He shook his head and body to reject the cold and the previous night, stumbling forward, before his mind turned to food and water. He looked back to the ground where he had slept and saw that toadstools had grown around him during the night. The spotted red caps stood arranged in the outline of a man’s body as if to mark the scene of a crime.
‘I hope she can feed me’ he said to himself. A dark grey sky hung overhead, and the blush of dawn began to peep in the east. One or two birds sang, but the rest didn’t bother. The Professor then tottered back to the street and looked around. No one, just pastel coloured houses, and a thick mist up the hill. He would have gone further toward the convent of San Matteo, but the stallion’s gallop was too loud. Professor Sloane guessed at a fifteen-minute walk and made his way up the Via San Leonardo. On the way, a cat crossed his path, looked at him, hissed and then ran away. The Professor shrugged, walked on, and then caught sight of his reflection in a cow trough: a phantom stared back. He peeled off the remainder of his disguise, took out a contact lens, and regained another silver-grey eye. The cat had done him a favour. The Professor scooped up some water, closed his eyes, and splashed his palms on his face to revive himself, and then moved at speed up the hill to reach the convent before anyone could see him.
The road to Arcetri lead up steep and narrow. Professor Sloan had surprised himself by how often he had to stop for breath: his body unwilling in the effort. The silent and narrow road, flanked by houses, had gathered the mist like a funnel, and it eddied as his tired body walked through. After longer than expected he emerged at the top of the hill of Arcetri. The sudden opening of the environment left him exposed, so he scurried to the side of a low stone wall, only to be engulfed by the sight of a vast valley cradled by undulating hills.
The Professor forgot his situation, stood still, and became possessed by the view. The silvery mist of the valley hid the trunks of the olive trees that clung like creatures to the hills in the steeper parts. The intensifying blush of dawn began to colour the mist, and Winston saw himself as a boy again - holding his mother’s hand at the Oxford County Fair - as if looking into a valley filled with candy floss. His eyes began to water, and he gripped the wall while ambushed by emotion. His vision blurred, and his nose ran as something below moved in the valley. The Professor had missed the figure of the woman at first, but his eyes began to focus when she sang. A sweet, but deep, voice rang resonant across the valley. The birds stopped singing - as if to listen.
He spied the curves of her as she swept herself in circles, and stirred the pink mist. In one hand she held herbs, in the other a thin rod of iron and a silver mezzaluna. Oblivious to him the woman continued to hum and sing in the mist, and to make graceful swoops down, here and there, to another herb before chanting something to the plant, drawing a circle around it with the iron rod, and then cutting a part of it off with thanks and blessings. The Professor stood transfixed.
With one hand full of herbs and the other with her tools she stood again, then swayed, and swung into another spin when a frond of sunlight broke the horizon and illuminated her body. She then stopped her motion, and turned to face the sun with eyes closed and arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome: her body glowed naked save for a thin mesh of organza, studded with crystals, that she had entwined about her arms and shoulders - she glistened in the light.
Then the woman stopped her singing, unfurled her cloak of crystal in the sun and uttered: ‘I am a Goddess’ and then swept the shining garment about herself, before vanishing into the air with laughter. The Professor then rubbed at his eyes dumbfounded and confused, unsure of what he had just seen yet convinced to his core that the vision had been real. He then considered the toadstools that had grown around him in the night as if they had somehow affected him.
…
Professor Sloane had taken some time before he reached the door of the convent of the Poor Clares of San Matteo. He had walked in a daze after witnessing the vision of the enchanting woman dancing. He shook his head as if to dismiss the woman from his mind. He looked up to the large wooden gates that stood between hefty stone posts that abutted the high walls of the convent. The Professor looked around for a bell or knocker with which to attract attention but was apprehensive to do so. He then spied what looked like a small rectangular hatch lower down to one side of the wooden gates, and considered knocking on it, while the light of day grew brighter around him. His eyes darted about the place - he did not have long before someone would see him. The Professor had hesitated before he reached across to tap his fist on the hatch - when it flew open to reveal the wrinkled face of an old woman. He leapt back and clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a howl escaping,
‘Am I so ugly?’ said the withered face cracking into a smile of very few teeth.
