Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘Illawara, calm yourself’ said Bianca, who quaked all over.

  ‘Shut up!’ spat Illawara, turning her force upon Bianca, ‘HYPOCRIT’ she yelled, ‘as if an actress like you should tell me how to behave.' Beppe clung to a letter, in another pocket, he had received that day, closed with a Papal seal, approving a warrant for Illawara’s arrest should he find evidence of heresy or wrongdoing. He stood and watched her explode. ‘I can’t stay here any longer’ she shouted, ‘I have to get out of this place.’

  ‘Dondo’ Bianca appealed, her arms outstretched for rescue, ‘calm her she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’ But Dondo stayed put, watching Illawara transfixed as if observing the roars of a lioness.

  ‘I DO know what I'm doing’ she screeched, ‘I know my own mind, and I tell you I’m tired of all this HORSE-SHIT.’ Illawara threw her arms around her, and gestured with disgust towards the gifts that occupied every free space of the room, ‘you’ve got what you wanted, and it can all go to hell now for all care.'

  Grizelda stood back and watched Illawara’s white-hot rage as if she had just eased into a scented bath of ass’s milk. It had taken weeks, but her neglect had finally pushed Illawara over the edge. But she and the mistress screamed when one of Bianca’s figurines shattered into splinters close to Beppe’s head. Illawara had thrown the projectile with all her might and stooped to snatch up more. Beppe turned for the door, as Illawara hurled a succession of items, in multitudes with thunderous crashes, and he felt porcelain shrapnel cut the skin of his face and neck. In his panic he struggled with the doorknob, turning it the wrong way. A porcelain fish broke on Beppe's head, and he saw a flash of light behind his eyes as he managed to yank the door open.

  The maid screamed again and ran after him, as he bolted out the door, dodging more of Illawara’s volleys. Illawara struck Beppe on the back of his knee with a brass figurine, collapsing his leg, as he flew into the passageway. He stumbled but did not turn to see the rest; his heart beat like a succession of explosions. Bianca cowered and wept terrified, and Dondo ducked missiles, hurled in all directions, to capture an enraged Illawara in a bear hug. She thrashed about and bawled at him. She screamed at the top of her lungs and blistered the air with her incandescent fury. Illawara bit Dondo hard wherever she could, and dealt the man some mighty blows with her hands to his face, slapping and scratching him. She thumped on his shoulders and punched at his neck and body. Dondo held on. He hugged Illawara with all his strength and endured all punishment: her thrashing, hitting, biting, and screeching until she spent herself. Illawara then broke down, into howling sobs: limp, hungry and exhausted. ‘I don’t belong here’ she wailed, ‘I don’t BELONG here.'

  Grizelda rushed down the stairs after Beppe, who’s heart shook like an earthquake, as his legs swallowed up the stairs in leaps and bounds. ‘WAIT’ she shouted, ‘please, don’t leave me here.' The dazed Inquisitor halted near the bottom of the stairs as Grizelda caught up. She held in her hand the letter from the Pope that had tumbled from his pocket during his escape. She flung her arms about Beppe’s bleeding neck, ‘take me with you’ she said, ‘I can’t live with her any longer. She’s a witch, a witch, a witch I tell you.' Beppe had to sit down upon the lower stair, his breathing ragged, and touched a hand to his neck.

  ‘I’m bleeding’ he said, aghast, ‘she must have caught me in the neck.'

  'Yes, but it's coming mostly from your head' said Grizelda, tearing off part of her apron and holding it to the deep cut to staunch the blood flow. He shook his head.

  ‘In all my life I've never seen such rage; it's as if the woman’s possessed.’

  ‘She is, she is’ implored Grizelda, ‘ever since she came here my life has been a nightmare. She has a pull on everyone in sight, even the Deacon of Saint Anthony's. They’ve all changed. It’s as if she has them enchanted’ she said. ‘But she couldn’t fool me’ she added with gravitas, ‘from the first day I saw her I knew she was wicked’ and her wide mouth shrank into a pucker. He did not answer but tried to stand up and leave. ‘Wait’ Grizelda said again, as he struggled up, before she drew Beppe into the dishevelled courtyard, where the local cats left their kills. She held up the sealed document and shook it in the air ‘this is a Papal letter, I’d recognise that seal anywhere.’

