Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  A chill had run through him when he saw a cloaked figure in the street below that looked up to the window, and raised a hand aloft, slow and steady, that waved a piece of parchment in one hand. The figure had beckoned him to come down. Dondo, his heart racing, had made a sign of acknowledgement, turned, and hurried to straighten his hair and put on his boots. Dondo had then snatched up his key and over-coat. He closed the front door behind him with as little noise as he could, and made his way, calm but with haste, as he threw his coat on, before meeting the cloaked figure in the street.

  Dondo had emerged from the main door entrance and into the shadow that crossed the narrow road, the via Nazario Sauro, as the cloaked figure glided under an arch and into a doorway. Dondo had approached the figure, his breath quickening, which had turned away from him to face the entrance to another residence. The cloaked figure held aloft what looked like a letter in the left hand: ‘This is for Don Antonio’ said the deep husky male voice that Dondo recognised in an instant. Dondo stopped short. ‘Be sure that he gets it: it’s important.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will’ said Dondo after the figure had retreated, yet still stayed turned away, and extend his left arm to the much shorter man. Dondo had hesitated before he moved forward to take the letter. But the hand did not release the parchment as he tugged:

  ‘Is the lady well?’ the voice enquired,

  ‘She’s well.’

  ‘I understand that you see to it that she is cared for.’

  ‘I do’ said Dondo somewhat shamefaced,

  ‘I’m not offended. See to it that Don Antonio gets this letter: it will be of great interest to him, and the lady, but let Don Antonio read the letter first before the lady is told.' Dondo nodded in agreement.

  ‘It shall be done’ he said before the cloaked figure had released the letter into his grasp and swept off down the street - a tall, dark figure with a commanding walk. Dondo had stood still to catch his breath for a while. His eyes shifted over the silent road before he made his way back upstairs, shaken, and back into Bianca’s home.

  Dondo had sat at the kitchen table for a while to ponder the meeting which had left him with no doubt of who he had spoken with in the street. He would suggest to Antonio and Hermes, nodding to himself, that they take coffee in one of the taverns. It would be best to let Antonio read the letter there. He folded the letter of parchment, careful not to crack its waxen seal, and put it in his pocket. Dondo then got on with his chores and waited for everyone to wake up.

  Chapter 2

  The Pilgrims

  Assisi, morning, Saturday, 22nd of October 1611

  Orsini had begun to have a renewed respect for pilgrims as he progressed through the Papal State of Umbria, upward from Rome and the Romagna. He decided to stop that morning in Assisi to pay homage to Saint Francis, and right a personal wrong that he had felt as a Cardinal in not visiting the saint’s famous relics before. Orsini knew many Cardinals that would not give a prune for Saint Frances’ bones, but as he, quite literally, had rubbed shoulders with his fellow pilgrims, although many stank, it seemed to him that some of their devotion had rubbed off on him. Orsini's spirit filled to bursting with reverence as he approached the steep fortified town that rose from the Umbrian hills like a white-capped mountain of stone - a gem of medieval craftsmanship - epic and awe-inspiring. He crossed himself several times as the cliff top Basilica loomed into view.

  His progression to Assisi had been slow over the high ground, and his donkey, Gino, had brayed with moodiness, reluctant to eat and drink, to the point that Orsini felt guilt for separating him from his twin sister. But he thought of Illawara, her danger, and the Inquisition, and dug his heels into Gino’s ribs to spur on the stubborn donkey. Some pilgrims he had met along the way tagged along behind. They were a varied entourage: a short humble Sicilian called Jacopo, wanted to pray over the Saint's relics for his mother who had not left her bed unassisted for years. Manfredo: a Neapolitan, who’s motives Orsini suspected but who said he wanted to pray for his lame brother. The last was a Catholic Frankish man called Wolfgang from Cologne who had not tired of telling him how he had sailed from the Holy Roman Empire, via the Adriatic, to avoid the treacherous Pyrenees mountain passes.

