The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘Welcome to my home’ he said to Hermes and Illawara, before sweeping his arm toward the residence. The pair took their time to get out the carriage, while Illawara clutched onto to her satchel and the carry case. The pair stood still and looked up at the residence as if just marooned by a shipwreck upon a desolate island.

  Antonio had bitten his lip before he closed the carriage door behind them while they both stood in the street. He then spoke to the pair in a lowered voice: ‘look’ he said, ‘I know this is no Medici palace, but it’s the best that I can do for now.' He moved closer to whisper to the pair, 'we may live here in exile, but at least here we’re protected by the Republic… the Pope’s power and his Cardinals are limited here - especially after the Interdict.’ Antonio tried to sound upbeat as Illawara and Hermes nodded their acknowledgement, ‘I know it’s not much, yes, but I'm grateful’ he added before he glanced at the dilapidated door of the residence. Antonio then clenched his fist and held it aloft as he spoke: ‘one day I’ll regain my birth right, and see my noble mother and family name restored to their rightful place.’ The pair flinched but then nodded before Illawara cast her eyes about the street and its shadows.

  Hermes took a keen interest in Antonio’s words, but Illawara looked down at herself and then up at the walls of the residence and struggled to tell the difference between herself and the building. Antonio bid the pair to wait outside before they entered. He untethered the horses and then leapt up in two powerful strides to his driver’s seat, and turned the carriage to drive the horses off to a nearby inn to rest. The pair looked on as he drove away.

  ‘This wasn’t in the plan, was it?’ said Hermes, empty-faced.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry’ Illawara breathed, before looking down again at her stained dress, ‘things have got out of hand. They’ll be a solution to this. But let’s just lay low for a while.' Illawara raised her luggage in the air, ‘Dad will need to come to me for his case’ she said, before she pressed the dark item back to her chest, ‘I have to speak to him, and ask him why did what he did.’ Hermes gave a listless smile but shrugged without answering. An argument between a couple in a tenement down the street began, and their baby started crying. Illawara shook her head.

  Antonio returned, after a while, and tried to ignore the flat expressions of Hermes and Illawara: ‘OK, let’s go in’ he said, and fetched a key from his pocket. They passed through the main door into a passageway that lead to flights of stairs, and beyond to a small square courtyard with light even dimmer than outside. Antonio gave the pair a brief tour of cracked plant pots that contained dead bushes, or things that had gone to seed amongst the debris and bird droppings. The half-dried corpse of a pigeon, with its withered entrails and ribs exposed, lay half eaten behind a plant pot amongst its plucked feathers which lay strewn, and undisturbed, around the courtyard. Stray bits of rubbish and other detritus mingled with dirt and moss in the corners. Some colour rose on Antonio’s face, regretting giving his new guests a tour before he directed the pair up creaking wooden stairs, which reeked of damp that leeched out of the walls of the stairwell. Illawara ascended without touching the gnarled bannister, knifed with inscriptions, and Hermes walked on with his arms crossed behind his back. The troupe had arrived at the top floor before Antonio ushered them to a door of peeling red paint that had faded to pink in places. He stopped in front of the door to brief them in lowered tones:

  ‘OK, we’re here’ he said, ‘Mother isn’t expecting us, there was no time to send word, as you both can imagine.' Antonio then stepped forward to take hold of each of his guest’s hands, ‘but she’s a good woman, really… a very kind woman.’ The pair had exchanged glances before they considered Antonio’s eyes that moistened as he frowned. He squeezed their palms. Hermes and Illawara looked to each other once more, then back to Antonio and nodded: both softened in their way.

  Antonio then turned to face the door, tidied himself and fussed at his hair before he gave three loud taps on the door. After a while, footsteps could be heard approaching, and Hermes and Illawara both took in breaths when the door creaked open. A mature woman with the same complexion and eyes as Antonio, creaked her door open and yelled with surprise. ‘Nino, my darling’ she exclaimed, ‘my dearest son. What a surprise’ she said as she flung her arms wide. Her hair was grey and unkempt, her forehead plucked high, and she wore a tired dress long faded from glory. Antonio stepped into her embrace. She hugged him before she held her son’s face and covered it with kisses.

