Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

'We're librarians' lamented one cleric, after heaving another batch of suspect publications onto a table. The printing presses of Venice and Padua produced their words quicker than the Inquisition could read them. Beppe looked at the piled-up publications as if they were dung heaps. The clerics were tired and swamped but often entertained by their reading and some more than tempted by the evident delights of the secular world that surrounded them.

  'He's brought shame on himself' declared one of the portly members of the local Inquisition as he leafed through some lewd poetry that caused several pious locals to complain: the pamphlet, left on seats in taverns, defamed a famous courtesan from Venice. 'He’s more worthy of shame than she...' he said, before tossing the pamphlet to his colleague that snatched the paper close to his eyes to inspect the bawdy text.

  Though none of the local Inquisition were fans of Orsini many thought, however, that his down-dressing by the Pope and his - perceived - pilgrimage south were punishment and piety enough for his errors of judgement, so the relegated group had let the Pope’s wishes wither among them: they had more exciting things to pursue.

  Beppe Conti, a peevish prig of a man with narrow shoulders and an eye for detail, had overheard, while in Rome, the accounts of a former member of Orsini’s staff who insisted the Cardinal could not be trusted: Benfico discredited Orsini to anyone who would listen. Learning that the Pope’s request for information on the 'Beauty in Blue' had foundered, and with nothing else better to do, Beppe had taken it upon himself to pursue the case when he heard there were persistent rumours that the mysterious woman had escaped north. His move could win him favour and elevation from the Pope: what else could he do without the advantage of powerful friends and family connections?

  Beppe was a man inclined to follow a hunch.

  'When did accounts of this "Pious Beauty" begin?' said Beppe. Several looks sprang between the local Inquisition as they sat amongst their dubious books. 'Quite some weeks ago, now' said one of the youngest members, a sprightly sixty, 'the Dean cannot keep his mouth closed on the subject - the surplus donations have hastened the most urgent of repairs to the Basilica.'

  Beppe rubbed his chin and put two and two together. He kept his opinions to himself and observed the reluctant pleasure of the ageing team when dragooned by the contents of the written work that titillated and scandalised the public.

  These dusty old fools are too drunk with scandal and tittle-tattle to leave this place and root the facts for themselves thought Beppe, as one of the members tried his best to suppress a laugh, as he read through an anonymous pamphlet that gave hilarious accounts of an old failed affair. Beppe stood to take his leave; his mind made up. He thought it plausible that the mystery woman of Florence had settled in Padua to enjoy the protection of the Republic and sworn enemy of the Pope. To test his theory, Beppe reasoned the most simple plan of observation would be to take himself to San Anthony’s that Sunday, to see the ‘Pious Beauty’ for himself.

  St Anthony’s Basilica, Sunday the 26th of November 1611

  When Sunday arrived, Beppe made his way from local lodgings nearby to attend the service at St Anthony’s: something he thought would be routine and unremarkable. The wind braced his face, sending chills down his neck, and he clung his cloak to his slender frame as he scuttled his way towards the domed Basilica. Beppe had no intention to announce himself to the clerics that ran the hallowed space, suspecting them bias, and remained incognito, as one of the laity, to better observe the woman if and when she arrived. He went to the Basilica early, to be sure of a seat, but found to his shock that the vast space had almost filled to the back pews.

  'It's heaving' Beppe muttered to himself when he saw all the backs of the heads filling the rows. With a surge of adrenalin, the slight-framed priest moved with speed to overtake an elderly man that advanced with slow determination toward what would have been a good vantage point. With a skip, Beppe snatched the place for himself, so he could see the entrance unhindered. The elderly man, cheated and overtaken, made a rude gesture behind Beppe’s back before he then struggled past the eager priest to content himself with a more restricted view.