  The Frank was a good-natured man, but spoke without exhaustion, in a monotone: 'Brother, I cannot tell you about what deadly fates can befall a pilgrim in a homage to the almighty' said Wolfgang with a heavy accent. Orsini rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as the Frank droned out yet another of his stories: 'I heard that the bandits wait between the trees of the mountain passes - waiting for the likes of us - to rob us and slit our throats from jaw bone to jaw bone.' Orsini allowed the image of Wolfgang's throat being slit linger in his mind as the Frank carried on. 'I've heard, on good account, that after the scoundrels have taken all that they want they cut up the bodies and feed them to their ferocious dogs.' Jacopo shivered, 'they do it so that the dogs crave the taste of human flesh, and then they can let their starved beasts do their dirty work after they have robbed every coin and gem they can from the pilgrims.' Wolfgang wiped sweat from his chubby face - grown hot from the gory details. The rest of the group nodded, but Orsini ground his teeth. 'I'm also told that if you beg for your life and they take mercy on you, a pilgrim will be ransomed instead to increase their profit: it's a terrible business.' The other pilgrims muttered at the Frank's remarks - Manfredo seemed to take a particular interest in what he said, almost as if ransoming a person could become part of a plan he had not imagined possible before. 'And if they don't get you', he continued, 'one could navigate all those perils only to be smothered by an avalanche when salvation is in sight.' Jacopo and Manfredo tittered at Wolfgang's words, 'that's why I used the sea to get here.'

  Orsini imagined the peaceful silence an avalanche would bring with Wolfgang buried under it, and smiled. The men on the backs of their donkeys and mules joined the steady throng of pilgrims, that came from all directions, as they wound their way up into the steep streets of Assisi to pay homage to St Frances’ dry bones.

  He then listened with keen ears as the pilgrims began to gossip and trade extravagant stories of miracles and Papal excess.

  ‘I heard’ said Jacopo, his eyes wide with hope ‘that Saint Francis cured a man of a clubbed foot when he knelt and prayed and promised that he would walk in pilgrimage to the Holy Land.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that too’ said Wolfgang, ‘I will pray to St Frances to give his Holiness strength against the barbarian infidels’

  ‘His Holiness has no personal umbrage with the Saracens’ said Orsini piqued,

  ‘But he hates Venice, and her wealth gained in trading with them - everyone knows it’ said Manfredo, his thick brows curling, ‘but you speak as if you know his Holiness.' Orsini calmed himself, but tightened his grip on his reigns:

  ‘I don't know the Pope’ he lied, ‘but I know he doesn’t wish to make war with everyone.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard’ said Manfredo, ‘I have it on good authority that if you defy him, he’s not beyond having a man killed. Think of Fra Sarpi: stabbed with a stiletto until he bled like a sieve; only by the grace of God did he survive.'

  ‘Do you accuse the Pope of attempting contract murder?’ said Orsini, raising his voice, who knew well of the event and remembered the Pope's feelings - cursing the Devil when he learned that Sarpi had survived. He paused: ‘that’s an unwise thing to say in Rome.’ Manfredo laughed.

  ‘But we’re not in Rome, and the assassins were never caught, that says enough - we all know who wanted Sarpi dead’ said Manfredo with casual indifference. Orsini held his tongue as the others exchanged stiff laughs with each other, and he fantasised about striking out Manfredo’s brains with a Papal staff, as the conversation moved onto some of the more blatant excesses and extravagances of Popes, Cardinals, and their relatives. He tensed his jaw as the pilgrims passed the time with lurid gossip about what they had heard said in Italy and abroad.

  But even Orsini had to laugh when
Wolfgang revived, in wonky Italian, the old scandal of the Borgia Pope’s “Banquet of the Chestnuts”. Orsini argued that the story of naked courtesans on their knees looking for chestnuts, and with the prizes given for the most virile copulations that followed, was an embellished fabrication. ‘That was over a hundred years ago anyway’ he scoffed. He concealed from the others that the idea had titillated his imagination as a young Cardinal - a compensation, in his mind, for taking official celibacy.

  ‘But what about Scipione? The Pope’s nephew. Do not pretend to be innocent about him’ said Manfredo with a rascal’s laugh. Orsini turned pink.

  ‘Your head is full of idle gossip’ he hissed, ‘I suggest that if you wish your relative to recover you focus your mind on prayers and pure thoughts alone.’

  ‘They say he loves men’ said Jacopo in a timid voice, ‘even my mother says so, and she has not risen from her sick-bed for ten years.’