‘No’ came the breathless reply, ‘you just shocked me. I was looking for something to ring or knock.'
‘Did our Mother Superior not give proper instruction?’ said the face with a voice like dry bark shuffled in a timber yard.
‘I followed her instructions’ said the Professor, ‘but as to getting in she wrote nothing.’
‘Is it not the sunrise of the third day, on the tenth month on the day of our Lord?’ said the face.
‘Yes, it is’ he added,
‘Then that is enough, what is the safe-word?’
‘Safe-word?’ he replied, confused.
‘Yes, what is it?’ The Professor looked baffled; there had been no mention of a safe-word in his letter from the Abbess. He looked at the old woman, guessed her deranged, and so he made something up. His mind cast back to the words of the vanishing woman: ‘Aphrodite’ he said. The little eyes in the face lit up, and the lines around them crinkled like filo pastry:
‘Not quite, but good enough. You’re wise’ said the face, ‘you may enter.' The Professor seemed relieved as the door hatch closed and he heard bolts moving. A door within the large wooden gates then opened. The nun looked minuscule, and the slight stoop of her neck put her well under five feet tall. The little nun in her black habit and white shawl stood back to let the Professor in and gave another gappy smile. The Professor had to stoop low, almost to crouching to enter before standing again.
‘You’re tall and broad, young man’ she said, admiring him, as she bolted the door closed behind him and fetched up under her arm the stool on which she stood to open the hatch. The nun fixed him with a look: ‘I was beautiful once you know’ she said, and cackled with a sound like dry wood crackling in a fireplace. The Professor struggled for a word of reply, ‘yes, I know’ she sighed, ‘hard to believe now, but follow me’ she whispered. ‘We’ll have something to help that heal’ she added, gesturing at his blood-stained arm, before she moved at some speed, with a pronounced limp, across an enclosed courtyard of stone and arches.
In the Chapel, the Poor Clares had begun to sing in morning prayer as the man followed behind the nun, and her little feet patted out a rhythm in counterpoint to the sweet high notes of the nuns in Chapel. ‘This way’ the little nun said, pausing her hippity-hop as she lead Winston across the courtyard, under an arch and into a passageway and antechamber. ‘Wait here’ she said, glancing about, halting him with a gesture before clasping his hands in hers, and looking up into his face. Her hands felt like warm tobacco leaves: ‘listen to me. What I say to you now is vital. When you enter the Abbess’ chamber, do not touch anything unless she allows you too. To do otherwise, young man, is dangerous indeed’ she eyed him again, as she felt up his forearms, ‘but you’re healthy and wise' she muttered as she massaged his flesh.
‘How do you know I’m wise?’ said the Professor, trying to wriggle his arms free,
‘By your safe-word’ said the little nun, enjoying her grip on him,
‘But I made it up’ said the Professor,
‘I know’ she replied, ‘but t’was a good one, it will please her, you have already made a good start.'
The little nun released the Professor to open a door, off the antechamber, t
o a hallway lined with stained glass depicting scenes from the Bible: which illuminated the way to a tall black door at the end of the passage in a kaleidoscope of colours.
‘Kneel down’ said the little nun, after checking they were still alone. She clasped the Professor’s hands again, but he resisted her before he obeyed. She then took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead; she smelled of urine and lavender. The Professor coughed. But her little dark eyes twinkled: ‘think before you speak, and all will be well, speak before you think, and things could end badly’ she said, ‘now kiss me’ she added. The Professor’s eyes almost leapt from their sockets.
He tried to move his face, but the little nun had strength. She puckered her shrivelled lips, as she held him fast, and the Professor squinted before closing his eyes. The wrinkled wet kiss was over in an instant, and when he opened his eyes for a moment, he saw a pretty young face looking back at him. He blinked several times, in disbelief, but the face of the nun, which looked like a brown paper bag, had returned: ‘as I said, I was beautiful once.' The little nun let go of him with another crackling chuckle, wished him luck, groped his buttocks while he stood up, and then pushed him down the hallway before scampering off.