  More people came to sit in Beppe’ row, the congregation ignored him, as they huddled together, and he had to stand several times to let others down the pew, while the rest of the seating filled up around him. Only in Rome had he seen such a large Basilica so full of people. Beppe's hands began to itch as a sense of anticipation began to build within the Basilica as if some great event were to happen. Beppe shivered when he reminded himself it was the Homily of the Passion of John the Baptist, and he was waiting for an enchanting woman. His pulse increased at the thought. The congregation chatted with one another, like birds in a cornfield, and heads craned backwards as if to catch the sight of something. When nothing of note came, the heads turned back to mutter again with their neighbours, and it seemed to him that the faithful bristled with agitation.

  Beppe swivelled on the polished pew and tried not to look too interested in whoever may have walked in, as he turned from time to time to glance over his shoulder at the large open doors of the Basilica. Then, after some time, just before the clergy of St Anthony’s filed in to start the procession, Beppe saw, arm in arm with another, one of the most spectacular women he had ever seen. The young woman, somewhat taller than most, impressed him first with her rich ornamented clothes. The chatter amongst the congregation peaked when the woman walked in with her mature, and grand, companion, but fell to a hush as both women made their slow glide up the aisle like gilded swans. 'That's her' some in the crowd muttered, 'that's Illawara.'

  Beppe became deaf when he saw her and gave up all pretence of trying not to look as Illawara drew back her lace veil, as a dancer would with sweeping arched arms, to reveal a honeyed complexion, and a spectacular diamond choker about her slender neck. The congregation, including Beppe, took in a collective breath when she showed herself, and she walked forward, her head held high, with not so much as a glance to the side, as the women of the congregation fanned themselves and drank in her presence. The men lent forward and craned their necks to gawp at the pair: forgiven by their envious wives who seemed to eye the women with even more curiosity.

  'She is Salome' Beppe whispered aloud, the words falling from the corners of his astonished mouth. Bianca could not conceal her pride that seemed to glow and shine as much as her dress, as she admired her protege: the very envy of Padua.

  Beppe, a man who had never had a strong passion in his life, broke out into a sweat as he felt a knot of yearning and anguish stir in the pit of his stomach. Unaccustomed to strong feelings, blushing, the priest looked from side to side to see if anyone had noticed. He need not have worried because not a single eye lay upon him. Beppe's breathing became disorganised, and his mind raced as to how he could meet the vision he saw. 'It HAS to be her...' he said to himself, oblivious to anyone that could hear him. All doubt had left his mind. Beppe assumed the praise he heard was exaggerated, outlandish even. He looked away, to close his eyes but Illawara's image remained in the darkness as if he had stared too long at the sun. With one look he understood, and at a stroke reappraised Orsini to remove all blame - and if anything realised, with stark clarity, that Orsini may not have gone south on holy pilgrimage at all: there were other things for him to worship.

  He clutched at his crucifix and muttered the dullest prayer he could think of under his breath before he leant over from where he sat to look up the aisle again. The Deacon had reserved a position of grace and favour at the front of the Basilica for Illawara and Bianca. The procession then carried on as usual, but no one turned to look: drained of all power by what had proceeded it. The service passed without incident. The Congregation listened to John the Baptist's story and Salome's dance for Herod and nodded here and there with recognition as if to suggest they had a Salome of their own in their midst. But much more watched the place where Illawara and Bianca sat and observed their every move and gesture. Most of the people, like Beppe, were in anticipatio
n of the end of the service, given with great passion by Cesario who refrained, this time, from throwing himself on the floor.

  After the service reached its climax, the Inquisitor observed no undignified rush for the door, as he had anticipated. Palpable mutterings and fidgeting ensued when not one person stood up to leave before Illawara and Bianca made their slow progression up the aisle again, with their dresses shimmering like a tapestry of bejewelled stars.

  As Illawara reached the massive doors, she swept her veil over herself again with equal grace to its uncovering, and it seemed to all as if a dark cloud had passed in front of the sun, as she left the Basilica.

  Then the undignified rush began as the congregation, where they could, did their collective best to follow on after both women. The pallbearers leapt into place with collection boxes, as soon as the pair left, and the coffers clinked and rattled as the congregation bustled outside, and rid themselves of coins.

  A bolt of fear and awe struck through Beppe: he had only seen the masses behave like that for a lofty Cardinal or Pope.