  ‘Then I suggest she cleans her dirty thoughts, so the Devil cannot keep her there’ declared Orsini, tired of the slurs common folk and Protestants made against The Church. The Pope’s nephew was common knowledge to all, as well as him being one of the richest men in Rome. The pilgrims made eyes and tittered as Jacopo smouldered in his saddle. Orsini, although disguised, spoke with such authority that Jacopo had to endure the insult to his mother.

  As the pilgrims passed the grand Basilica of San Francis, on the upward slope, the tone became more respectful and pious, and the pilgrims exchanged the merits of devotional books: one gave most praise to The Spiritual ABC, another gave more to The Prayer of the Heart Made Easy. Orsini let his mind wander, and saw Illawara dancing in his mind's eye. The other pilgrims bickered between themselves, while he remembered what Manfredo had said about Pope Paul V: the man was right. The Pope was dangerous.

  Padua, the streets, Saturday 22nd, mid-morning

  Dondo walked at a high pace but without his usual ease as he led Antonio and Hermes off via Nazario Sauro, and along Piazza dei Signori toward the bustling fruit market. ‘Does he usually walk this fast?’ said Hermes, as he struggled to keep up with the mature man who’s short, stout legs did not seem capable of such speed.

  ‘I’ve never seen him so brisk as this’ said Antonio as he too had to increase his pace to keep up.

  ‘Come along youths’ said Dondo with the sweep of an arm, ‘it’s important we get a seat at the tavern.' The two men followed the handyman on as he made his way, with swift efficiency, through the bustling crowds that had come to haggle their way to a bargain over the best of autumn’s fruit. Dondo waited for the youths to catch up as both spied some attractive apples and pears being sold by a leather-faced man, with a three-toothed smile, which beckoned to entice them with his rosy produce. ‘C’mon young bucks’ he said with a more vigorous gesture, ’I’ve some important news to share with you.' The pair hurried up to his side, and he continued at even greater pace through the waggons, fruit stalls, and loud rummaging masses that groped and sniffed their way through seasonal fruit that came from Italy, Spain, and the Far East.

  Dondo, at last, came to a halt next to a coffee shop, annexed to a tavern in a side street, called Sultan’s Joy. The letters were painted on a swing board above the door in gold leaf, which depicted a steaming cup and a turban, and was owned and run by two Jewish men that pretended to be Ottoman Turks. The liberal Paduans knew the conceit, enjoyed it and came for the rich dark coffee anyway. They also went for the conversation, the delicious baklava - the best in Padua - and the dried fruits that they filled with pistachio cream and drizzled with honey. The medium sized premises that could seat twenty-five, at a push, had begun to fill already with students, professors, poets, and musicians, and all the other walks of life that were not shy of Middle Eastern fare.

  Dondo approached the pair of shop owners, self-titled Harun al-Rashid and Ali-Baba. The pair had crowned themselves with outlandish turbans, as they often did, that would have drawn ridicule from any Muslim found east of Cyprus. Dondo spoke in a soft voice to the colourful impostors, and Ali-Baba took the three men to seat them at the back of the premises where the men could enjoy relative privacy as more customers arrived.

  ‘These men look ridiculous’ whispered Hermes after Ali-Baba had moved off when the men had sat down and were handed a menu of the sweet and savoury snacks on offer - Hermes struggled to read the Italian. Hermes shifted his eyes to be sure they were out of earshot: ‘those turbans they’re wearing are HUGE, are they stuffed with hay? They’re like cathedral domes: I'm sure no Turkish man looks like that.' Antonio laughed, but Dondo remained serious.

  ‘I think that’s the point' said Dondo, 'those that know better understand the joke, and those that don’t enjoy what they see: it adds to the atmosphere. That one’ he said with a discreet gesture to “Harun al-Rashid” who had light tan skin and a thick dark beard, ‘is from Lebanon. And this one’ Dondo gestured this time to “Ali-Baba, obvious to all as Italian, ‘escaped the Ghetto in Venice.' Dondo lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘they’re both Jewish. But don’t say that too loud.' Hermes pondered what Dondo said, and thought it odd that the two men became accepted as absurd interpretations of a Muslim culture that many were suspicious of, but had to be cautious about others knowing they were Jewish. Hermes crossed his arms and tutted to himself. Harun al-Rashid arrived at the table jangling with small bells attached to his pointed silk slippers and wore a mixture of embellished vestments of Catholic clergy combined with coloured fabrics, to give the impression of a regal Sultan.