  Hermes smiled and turned to Illawara who stood like marble - as if seeing something strange - and looked on with a lax mouth and wide eyes at the hugging pair. Antonio did not resist his mother’s embrace and let her finish petting him before he prodded at her, and stroked her hair: ‘you’ve lost weight, Mama’ he said squeezing her arm with concern. She removed her arm from her son’s hand, ‘and why didn’t you write back to me? I was worried - and you've had to answer the door yourself. Where’s Dondo and Grizelda?’ he asked. His mother ruffled at his comments as a bird does when it feels cold.

  ‘Don’t scold, Nino’ she said wagging her finger, ‘things are tough, you know how it is with me. Grizelda and Dondo are on leave – they’ll be back next week’

  ‘Both at the same time?’ The woman looked past Antonio’s shoulder, ‘will you be wearing this to evening Mass?’ added Antonio rubbing a piece of his mother’s dress.

  ‘Who’s this?’ She said first looking at Illawara and then at Hermes.

  ‘They’re my friends; Mama’ said Antonio before gesturing to each of his guests in turn. ‘I’ll introduce you: this is my mother Bianca' the pair nodded, 'and, Mama, this is Hermes’ the youth gave a small bow, ‘and this is Illawara’ who did the same.

  Bianca gave a curious smile as she eyed up the pair: ‘a foreign student and a town girl?’ She said, ‘who wears expensive blue shoes’ Illawara blanched at the comment before looking down at her glittering chopines. Bianca looked again at her son, ‘you’re just like our cat my dear, vanishing for months, before returning with something unexpected to my door.’ But Bianca then smiled and prodded her son aside to beckon the pair to her, and welcome her new guests each with a warm hug.

  When Bianca embraced Illawara she had to prize herself free: 'my, my, you're a friendly girl' she said, untangling herself from the hug that lasted much longer than expected. Illawara blushed, surprised at herself, ambushed by her rush of emotions, ‘and what’s that smell?’ said Bianca sniffing the air around Illawara.

  ‘I had to borrow this dress’ she said, casting her eyes down.

  ‘I figured that’ said Bianca, scanning her eyes over the nineteen-year-old, ‘but I can smell something sweet, like fruit.’ A flash of recognition passed over Illawara’s face before she took off her satchel and pulled out the fragrant item. ‘A pineapple!’ Bianca gushed, ‘I’ve not tasted one of those for YEARS.’

  ‘It’s yours’ said Illawara, ‘please accept it as a gift from Hermes and myself.’

  ‘Thank you. What a generous girl you are’ Bianca said, before she clutched the fruit in her hands, closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep sniff, ‘mmmh, delicious’ she sighed, before plucking out a leaf at the core. ‘It’s very ripe. What a blessing. We’ll eat it after evening Mass, before its past its best.’ Grinning from ear to ear Bianca stepped aside to welcome in her new guests and son. As they all entered Bianca’s home, Illawara realised, to the fullest, in her young life how much she had never felt the love of a mother.

  …

  Rome, morning, Sunday 16th of October 1611

  After eleven days of undignified travel Orsini came down toward the Holy City from the north, smiling, on his southward progression from Florence, as if delivered from Purgatory. When the outskirts of Rome drew near the Cardinal’s aching body eased somewhat, and it took most of his self-control not to yell for joy as Rome’s hills and monuments came into view.

  When his carriage and waggons reached the centre of town, he slid down the window of his
door to let in the noise and clamour of the Holy City. Church bells rang out in jangling sounds for Mass – the Pontiff would be addressing the faithful St Peter’s. The Cardinal sniffed at the familiar, but damp, south Auster wind that blew in his face. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs, ‘Civilisation at last’ he muttered to himself, as his coaches processed along the Via Del Corso toward the Capitoline Hill.

  The Cardinal looked upon the ragged splendour of the littered ruins as his Roman blood surged with confidence. He glared at the carriage loads of tourists and pilgrims that came to admire the Holy City, hear the Pope, and receive the Sacraments. Their number seemed to increase year on year. The newcomers were greeted by vagrants on the streets with enough talent to dash out generic watercolours of the famous ruins, and peddle their wares to gullible visitors eager to take any memento of their travels home. His coaches made slow progress through the crowds.