  Beppe clutched at himself with shock before realising he had dropped the document.

  ‘Do you read too?’ he said, but she shook her head.

  ‘You work for the Church, don’t you?’ Beppe nodded as he held the scrap of fabric to his head, with its spreading red patch. Grizelda took off the rest of her apron and dabbed at the bleeding cuts on Beppe's face and neck. ‘Are you a Cardinal? Like the other one that came?’ The Inquisitor felt a chill dash through him.

  Orsini has visited he thought to himself, he then pondered the ramifications should the situation get out of hand. He shook his head at Grizelda, ‘I’m Inquisition’ he said, and she snatched in a breath and covered her mouth. ‘You’re not to breathe a word to anyone’ he said, taking up her hand, ‘not a soul, not even a word’ he said gripping her wrist and staring into her eyes.

  Grizelda held his gaze as if it were her wedding day, and her breathing quickened again.

  ‘Not a breath. I promise.’

  ‘Do you know, for sure, that Illawara is a witch?’ said Beppe. Grizelda nodded.

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment’ she said, and embellished every action of Illawara’s she had observed with as much dark magic and cunning her mind could contrive. She had seen Illawara peer into the Professor’s carry case late at night, and draw forth the unusual glowing bottles, but that had been all that she had seen - but all she needed to condemn her. Beppe squinted and looked on as the maid played her tale out.

  ‘Are you prepared to sign a denunciation against her?’ She nodded her head with eagerness.

  ‘But I don’t know how to write my name’ she said.

  ‘No matter, your thumbprint is enough.'

  Beppe stood to leave, but Grizelda clung to his hand.

  ‘Let me leave with you’ she whispered, her voice desperate, but he hesitated. She searched his face. ‘I can’t read, like her, but I can COOK, CLEAN, and MEND’ she said, holding out her ruddy calloused hands. ‘I’m not beautiful like her, I know, but they say a man of The Church does not need a wife but always needs a cook and someone to look after him.'

  Beppe stood to peer at Grizelda, as her eyes quivered, she seemed to him like an emaciated bird that could no longer abide its cage.

  ‘I can’t promise you anything.' Grizelda looked crestfallen, 'But if you left with me, you'd raise gossip and suspicion. I need time to draught the denunciation and bring formal charges against her.'

  ‘Arrest her NOW’ she pleaded, ‘I’ll sign this paper with my blood if you’ll do it?’

  He motioned for her to calm herself, and he would have had Illawara arrested, and cautioned, for her violent outburst alone were it not for the presence of Orsini: a man best avoided.

  ‘No. We must wait’ he said, navigating the perils in his mind, ‘the charge is serious. I shall get the papers drafted, but it could take some time. Where shall I find you when I need to get in touch?’ Grizelda told him about her usual locations, like the markets, she visits when outside the house, and on which days. Beppe nodded and told her he would find her when the papers were ready. He took back his arrest warrant, granted from the Pope, which gave the man all the mandate he needed. 'May I keep this?' Beppe said of Grizelda's blood-stained apron. The maid nodded.

  Grizelda then wept with frustration on the stairs when Beppe left, and Illawara cried in her room. Dondo and Bianca took stock of the situation, both in shock, as Bianca nursed Dondo’s bruises and injuries. Together they thought it best that Illawara took rest from visiting suitors for a few days.

  ◆◆◆

  The Inquisitor staggered away from the house and dabbed at his wounds. He ignored expressions of concern and worry from the public as he walked. Many thought, seeing h
is tailored clothes, that Beppe had survived a sword fight. He waved people off. He doubted Grizelda’s story, her hatred for Illawara apparent to him, but, in his eyes, a woman raging with such fury against an Inquisitor was an outrage. 'She's better off burned' he hissed. Beppe took out his favourite rosary from his pocket, clutched its crucifix, and imagined Illawara’s blackened carcass being dragged out of the embers before he kissed the body of Christ.