  The legate priest sat still for some time as the others on the pew rushed past him, and the old man took some pleasure in knocking the priest’s knee with his stick as he shuffled past, but, to his disappointment, the younger man remained where he sat lost in reflection. ‘His Holiness will not like this one bit’ Beppe whispered to himself, ‘he doesn’t tolerate any rivals to his adoration, let alone a woman.'

  He rubbed his face, trying to ignore the feelings in his stomach, and got up as the Basilica emptied out to make enquiries. Brandishing his Papal letter, he announced himself to the clergy who gave the service and asked as to the identity and location of Illawara. They obliged the Inquisitor, who used the weight of his title, and accepted some chastisement from Beppe for bestowing such grace and favour upon two members of the laity.

  'Please don't act in haste' said Cesario, still mopping sweat from his brow, looking over to his Deacon.

  'Brother Conti, we respect the gravity of your office' said the Deacon, reading the concern on Cesario's face. 'But please be aware that the donations have already paid for the new leading on the roof, and the best sculptor from Padua works on a new marble of Mary as we speak.'

  Beppe fidgeted and rubbed at the side of his face, 'it's to be displayed in the nave' the Deacon added, sweeping his arm to a barren area behind him. Beppe's eyebrows lurched upward.

  'It seems the clergy here are as mercantile as the laity' said Beppe, 'I see that the scruples are slow, but the pockets are fast.'

  Colour rose on the faces of the Deacon and the Priest. A silence ensued.

  'The glory is for The CHURCH, Brother Conti, and the Lord has seen to it that we are amply provided for...' The Deacon said, and Cesario let his words linger in the air unaccompanied until they settled on their guest. Both men stood as a united front. Beppe nodded, conceding within, that they had been prudent to cultivate the opportunity to enhance The Church.

  He listened to the men talk, and the pair unshackled their tongues once confident to do so, and could not exhaust their praise for Illawara's near-miraculous appearance in the Basilica. On they went about saving St Anthony's from the ongoing humiliation of leakage and disrepair: a delicate critique of the Pope's unspoken neglect of the Republic. The Deacon expressed open hope of having the honour of leading her wedding ceremony one day and added that every eligible man not matched with a spouse clamoured after her hand in marriage. Beppe sipped his wine and nibbled on the food the pair had brought him.

  ◆◆◆

  He cringed when the wind whistled outside, but the priest and the Deacon between them furnished Beppe with all he needed to know to form his plan.

  He would act with haste, but haste to learn more about Illawara. He did not share his plan with the gushing pair, but convinced himself, after learning that the congregation spoke of nothing else, that visiting the young woman, disguised as a potential suitor, would be the only sure way to establish the truth of her reported virtuous nature. Her purity, if proved, he reasoned, would neutralise her threat to The Church, and leave the Pope placated – but his reputation enhanced.

  Beppe ran through the weeks in his mind and concluded that Orsini might also be in Padua if he had managed to follow her here. He braced himself against the chilling wind that gusted through him as he left the Basilica: 'it's best for Orsini's soul, at least, that I visit Illawara first in case that he may fall further into disrepute' muttered Beppe. The Inquisitor, never afraid to offer a correction, chastised the pallbearers that shook their weighty coffers with glee: the youths made impervious to the cold by happiness. He scowled at their glowing faces, and the pallbearers dispersed. He checked his moneybag, his allowance to carry out his efforts, and felt its weight. His teeth chattered as he looked up to the November sky before scurrying through the last of the fallen leaves on the way to town.

  When Beppe reached the bustling centre, he asked the locals where to locate the best tailor in the city. He followed the directions given to him and stood across the road from a gleaming shop. It was closed on Sunday, as expected, but Beppe could see a selection of glorious clothes through the gaps in the shutters. Beppe fondled his money bag from The Church as he looked at the gleaming interiors. ‘It takes a flower to attract a butterfly’ Beppe muttered to himself before he clutched his crucifix in his pocket, and turned back to go to his lodgings: he would return on Monday morning.