  A soup of people composed of clergy, artists, mystics, poets, tourists, gentry, laity, vagabonds, fraudsters, merchants, prostitutes and all those in between wandered the streets still immune from the chills that began to grip the northern cities. Some local people begged for alms, others gossiped, some came to preen. But some, with discretion, came to sell knickknacks, trinkets, paninis, fruit, or cheap rosaries: although the official markets were closed. Orsini almost smirked: he had arrived back to Rome, the squalid yet splendid Holy City - his capricious and beloved home.

  The Cardinal’s coaches passed along the Capitoline Hill, and Orsini then grinned when he saw, faced opposite, his noble family’s most recent proof of aged esteem: the Palazzo Orsini. The Cardinal gave a sigh of relief as his coaches reached the side of the dramatic property: with its foundations attached to the remains of the ancient Marcellus Theatre, imagined by Caesar, realised by Augustine, and inspiration for the Coliseum. Orsini bloated with ironic pride when he thought of his family’s imaginative use of the ruin, which predated the Vatican and Christianity itself. ‘Home’ said Orsini, taking in the arched columns of tuff and travertine that curved and buttressed the front of the palace the Orsini had built on top; like a loaf of bricks cradled by the stony spine of a fish.

  He stepped out of his carriage when it came to a halt before his people could fuss, and cast his eyes upon the tiny island of Isola Tiberina which stood, proud, amid the polluted river Tiber, filled with all sorts, that flowed past the Vatican and the Castel Sant’Angelo. Standing in the sunshine, the Cardinal filled his nostrils with a deep breath of the fetid air, which no longer reeked, but smelled then like a perfume to him. The Cardinal strode ahead as he gave his instructions to his carriage staff, as they carried in his luggage, and looked forward to resting in his apartments, and perhaps the inner garden before he received a briefing from his advisor on what he could expect from his superior - Pope Paul V.

  Orsini’s greetings to his household received a muted response; several of his most trusted staff could not meet his eye when he addressed them: their uniformed bodies stiff, their smiles painted. The Cardinal did not ponder the reasons for long. Orsini eyeballed his staff from where he stood below: 'tell my advisor that we shall meet for luncheon in the dining room this afternoon after Midday Mass and when I've changed and freshened' he declared, tense jawed, to those that stood overhead and looked down on him from the staircase.

  ‘We’re informed that he’s attended morning Mass already, your Eminence’ said his head of staff, ‘and has already had an audience with his Holiness.’ Orsini swallowed.

  ‘Very well, but luncheon is to happen as I’ve stated. I’ll take evening Mass after I’ve rested. That is all’ said Orsini. Orsini's Chef nodded, and the man beckoned down his deputy, with a snatch of his hand, from above so that they could both get to work. The Chef knew that Orsini could not face the Florence subject on an empty stomach. Within his sumptuous apartments Orsini took a nap. When he awoke Orsini freshened with soap and orange water, powdered, and changed himself into his newest resplendent red robes that he adorned with a Baroque gold crucifix that dangled from an ebony rosary. He then went downstairs, stealing a moment, to see his favourite pets. The two donkeys, twin brother and sister, were tethered in the garden and strained at their ropes to move toward him when he entered.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ He said to the beasts that fussed over his hands and nuzzled him. He could not help smiling as he ruffled their manes and petted them, ‘you’re more loyal to me than my staff’ he whispered to the animals, that competed for his attention before he made his way to the dining room. The Cardinal sat at the dining table and plucked on the fabric at his waist, noting the extra space in his clothes, as he sniffed at the air ravenous, watching the door, with his spoon clutched aloft, before it opened. Orsini had heard a voice before he saw any food.

  ‘He wants to see you in the chapel, your Eminence’ said Orsini’s chief adviser and secretary, Benfico, without greeting him. The short sighted but gifted man, with a bald scalp, thin lips, and even thinner sense of humour lead in the food platters, with his loose-hipped walk, to be sure Orsini paid attention to him. Benfico glided forward within the stuccoed walls, and frescoed ceilings, of the dining room. The expectant smile crashed from the Cardinal’s face at the sight of the short man as he sauntered past before he inhaled and chewed his lip.