  He brought an ornate tray over to the table and laid down three small cups of polished brass, and poured hot dark unfiltered coffee, from a pendulous pot with a wooden handle, into the cups: the strong, heady aroma of coffee filled the air. Images of the Professor sipping his morning coffee leapt into Hermes’ mind. He shook his head to forget about home.

  Dondo perused Hermes' menu before he gave it back to the turbaned man, and uttered something in his ear that neither Hermes or Antonio could hear. When Harun al-Rashid had left Dondo raised his coffee cup as if ready to toast, Hermes and Antonio, both unsure, did the same. The older man coughed. ‘A coffeehouse is a place of knowledge, and where men can share their minds with others' he said before he took a sip of hot coffee and lowered his cup, and the young men did the same. He then fell silent after his toast but fidgeted in his chair. He chewed his lip and scanned the room from side to side:

  ‘You said you have some news to share’ said Antonio, after Dondo rested his hand over his pocket.

  ‘Indeed, I do’ he said with an unsteady voice, and pulled himself closer to the small table they sat at until his stomach pressed on the side. He pulled the folded letter of parchment from his pocket, and Antonio and Hermes exchanged puzzled glances with each other. ‘I received this letter this morning: everyone was asleep.' Dondo surveyed the room again, and gave the letter to Antonio, ‘I was told that you’re to read this before your mother, as it contains information important to the both of you.' Antonio’s face became blank, but then his brows creased into a frown.

  ‘Who gave you this letter?’ said Antonio.

  The older man coughed again, ‘I’ve no idea’ he lied, ‘he wore a disguise.' Hermes raised his hand to his mouth and looked at Antonio as he twisted the letter in his hands.

  ‘So, it’s a man, and he knows us, but we don’t know him’ Dondo nodded,

  ‘It seems so’ he coughed again and began to blush. The older man took a sip of his coffee and rocked back to allow the extravagant Ali-Baba to put a small plate of shiny stuffed dried fruits on the table. Antonio ignored an exotic waft of scent as Ali-Baba strode off, and broke the wax seal with crack as oblivious thinkers, gathered in the coffee house, talked with intensity about Galileo’s telescope, its revelations of the spheres, and what that meant for Aristotelian thought.

  Hermes watched Antonio’s eyes run over the letter, written in a delicate hand, and saw the shock that started to emerge from his face: ‘it’s my uncle’ he said after a moment, �
��he’s imprisoned. They've thrown him into the debtor's dungeon in the Palace of the Doge.' Antonio sighed, tipped his head up, and rocked back in his chair before he sat forward again, ‘Mother will be beside herself when she finds out: He’s her last brother. It must be terrible in there.'

  Antonio rubbed his forehead. Dondo reached up to squeeze Antonio’s shoulder as the young man absorbed the news. He looked dumbstruck. Hermes resisted an urge to fling his arms around him and contented himself by grasping Antonio’s elbow instead.

  ‘This is not good’ he continued, his voice shaking, ‘we don’t have the money to pay his debts, and they must be large for him to be in prison.’

  ‘Does the letter say anything else?’ said Dondo before Antonio continued reading. ‘Yes, it does' he paused while he read, 'it says that I’m to ask for Giuseppe Monticello, Noon, Monday at the Golden Phoenix in Venice - the name seems familiar to me.' Antonio looked off, 'I think I know the place, it's a tavern off the Rialto.' Dondo had not heard the full name written in the letter for years, a name that did not usually provoke a positive response.

  ‘That’s the day after tomorrow’ said Hermes with a look of panic, ‘that’s quite short notice.’

  ‘It’s still a day’s journey, but you’ll have to go tomorrow after Mass: you know how pious your mother is’ said Dondo.

  ‘She’ll not take this well at all. You know what she’s like’ said Antonio,

  ‘I must come with you’ said Hermes who then gripped Antonio’s forearm.

  ‘But what about Illawara?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Dondo and Bianca will look after her. You don’t know who this man is. He could mean you harm: what if he wants a ransom or a bribe?’

  ‘He has a point’ said Dondo, who could see the desperation in Hermes' face and adjusted his words accordingly, ‘Hermes must accompany you to be a witness should all not go well, and I’ll look after the women.' Antonio hesitated, but took a glance at Hermes’ brown eyes that looked into his face like a dog whose master faced great danger.