged and made to carry it to her chamber. As she turned, the naked almond that Manodorata had peeled and cast away glowed from the dark like a star…she stopped, kneeled and put down the amphora. Then she went into the dark to find the almond, and more of its fellows. For the first time since Sunday Simonetta forgot her aching heart.
She had had
an idea.
CHAPTER 26
A Way with the Wood
Nonna sat in her new fireside chair, rocking on the curved runners, marvelling at comfort that she had never known. The man whom she considered kin to her regarded her with one arm across his waist and the other elbow propped on it, hand to mouth. He had a rough polishing cloth tied round his waist, just as the blue banner had been when they found him. He was regarding his handiwork through narrowed eyes. ‘It goes well?’ he asked.
‘It is wondrous,’ she said and smiled with as many gaps as teeth. It was wondrous indeed. And so were the new beams that he had placed in the low roof, white cedar glowing in the firelight and oozing sticky amber gum. Her doors were new and solid, her casements mended with the draughts banished. He had even built a new loggia in the tiny courtyard where the hens scratched. He was always to be found collecting wood, chopping, planning and shaping, and miracles sprang from his hands with a new found skill which would not have shamed Saint Joseph himself, father to Our Lord and the first of all carpenters. He smiled at last, enjoying the moment with her. She nodded in time with the chair. He was a gift from God.
And now she had to admit what she had never known before. She had always compared him to Filippo, and seen in Selvaggio her son born again. But now she had to acknowledge that he was a far far better man than the son she had lost. Memory now prompted her that when Filippo was at home he either had his boots at the fire, or went gaming with the Romanys that collected under the arches of the Ponte Coperto bridge when the sun went down. He would rather spend time with the gipsies, before their bonfires that the Comune had banned. They had their dice and their sweet wine, their dusky girls and violins, and Filippo would be found there rather than at his mother’s fireside. Her evenings now were a joy to her. She and the two young people would sit before the fire, enjoying the warmth and the company of their close circle.
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