  Chapter 18

  Lodgings

  Venice, morning, Saturday 9th of December 1611

  Professor Sloane awoke in bed, with a headache, and a dry mouth. He had felt rotten for days and had laid off the gambling houses for a while: not feeling up to the task. The merchant's incessant questions about Lucia did not help, as well as John's persistent laments and anger about the unknown person that has assaulted him at the gambling house. John was bedridden for days after the Professor had kicked him with all his might, and seeing the man in pain and hearing his despair grated on his mind.

  Lucia’s generosity to him after her haul at the gambling house proved more than enough to cover his expenses. Winston ate and boarded in style, but he did not feel well. He gave his groin a violent scratch which had been itching him, like a gnawing pest, for some days. Where is Lucia? He thought and tried to steady his swirling head.

  He had had no word from Lucia since she left the gambling den. The Professor began to worry. Winston shook off the feeling and cast the back of his hand to his forehead. It felt hot, but his legs were cold. He swung his feet down to the cool floor and without looking prodded at the tender skin on his groin.

  ‘Hmmm?’ he said, absent-minded looking out the window, and he stood to stretch his arms that felt heavy before he sat down again lightheaded. ‘This is not good’ he said to himself and stood again to find and pull on his stockings. The Professor cried out. For when he looked down at his groin, he saw the beginnings of what seemed like an angry boil.

  A strike of terror bolted through him, which for a moment stopped his heart.

  ‘It’s nothing’ he then told himself aloud, ‘it’s NOTHING.' But his hands shook. He tried to calm his breathing that became short and rapid. He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You’ve just been bitten by something nasty: that’s all’ he muttered, ‘calm down. Don’t panic.' He paced the room and glanced again at the unsightly growth. The Professor tried a meditation technique and imagined himself home - upon his favourite beach: his first serious thoughts of Maui since he arrived. The desire for home surprised him, and a longing for comfort swirled around him like a breeze. He took another deep breath and imagined a blue sea and a white beach till he felt stable. The Professor may have been able to calm his mind, for the moment, as he tugged his clothes on, but his heart beat out of step with him before he paced the room, pulled on his cloak and left.

  Venice lay frigid with cold, as the Professor stepped outside into the street. Frost would have formed in the night were it not for the constant wind. The chill air knifed around Winston's neck and ran down his spine like fingernails upon a chalkboard before he pulled his cloak closer. He shuddered and tried to shake off the sensation, and thoughts that something was wrong with him.

  He tried to focus his mind on food, even though his appetite felt sluggish, and glanced to the leaden skies as if in the hope that Lucia should descend out of them. She's been gone ten days now he thought as he walked the narrow streets of Venice that only served to funnel the gales that blew off the choppy lagoon. On such a day Professor Sloane could not see the romance of the city that stood wan, crumbling, and cold.

  He walked past people, their faces anonymous and stiff, and another figure, slumped in a corner, that had not moved an inch all night from when he had last walked home. The figure, curled and hunched, laid still as the market men blew into their hands and rubbed their fingers. They conversed with one another, through clouds of breath, and gestured at the air with confused resignation. No one noticed the figure except for a thin dog that nuzzled at the person several times, pausing, before it howled. One of the market men threw a blighted cabbage at the dog, hitting it in the ribs. The howl broke off with a yelp. The beast whined with sorrow and seemed to take on a look of shame and regret before it slunk off: turning back, many times, to look again at the body - hard and silent as the paving stones.

  The Professor sleuthed into a corner of the tavern he liked to eat at, glad to leave the cold outside, and waited for service. The tavern worker he had grown friendly with, spied him, took his order, and expressed surprise when he just asked for soup. The Professor feigned a smile to keep his spirits up and tried to ignore the dull ache of his body and the itch of his loins. He did not eat much soup and scooped at his bowl, sat, deaf to all, lost in his thoughts as his heart swam with doom. His movements slowed to stillness, and his face settled into an expression of vacant reflection.