The Professor shook his head in disbelief, and tried to rub sleep out of his eyes. ‘Never in my life… groped by… No, I’m hallucinating. It must be the toadstools?' he muttered to himself, 'I must have touched them in the night; it will wear off.' He then ran his hands through his hair to tidy it, before he checked behind him to see that he remained alone. The Professor then approached the ebony door at the end of the colourful passage, which seemed to loom ever larger as he walked toward it. When he reached the door, he studied some of the detailed woodwork that was far from Christian. There were satyrs, animals, centaurs, flowers, and dancing women rendered in exquisite detail around the edges of the pointed arch door. He gave the wood a light touch and the door opened, ajar, and a smell of incense and perfume oozed out of the gap.
The Professor took in a heady breath, readied himself, and entered the warm darkness before the door closed behind him.
…
Antonio followed Marco’s map, but it had taken time before they were in the intertwining streets that surrounded the Palazzo Pitti. Activity had begun to increase in the walkways. Market sellers had loaded their produce onto wooden carts: one man's cart loaded with cabbages and onions, another piled his with squash and courgettes, yet another loaded his cart with bottles of olive oil wrapped in straw and stuffed into boxes.
Antonio rode on and looked for a place where he could tether the horses on a side street without drawing too much attention, while a robust woman, with a ruddy face, crossed the road holding a large wicker basket filled with mushrooms she had picked before dawn - her fingernails still dark with soil. The noise and jabber of the public increased as people started their day, and made their way about amongst the jangle of goat bells, donkey brays, and the smell, muck, and fuss of everyday life.
Antonio’s fear began to increase as more people mingled in the streets. He looked from his vantage point, above the increasing populous, trying to detect looks of suspicion, and he listened to the banter of people as they passed by to hear if anyone spoke of last night’s events. Lawyers walked with their apprentices before serving the needs of their clients; prosperous wives walked with their retinue of relatives, maids, and children on the way to buy produce in the Mercato Centrale. The farmers moved their livestock along the streets which added sounds of honking geese and grunting pigs to the increasing noise of the alleyways as the day progressed. No one seemed to have much interest in Antonio, or the carriage, as he turned off the Borgo Tegolaio into the side street of Via D. Petti.
Antonio, once satisfied they had not attracted attention, brought the horses to a stop, climbed down, and then tethered them to a wooden railing next to a trough. The animals drank as Antonio made a short walk to a man selling hay bags at the alleyway, and bought one each for the horses. Antonio could see the looks of Illawara and Hermes, turning their heads this way and that, scanning the crowds, as they watched him attach the nag bags to the muzzles of the hungry horses. Antonio then entered the carriage and closed the door behind him: ‘the horses were hungry, they needed feeding’ he said to the pair who shifted themselves in their seats, ‘I could be wrong, but for now at least it seems no one is looking for us.’
‘I doubt that’ said Hermes, as he looked out of the window again and inspected people as they passed by the carriage.
‘Yes, you’re probably right' said Antonio, 'but it seems the alarm may not have been raised fully for fear of a scandal. Orsini could embarrass the church and compromise his position if the Pope finds out.'
‘The Pope?’ said Illawara: wide eyed,
‘Well, yes’ Antonio continued, ‘you told my friend, that Orsini’s a Prince of The Church, even if he was he still has to answer to his master: The Pope.’ Antonio gave Illawara a look as if she were an imbecile.
‘Oh, of course, how silly of me...’ she added before she looked out of the carriage window and saw the beggar woman with her listless baby again as they swayed through the streets. Illawara cringed and bit her lip, as she clasped her hands on the Professor’s dark leather-bound suitcase. Antonio studied her face with a look of questioning before continuing.
