That was my difficulty with this slave Sandro. The ill-made creature had been a wedding gift to Dorotea from La Nonna — and a very generous gift it had seemed, since male slaves were, at that time, going for ten ducats or more. But his handicap, added to the slowness of his brain, made him unfit for service in the house. Thus he became a stable hand by default. From my first afternoon in the stable, I felt his eyes on me as I worked over the horse. Yet, when I turned to catch him out at spying, I could not know for certain if it was at me he was staring so fixedly or some object on the other side of the yard.
Wednesday dawned a crisp, brilliant February day, not the best day to sneak about undetected. For that, fog is one’s best ally. But I knew Lord Pirro would find a way to come to me.
And sure enough, when I came into the stall that afternoon with my horse-grooming tools, there stood my cavalier leaning against the wall, still as a statue. Silently he indicated the broad ledge above our heads where the hay was stored. It was a perfect hiding place. Making a stirrup of his cupped hands, he offered me a boost up. I hesitated. The shelf was at least six hands above my head. Did I have the strength to catapult myself so high?
With great firmness, he placed my two hands on his shoulders and my right foot in his cupped hands.
“Uno, due, tre . . .” he muttered. And, whoosh, I was up in the loft spitting straws out of my mouth. A second later, his face popped up over the ledge. But when I rushed to embrace him, he held me off, muttering, “We must talk,” through a stern mouth.
“Of what?” I demanded, peevish at being denied.
“Of love,” he answered, grim as death.
As yet I did not intuit the direction he wished the conversation to take and I persisted in my petulance. “Why talk of love when we can do it?” I demanded.
“Because, hussy, if we continue to do it and get caught at it, we may both burn. For sure, you will.”
I must admit this thought sobered me down. “What then do you have to say to me of love, my love?” I inquired, more humble now.
“First, that I have come to cherish you. Second, that I have confided this passion to my kinswoman Madonna Isabella.”
Whatever I expected, it certainly was not such a declaration.
“I told her that you are dearer to me than my life,” he went on, “and that, although you were willing to risk all for me, I could no longer expose you to such danger as we have been courting.”
“You knew that I loved you?” I asked naively.
“Of course,” he answered, with that serene confidence that marks men of his rank. “Why else do women take great risks except for love?”
I could not deny it. Nor did I wish to play coy. For he had confessed his love in such an open way that I could not do less.
“You read me right. I do love you,” I answered, as candid in my confession as he had been in his. “But was it wise to admit the Marchesana to our secret? What if she should tell the procurator, or her confessor — those priests are a menace to us Jews, you know.”
“It was a calculated risk,” he answered. “My kinswoman is young like us and a great believer in romance. I doubt she would ever betray us. And I hoped she might be persuaded to help us.”
“Was she persuaded?” I asked.
“She offered to take us under her protection.”
“Would that keep us safe?”
“Oh yes, her power is absolute in Mantova, second only to her husband’s.”
“Then it is settled. We can meet and go about as —”
“Not quite so easily, my Grazia. She will take us under her protection and in due course she will give us permission to marry, on one condition.”
I knew before he spoke what the words would be. “She wants me to become a conversa . . .”
He nodded. “That is her condition.”
“Oh no, I could not. I could never . . .” was my first reaction. “I am a Jewess, my lord. How could I suddenly change?”
“You would have to take instruction. Madonna Isabella has spoken to her confessor — mentioning no names — who is in charge of the casa dei catecumeni. He is willing to take you in and teach you himself.”
“The casa dei catecumeni in the Via dei Grechi?”
The so-called House of Converts was well known to every Jew in Mantova. A small, dark place adjoining a Dominican convent, it sometimes served as a refuge for renegade Jews, frequently criminal types who preferred to convert rather than face the justice of the Wad Kellilah.
“But bigamists and cheaters and wife-beaters go there,” I told him. “Those conversos are an unsavory lot, my lord.”
“It will only be for a short while until you learn the catechism and a few other things. Then, Madonna Isabella has offered to stand sponsor for your baptism. And once you are baptized, we will join ourselves in a Christian marriage.” He took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. “I understand what a sacrifice this will be for you . . .” He was talking as if my mind was already made up. “But a Christian marriage is the only course open to me if I am to remain an honorable man. Otherwise we will both end up dishonored — and you, I fear, more harmed than I.”
“But I would never see my family again. My brothers . . . my father . . .”
He placed his fingers gently over my lips. “Say no more. Think. Consider. Madama has given me a letter for you. Read it. Perhaps it will provide counsel. We have a week. Madama has told me that either I must bring you into the casa dei catecumeni or give you up by carnevale. If you decide against me, I have agreed never to see you again.”
I gasped.
“It is for your protection more than my own, my love. I have seen a woman burned, Grazia. I have seen her flesh sizzle on the faggots. I cannot face that prospect for you. Now you know all. Let us make love.”
Was ever there born a creature more perverse than woman? The moment the invitation formed on his lips, my passion fled. The great ardor in me gave way to timidity — even fright. Of its own volition, my mouth closed tightly against his insistent tongue and I slowly withdrew my body from his embrace.