  ‘You look tired’ came a familiar voice next to him. The Professor flinched with surprise,

  ‘It’s you; you’re here at last…’ The Professor could not keep the sound of relief from his voice when he looked at Lucia, and it surprised them both to find it there. He was so lost in his thoughts, did not notice her arrive next to him. She sat and looked at the Professor for a while, but he could not meet her eye. Her clothes were simple, so different to the spangled glory of her triumph ten days ago, but her face shone with life: bland clothes could not dull her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, sensing him. He looked away before he spoke.

  ‘You've caught the sun' he said, noting the golden sheen that had crept into her complexion. Iona flashed into the Professor's mind, but he dismissed her immediately.

  'It was hot there, and I had no shade save for the trees' she said. Lucia observed the Professor struggle with himself but sat still and waited for him to speak again.

  'I need you to look at something’ he said, ‘but not now: later.' She nodded, her brows knitted with inquiry. ‘Do you have the spiders?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucia said, her expression brightening, and laid a broad woven basket, with a flap covering, upon the table that contained the Soul-lanterns and several other knitted objects of long grass: cupped and lidded.

  ‘You didn't put them in the Soul-lanterns then?' She shook her said.

  'They need room to breathe' Winston nodded.

  'What happened to you? What took you so long?’

  ‘Bad weather - at first’ Lucia sighed, she then lowered her voice and scanned the room with her eyes, ‘on the way back I got blown off course. I had to land somewhere safe. It was getting dangerous. So, I stayed with a hill tribe.’ Lucia moved closer, ‘they saw me make my decent from above' she said dropping her hand through the air to mimic her landing on solid land. She then leaned in to whisper, ‘and they kissed the ground I landed on, somehow, after that I knew I'd be fine - we all managed to understand each other.’

  Her eyes glittered, ‘gestures: no words’ she added with a waft of her hand, ‘the tribe’s elders gave me these.’ Lucia then reached into her basket and flashed the Professor what looked, to him, like miniature American-Indian dream catchers. ‘It will help their webs’ she said, ‘give the spiders something to spin onto.' The Professor nodded and contemplated Lucia with an uneasy smile.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘I asked him’ she said with a slight nod in the tavern worker’s direction, ‘he said you liked to eat here, and if I waited you would soon arrive: so I did.'

  ‘You've been watching me for quite a while then?’

  Lucia then fussed at crumbs on the table but did not answer. She then probed the Professor with her eyes and observed his discomfort.

  ‘What is it you want me to see?’ He shifted on the bench and cleared his throat.

  ‘What are you having to eat?’ he said, forcing a smile.

  ‘I’ve eaten already’ answered Lucia, with concern. She reached out to hold his wrist. The Professor almost pulled away, but she held on. ‘What is it?’ The Professor clos
ed his eyes as the heat rose to his face. ‘Can you show me here?’ The Professor shook his head. ‘Shall we leave then?’ He nodded. Winston paid for his half-eaten meal, and the pair left for his tavern.

  ◆◆◆

  Shaking from head to foot, his face hot with shame, he stood in front of Lucia in his room and dropped his stockings. Lucia peered forward and then leapt back. She covered her mouth and shook her head with a look of foreboding. She searched within herself for words, but her expression said all. She cleared her throat before she delivered her prognosis.

  ‘You have the Pox.’ Winston put his head in his hands, ‘you have the French disease. I’ve seen it a hundred times.' He wanted to howl like the dog at the market.

  ‘This could kill me’ he said, his voice chopping. Lucia gave a pensive expression.

  ‘Some survive, but more is to come, and this is not the worst of it’ she shook her head, ‘those boils will spread, and, and… I don’t want to say the rest.' The Professor flapped his arms and ran his fingers through his hair. She looked at him with genuine pity before she spoke again. ‘Did you lay with Puttana Errante?’ said Lucia. The Professor looked confused, ‘the low women: the streetwalkers.' He shook his head with vigour when he remembered the garish and macabre faces of the wandering street prostitutes that he avoided. ‘Then who?’ she said, quizzical, ‘one of the merchant sailors?’