  ‘I suspected he’d want to see me there… Will he have the choir?’ said Orsini,

  ‘Of course, he will, you know his style’ said Benfico, who sat himself down with a prim swish of his clerical robes. The man then flashed his eyes over the Cardinal before breaking into a rare smile, ‘you’ve lost weight’ he said. Orsini fidgeted under the admiring gaze,

  ‘The food was bad’ he replied, rubbing at his brow, and making a sign of the cross on himself before saying a hurried prayer to bless the food laid in front of him. Benfico looked on with pursed lips but said nothing. The Cardinal, who had not had a good meal for almost two weeks, attacked his soup like a caveman. Benfico, poised like a debutante, used his silver utensil to cradle the broad bean and ham soup into his mouth. The Cardinal’s spoon clattered through his dish, before he tore off a clump of dark bread from a basket, and used it as a shovel in the butter pad. Orsini then scuffed the bread around his soup bowl, to absorb the dregs, before shoving it into his mouth. Benfico side looked Orsini, as the Cardinal fed himself, before tilting his nose in the air.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how my journey was?’ said the Cardinal between mouthfuls of butter smothered bread, after a brief pause to burp and swallow. Benfico sat, stiff-backed, and sipped kitten like from his spoon, ‘it was awful’ Orsini continued, ‘I swear the inns are getting worse, and the beds wriggle with pestilence. I’m sure they’ve not been this bad since the Sack of Rome’ added the Cardinal, belching, aghast. Benfico raised an eyebrow before answering,

  ‘I’m more interested in what happened in Firenze’ he said in a sweet tone. The Cardinal stopped chewing,

  ‘I’d rather discuss that with his Holiness’ said Orsini, Benfico then leant forward - his head tilted back,

  ‘I suggest that if I’m to advise you correctly, your Eminence, I think it better you share your version of events with me first.’ The Cardinal’s jaw clenched,

  ‘What version have you heard? What have they said to you?’

  ‘I suspect you’d rather not know, your Eminence’ came Benfico’s reply with a tilt of his head, as he focused his myopic eyes on the Cardinal, and gave a delicate dab at the side of his mouth with his napkin. Orsini undid a neck button and cleared his throat before he began.

  ‘They, the crowd, were calling her a witch, but I had the situation under control.'

  ‘Did you? I heard you were nearly run over by her carriage and almost trampled by a mob.’ Orsini huffed and knotted his brows,

  ‘Someone tossed fifty Florins into the air, what else could one expect? They’re poor people; they fought with their lives for the coins, I’ve never seen such acts of desperation - there was less sin at the fall of Babylon.' Benfico arched h
is brow, 'what else could I do?' continued Orsini, raising his palms in the air, 'would you have me jump in to tear up the scrum and have my legs broken?’ Benfico looked on dry faced and unmoved,

  ‘I guess the witch is "the beauty in blue" they speak of?’ said Benfico. Orsini grimaced at the word - witch - used to describe Illawara.

  ‘I doubt she’s a witch, and yes, she wore blue - but it’s irrelevant - it became evident to me that she was in danger. It’s natural that a man defends a woman’s honour - especially a woman of high birth and rank.'

  ‘But you’re not a man; you’re a Prince of the Church, in all but name, your Eminence – I’m doubles the next Pontiff will make it so…’ said the adviser. The Cardinal wrung his napkin into a rope,

  ‘What is this, Benfico? Do you wish to join his Holiness’ Inquisition? I say it wasn’t clear that she was a witch at all’ Orsini motioned at the air with his hands, ‘you should have seen them, they were shaking her carriage and causing her much distress. I had to calm the situation… I had to protect her honour.’ Benfico gave a blank stare,

  ‘How can you be sure she’s a woman of rank, a woman of honour?’ said Benfico. The Cardinal looked confused,

  ‘Because I told you so. What else could she be? You think my eyes don’t work in my head? You must mistake my eyesight for yours.’ The adviser’s face had narrowed before he scratched his fingernail at the table cloth. The Cardinal noted Benfico's response. He listened to the man scuff at the fabric and tried to suppress a smirk. ‘Between you and me' said Orsini, pausing, and narrowing his eyes, 'I think she’s the finest creature I’ve ever seen.' Orsini then licked his spoon clean, as if it was his lover before placing it back in the bowl. Benfico watched Orsini perform, and dabbed at his brow with his napkin as the colour rose to his face. Benfico paused, admiring the spoon for a while, his mind far off, before he coughed, giving a flick of his head as if to try to dismiss the Cardinal’s actions. The Cardinal nodded as some house staff entered and made to clear the starter. The advisor waited for them to leave the room before he continued. He straightened his back yet more and decided to add firmness to his voice.