‘Alright, the day is getting on’ said Antonio as if to rouse Illawara and Hermes from their mood, ‘once we find Riccolo we’ll be safe for a while. We’ll try his safe-house first on foot, though I can guess where he may be. Then we’ll try the other places. But maybe, with time, your father will come to us for that case you’re holding.’ Antonio made a gesture in Illawara’s direction, but she shrank back and tightened her grip. Antonio then paused before he turned his attention to the youth: ‘Hermes I need you to come with me to find Riccolo in the taverns - or the other place – if he’s not at the safe-house.’ The youth hesitated and looked at Illawara, ‘naturally, Illawara will not be able to attend: it’s not proper for a woman of Illawara’s rank to be seen entering such places’ Hermes blinked a few times, before remembering what Marco had mentioned at breakfast. Illawara shrugged somewhat.
‘Will you be ok to stay here, Illy?’ said Hermes,
‘I suppose so’ said Illawara who continued to study the beggar woman, and the other paupers that made a return procession down the street asking for alms.
‘It’s not ideal, but it should do for now’ Antonio continued, ‘we won’t be gone for long as there are only a few taverns to check in this area, and Il L’azzoro Madonna is the only brothel this side of the Arno.’ Hermes felt a stir of excitement rise in the pit of his stomach - which surprised him,
‘Are you sure you’ll be ok, Illy?’
‘Yes, I’ll be fine’ came her reply, somewhat distracted. Illawara then ignored the young men and seemed keen for them to leave. Antonio and Hermes then looked at each other before they stepped out of the carriage.
‘Try not to speak to anyone who tries to get your attention, and don’t leave the carriage’ Antonio warned, ‘we won’t be long.’ Illawara nodded and gave a weak smile before they closed the carriage door. After Hermes and Antonio had walked a few steps, the Valet spoke to the youth: ‘what’s in that suitcase that Illawara’s holding?’ Hermes tried to avoid Antonio’s curious gaze, and ignore how his blue eyes caught the light,
‘I’m not sure?’ he said, but Antonio seemed unconvinced. ‘Neither of you is Italian, are you?’ said Antonio, as Hermes avoided his gaze and struggled to find words as they walked on. Illawara watched Hermes and Antonio walk off down the street, as they talked, and sat confident that she would be alone for a while. She then turned her attention to the Professor’s dark suitcase, slid back two brass panels near the handle to reveal the little combination locks hidden underneath. She turned the numbered dials to the correct master combination and sprung the locks open with the press of her thumbs.
The case lay full of bottled tinctures and potions the most of
which she recognised, but there were a few more she did not: she looked on, absorbed, as she inspected the different bottles in the light - and they glowed with their various mixtures. Illawara became so absorbed in her study that she did not notice the figure of a hooded brown robed man, with a pale, drawn, face and a bruised raw cut above his eye, as he peered into the carriage.
Chapter 11
The Bedchamber
Inside the Convent of San Matteo, Arcetri
I t took time for Professor Sloane’s eyes to adjust to the dim light in the Abbess’ chamber, as the door had closed behind him without being touched. He smelled more than he saw as a rich, intoxicating aroma of cinnamon bark: cloves, vanilla, frankincense, and clary sage filled his nostrils, which made him feel blissful and light headed.
A beeswax candle burned in a far corner within an amber glass, which produced a dim orange light. He walked forward careful not to make a noise as he began to see some of the room’s many adornments. A rich tapestry hung along one side of the wall, which depicted Diana, Goddess of the hunt, bathing with her nymphs in a lake, and Actaeon being transformed into a stag as she splashed him with water. Along another wall of the large chamber hung with celestial maps of the zodiac, and diagrams of those signs in relation to the body, a wide selection of Grimoires sat shelved. It struck Winston as odd that an Abbess should own so many magical books, but then he reflected on what he had already seen, and corrected himself.
One of the magical books lay open on a table under the bookshelves. The Professor paused and held his breath in the dim light. He tiptoed forward, inspecting the book closer with his eyes, and confirmed his suspicions: it was an original binding of a Grimoire long thought lost almost four hundred years into the future. He drew closer still, and the hairs stood up on his arms as he saw some of the rare Hebrew symbols depicted on the open pages. He had only known them from referring to other books - books that had taken him years to discover.
The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes Page 16