  Chapter 11

  A View Over the City

  Padua, evening, Monday 27th of November 1611

  Orsini coughed into his hands, still not quite free of the cold that had laid him low in Assisi and delayed his arrival in Padua.

  Padua had become Orsini's home for almost two weeks. He had maintained a low profile by lodging in the grand upper apartments, just off the city centre, of an old ally that Orsini had known since being created Cardinal. The man had become chairman and treasurer of a lucrative wool guild, with several other business interests, and inhabited a fine, if modest, palazzo with a broad roof terrace that gave excellent views over the city centre. The new terrace, an extension to an older one, had a height advantage over the other properties nearby, and often Orsini had used the lofty vantage point in the hopes of seeing Illawara walk past. No joy, his visits were fruitless. The Cardinal had the palazzo to himself most of the time as his friend and ally, Adriano Pozzi, childless and widowed, spent most of his time at his guild or away on business. But Adriano kept a female cook: a broad breasted woman with dark hair, streaked with grey, muscular arms, and a loud laugh.

  The unusual pairing got along while Pozzi took his leave: but Adriano had been thin on the details about his illustrious friend, Orsini, introduced as 'Signore Stallone.' Cook, with one look, suspected Orsini to be a man of quality, and the Cardinal, in turn, hedged that Adriano’s relationship with his cook was more than platonic.

  Orsini ate her food without complaint, although he thought her cuisine not as good as his Roman Chef's: for the Romanesque style seemed alien to her. However, Cook's food did have wholesome flavour and arrived in robust portions: Orsini soon regained some of the strength, and weight, he had lost after his illness and his pilgrimage north via Assisi.

  Cook, an experienced woman who knew how the grass grew, was more than smart enough not to ask probing questions of her mysterious guest - and even less so when she had to let in, on occasion, a thin, sinewy man that seemed the embodiment of death. She always crossed herself and shivered after the man entered - he never ate a crumb she offered - an immediate reason to mistrust a man by her reckoning, although he seemed in desperate need of her lamb stews and dumplings.

  She gawped at how the wisp of a man, all taut skin and jutting bones, had the strength to climb the steep steps that led to the terrace, silent and swift, let alone survive the chilling winds that began to moan up there as winter battled autumn to continue her advance.

  That Monday evening Cook stood crushing capers, olive oil, sea salt, and autumn garlic in a pest
le and mortar to make a marinade that Orsini had insisted upon when knocking came from the parlour door. At first, she did not hear the gentle tapping at the door, as she made enough noise herself with her grinding and swearing.

  ‘Why must he persist in his foreign ways?’ She grumbled to herself, swearing all the more, as she bashed at her ingredients, and only paused when the tapping at the door had become a clamour.

  She caught her breath and clutched at her chest. A trickle of unease slipped down Cook's spine before she wiped the sweat from her brow, turned away from the plucked Guinea fowl, ready to be smothered with the paste and stuffed with sausage meat, to pull back the bolts of the door.

  Oh, Lord she thought, with a wrench in her stomach, when she saw the hollow features and dark circles of a familiar guest.

  ‘Is he in?’ said the sickly man with a rasp.

  ‘Yes’ said Cook as she considered the man’s pale watery eyes, with lower lids that seemed to droop loosened from the eyeball as a ribbon would from a sphere. ‘You don’t look well’ she ventured, as the man brushed past her in the doorway. She crossed herself, as usual, and closed the door which led into a dark passageway and then the street beyond. ‘Can I not offer you anything?’ She said. Cook turned to look at the man before he gave out what half resembled a laugh as he eyed the cavity of the plucked guinea fowl.

  ‘He likes his food’ came the response before he dipped a dirty fingernail into Cook’s marinade and scooped some of the contents into his jutting mouth. The man coughed for a moment, surprised by the power of the mixture, and then rolled it over his tongue. She grimaced. ‘Good’ he said, and then made his way to the stairs.

  ‘You’ll find him on the terrace’ Cook called after the man who slipped up the steps like a shadow. She shuddered as if jabbed with an icicle in the warm kitchen before she threw away the marinade to start her work again.