A coarser or more brutish man would have had his way in spite of my opposition. Such men — stuffed with pride and virtu — take any sign of resistance as caprice, perhaps because it has no equivalence in their experience. But Lord Pirro is a peerless lover who understands the natural perversity of women. He simply left me to myself. And before long, I found myself edging through the straw back into the curve of his arm. Still he made no move toward me. Ever so cautiously, I placed one of my legs over his thigh. I could feel his muscles hard against mine through the silken calze he wore. Then very slowly he began to stroke my hair, my cheek, my shoulder. Everywhere he caressed me tingled as if touched by a magician’s wand.
Patiently and tenderly, he led me through the age-old dance of love, serenaded by cicadas, with the swish of the horses’ tails for an accompaniment.
Suddenly, the rhythm was broken by a faint movement of the air, not menacing but an interruption nonetheless. I saw the ladder describe an arc above me before I heard it land against the attic shelf. Then I saw Sandro’s hand — unmistakably his, for no one in our household had a paw that brown and that huge — flailing about in the darkness, searching for something to grab onto. Then a heavy grunt. Then the face with its crossed eyes.
Lord Pirro had fallen into a crouch behind me, so what Sandro saw when he pulled himself up to eye level was Madonnina Grazia sitting in the shadows on a pile of straw, looking, I hoped, furious at being intruded upon.
After blinking for some time, the brute was able to focus his wandering eyes on me.
“Sandro, what in the name of God and his saints are you doing up here?” I was easily as alarmed as he but determined not to show it.
“A n-n-noise . . . I her-her-heard . . .”
He heaved his huge body up onto the ledge.
“Go back!” I ordered.
But he made no move to obey. He simply crouched there, blinking.
“Down!” I pointed in the direction of the ground. Behind me, a hidden presence reached for my hand.
“Down, Sandro! Go!” As I gave the order I felt a handle being placed in my fist, a pitchfork from the feel of it.
“If you do not turn and go back down that ladder . . .”
The brute sucked in a great bellyful of air and lunged. And, gathering all my strength, I raised the heavy pitchfork and plunged it straight into his head.
The blow must have stunned him. He whirled half a turn, then stood with his back to me, swaying and moaning.
“I’ll finish him off.” Behind me, a hand took the weapon out of mine and lunged. Over and over I saw the tines of the fork raised in the air and plunged into the giant’s backside. The pain must have been excruciating, for it seemed to knock his eyes back into his head. I saw a pair of white eyeballs, then a glimpse of a torn camicia streaked with blood, then heard a deafening shriek as the slave hurled himself off the open shelf and onto the stable floor. There followed a series of groans that finally subsided into whimpers. And at last, silence.
Beside me, Lord Pirro stood tense and wary, straining for some sound to indicate that the giant’s screams had aroused the household. But no indication was forthcoming. Only the buzzing of the flies and the swishing of the horses’ tails.
Motioning to me to stay still, he laid the pitchfork down, walked softly to the edge of the loft, and looked down.
“He’s gone,” he whispered.
“Gone?”
“Come and see for yourself. The ground is bare.”
I approached and peered over the edge cautiously. Nothing but a stray bucket and a pile of horse manure.
“I must go down and see what’s become of the villain,” he announced.
“No, no. I shall go. I must,” I insisted, albeit weakly. “For if I am found, I can fabricate some pretext. But if you are discovered, we are both undone.”
“I doubt you can get down the ladder without taking a tumble. Look at you. You are trembling like an aspen leaf.”
“I am frightened,” I admitted. “But you mistake yourself, sir, if you think me a coward. I will descend the ladder and find the brute.”
“And if you find him dead — with a broken neck?”
“Why, then I shall faint,” I replied, “and you must risk all and come down and carry me back up.”
Down I went, quivering, as he said, like an aspen leaf in fear of what I would find. But to my astonishment, there was no sign of Sandro in the yard nor in any corner of any of the stalls. The brute had disappeared. This I reported to my lord when I once again ascended the ladder.
“Then we are in luck. But we must not press it,” he said. “I shall be off. And you, to your room to read Madonna Isabella’s letter. Watch me leave you for the last time. When next I depart this paradise of straw, I will carry you with me.”
So saying, he grasped two heavy iron rings lying flat on the ground and, uttering a fierce grunt, pulled them up in one tremendous heave, creating a hole in the floor of the loft that gave directly down into the vicolo below. As I watched, he jumped down into the lane with perfect grace, untethered his horse, and rode off, jaunty as ever, his honorary Este colors streaming out behind him in the wintry wind.
The Sandro affair ended most mysteriously. That monster was never seen again in the environs of Mantova. Although my father put out notices of a runaway slave, he never did turn up at any of the slave markets on the peninsula. Nor was his bloated body ever washed up on the shores of the Mincio, as I dreamed it would be. He simply vanished. And truthfully, I did not dwell overmuch on his disappearance. What took over my mind from that day on was Madonna Isabella’s offer with its nonnegotiable terms.
What was it to be? A life without love or a life without family and religion? I had one week to decide.
FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE
TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI, THE MANTOVAN JEWESS
The fame that resounds in my ears about your virtue and goodness prompts me to offer the hand of friendship. Listen to my advice. Convert to Christianity and live your life illuminated by the Holy Spirit. For the one flesh-and-blood mother that you renounce, you will find ten more through the love of Jesus Christ. The Madonna of Mantova will be a mother to you. My sister, both my sisters-in-law and myself will be mothers to you. Nor will you lack a gracious husband. Lord Pirro Gonzaga longs for you so much that the wretched man is at risk of losing his head for the love of you. The poor little thing is falling apart like a snowflake that the sun has discovered.
Come to see me within the week. We will debate. I will pull the scales from your eyes. The blindness of the Hebrew faith will become clear to you. Trust me. I speak to you in perfect faith. I have read in the book of the Jews called The Sanidrin that the Messiah was born the same day the temple was destroyed. Do not allow yourself to be deceived any longer by your doomed rabbis ignorant of both human and divine doctrine. Instead, join me in Christian fellowship where you will enjoy a husband who is wise and courageous and neither importunate nor wearisome. Every time I hear his witty narrations I am afraid I will die laughing as Philomene, the poet, or Philistione, the actor, did. No melancholy humor will ever reside in your house. Sad thoughts will keep far away from you. I assure you on my faith that you will be more loved by him than Euridice was by Orfeo, than Aspasia was by Pericle, than Orestia was by M. Plautio.
Think and examine well what I’ve told you. Come to me as a sister in Christ. Beautiful and pleasant thoughts to you. May God illuminate you with the living rays of the Holy Spirit and guide you to do the right and wise thing.
Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga
17
A close reading of Madonna Isabella’s letter left no room for doubt. Although it was couched in the scholarly style of a disputa putting forward the superiority of Christ’s religion to the religion of Moses, the true message was that I must convert or sacrifice her support.
As Plautus’s jest goes, it was not difficult to make up my mind; I made it up several times every day. Each time one of my brothers sought me out for heart’s ease or protection, I knew I must stay for their sake. The next minute, having forgotten to bow or ask permission to leave the room, I would suffer such a stinging rebuke from Dorotea or my father that I knew I must flee from this tyranny to the kinder arms of strangers.
Then, on the very day of decision, Papa summoned me to his studiolo to tell me that he had acquired a fine new jennet for my use. This gift of love came to my troubled spirit like a message from the angels. Papa did love me. He had opposed his wife for my sake. I could not betray his trust. I would sacrifice love for duty.
But no sooner had I decided than Virgil’s words came back to me, the words spoken by Anna to Dido when she decides to give up Aeneas.
Will you wear out your life, young as you are?
Will you live alone sorrowing and pining, never to know
The crown of joy that Venus gives?
Yes, Anna, I answered. I will give up my youth and the joys of Venus, which I have barely begun to enjoy. And I will live on alone, sorrowing and pining forever.
But the stoical mantle of Dido which fitted me so well on my walk through the house and across the yard was cast off the moment I stepped foot in the stable and beheld my lover. One look and I threw myself into his arms, weeping.
That is how we were discovered, there in the open horse stall where any passerby could see. By my cousin Ricca.
One shriek and she was off to alert the household. At my urging Pirro scuttled up the ladder to the hayloft. His presence could only embarrass him and harm me.
Moments later, they entered the yard like a trio of inquisitors: Papa, Dorotea, and Ricca, the informant.
“He was there with her in the horse stall,” she anno
unced, pointing to where I stood. “They were embracing. I saw it with my own eyes”
“Is this true?” Papa demanded.
“Yes, it is true, honored padre. I was about to —”
“Do not speak. You have nothing more to say to me. Go to your chamber. Go now. Go before I give in to a terrible urge to beat you until you bleed.”
“For shame,” Dorotea murmured under her breath as I walked by. No further words were spoken to me that day. No one came to my room, not even my brothers. I could only assume they were forbidden my company on pain of severe punishment.
I lay awake until the first hours of the morning living and reliving the day’s events, flagellating myself for carelessness, folly, and self-indulgence. Toward the early morning hours I heard the rings of my bed curtains scraping on the rod and found myself looking into the watery blue eyes of Rabbi Abramo.
“Good morning, my daughter.” The oily patina on his words told me he was in his pastoral mode. “I am here on behalf of your loving parents,” he announced. Had they suddenly been struck by paralysis, I wondered bitterly, to have to send an emissary up the stair to speak to me?
“They are sorely tried by your betrayal of them,” he went on. “But I have assured them that you cannot be held accountable for your actions. The evil that dwells in the hearts of all women has taken hold of you. Do not despair.” He placed his soft, damp hand on my arm. “These devils that dwell in you — for that is what they are — can be exorcised.”
“Of what does this exorcism consist, Rabbi?” I asked.
“Twice each day I will come to you and recite certain ancient prayers over you,” he answered. “Words of God, which reduce the power of the devil over your corrupted mind. As for your body . . .”
I held my breath.
“You will be bled every morning, starting on the morrow. And purged every night. And the apothecary will administer a klyster twice each week to complete the cleansing.”
Twice each week.
“How long . . .” I was too fearful to finish my question.
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 19