Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (23 page)

“The bridge is guarded,” David said as we went. “We can’t cross there.”

He was right, of course. We had to find another way, but where? Looking around frantically, I pointed. “The Ponte Sisto, half a mile upriver, if we can reach it.”

And if we didn’t find it, too, occupied by condotierri.

We went as carefully as we could, dodging in and out of the bankside shadows. The tide was low, adding to the stench, but, God’s mercy, I was quickly becoming insensible to all smells. With every step, we sank in mud that slowed us. Twice I stumbled and would have fallen if not for David’s strong arm. Where one of the ancient sewers ran into the river, we disturbed a colony of rats who poured out all around us, their high-pitched squeaks filling the darkness. Under other circumstances, I would have frozen in terror. But after all the events of the night and the desperate danger still hanging over us, David and I both ran right through and over the rats, startling them so that they fled before us like the parting of a great, gray tide.

“We have to warn Rocco,” I said as we ran. And please God, let it be in time.

Within sight of the bridge, David pulled me down beside him. Carefully, we searched for any sign that the span was guarded. The commander of the
castel
could have sent men to secure it and might well have done so if Vittoro was wrong. But if he was right, if there was sympathy for Borgia within the garrison . . .

“It’s empty,” David said. Nothing stirred across the Ponte Sisto and no one stood guard at either end.

Together we ran across the bridge. Beyond lay the ancient walls
of Rome. Built to protect the city from the barbarian hordes, they had failed so miserably that they have not been considered worth rebuilding. We slipped through what would once have been a gate and sped on.

A little farther on we entered the Campo dei Fiori. Several taverns and brothels around the market were still doing business but otherwise the area was quiet. We gained the street of the glassmakers but stopped again to make sure that no guards were about.

All seeming quiet, we went on, turning down an alley that took us around the back of Rocco’s shop past the furnace. I knocked softly on the door and called his name, “Rocco . . . it’s us.”

Instantly, the door was thrown open. The glassmaker looked disheveled and weary but infinitely relieved to see us. “Francesca!” he exclaimed and seemed about to throw his arms around me when he took a quick step back, driven no doubt by the sudden realization that I stank.

“Where have you . . . what is . . . ?” At a loss for words, he simply stepped aside so we could enter.

When the door was closed safely behind us, Rocco lit a lamp and took a long look at the pair of us. I cannot imagine the sight we made but I recall too well the smell.

“We were in the
castel
moat,” I said. “But that’s not important. It was a trap. Morozzi isn’t one of us. He’s a madman who wants to bring down Borgia and kill all the Jews. We have to get out of here, all of us.”

I give Rocco credit, confronted by such a claim he did not hesitate. Blowing out the lamp, he grabbed his cloak off a peg and said, “Let’s go.”

“Do you have any particular place in mind?” David asked as we hurried from the shop and headed back out into the night.

“Only one I can think of,” Rocco replied, and without saying anything more, set off at a trot. David and I followed, the pace leaving us without breath for questions. Beyond the Campo dei Fiori, we passed within the shadow of the domed Pantheon, the only ancient building in Rome that has been spared so much of the depredations of time and a reminder of what greatness actually looks like. A few streets on we entered the Piazza Minerva, sacred to the ancient goddess of wisdom.

All the while we stayed close to the stone and timber buildings, listening for any hint of an approaching patrol. It was now past the hour when the hired thugs, tired of strutting about showing off their authority, like to retire to the all-night taverns. Those who didn’t drink themselves into a stupor would be out again later, fueled on raw red Umbrian wine and more dangerous than ever.

Before then, we had to find sanctuary. A moment later, I realized where Rocco was taking us.

“Are you sure?” I asked, keeping my voice low in the hope that David would not hear my doubts. Of all the places to hide, him in particular.

Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, the church built by the Dominicans that also serves as their chapter house in Rome, stands on top of a temple to the goddess of wisdom. The body of Saint Catherine, of whom I have spoken, is buried there but not her head, which is in Siena. I find that troubling but the arrangement seems to satisfy her adherents in both places.

“I have a friend here,” Rocco said. I had to hope that he was right.

It is a sad fact that many churches in Rome, as elsewhere, are locked at night to prevent their despoliation. Anyone in need of spiritual sustenance is expected to wait until morning. But such is the authority of the Dominicans, and the fear they inspire, that the
house shared by the Mother of our Lord and the Goddess of Wisdom is an exception.

We stood at a small side door surmounted by a stone lintel carved with the images of hounds at the chase, a play on
Domini canes,
which styles the Order as the hounds of the lord. For a moment I feared that David would refuse to enter. His extreme distaste and suspicion were writ clear on his face.

I seized his hand and said urgently, “Rocco is a good man. There is nothing I would not trust him with, and he endangers himself by coming here.”

David looked far from convinced but he did consent to enter. We found ourselves in an aisle off a side nave near the altar to the Mother of our Lord. Candles burned in front of the statue of the Virgin, illuminating the interior. I had been in the church before but had forgotten its full glory, a stark contrast to the simple façade without. The arched vaulting vivid with red ribbing framed a blue, starry sky. Polished marble columns to either side of the main nave reflected the light of the sanctuary lamp, the reminder of Christ’s eternal presence. I tried to calculate how long we had been in the
castel
and in flight from it. By my reckoning, we were sometime in the hour between compline, that so gently welcomes night, and matins. Before the friars arrived for the service that heralds the coming day, we had to hide.

“This way,” Rocco said, and gestured toward stone steps leading from the altar down into the crypt. I went reluctantly, having had my fill of dark, narrow spaces. Fortunately, perpetual lamps burned before a dozen tombs, including that of Saint Catherine herself. Her effigy showed her in serene repose but I thought of the headless body within and shivered.

Catherine was not alone in her apparent tranquillity. Toward the back of the crypt, where David and I finally collapsed, the carved face of a woman emerged from the wall. Her features were noble, her hair coiled in braids around her head. She had a no-nonsense look about her.

“Minerva?” I asked Rocco.

He nodded. “Probably. When this was her shrine, there was a well here. The friars have kept it in repair.” He disappeared into the gloom for a few minutes and returned with a bucket of water.

David and I fell on it. We drank, and when our thirst was slaked we washed as best we could given the requirements of modesty and the lack of clean clothes. Exhausted, we slumped back against the wall. My eyes were closing when I heard David ask, “How likely is it that someone will come down here?”

“Someone will,” Rocco replied. “I’m counting on it.”

Beside me, David stiffened. I could not really blame him, given that we had been caught in one trap already that night.

“Your friend?” I asked.

Rocco nodded. “A few years ago, after Guillaume was transferred to the chapter house here, we happened to pass each other on the street. He recognized me, as I did him, and I wondered if he would expose me. But he has kept my secret.”

“What secret?” David asked, clearly still doubtful.

I left it to Rocco to answer, which he did with simple dignity. “I used to be a Dominican.”

David made a sound somewhere between incredulity and disgust. It was not difficult to understand his reaction. From his point of view, he might as well have entrusted his life to the Serpent himself.

“I didn’t know it was possible to leave the Order,” he said finally.

“It isn’t,” Rocco replied. “I ran away. Recognizing me, Guillaume could have caused much trouble, but he did not. He has kept his silence.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He has his reasons,” Rocco replied, and leaning back against the wall, closed his eyes, effectively ending the conversation.

We remained in silence for some time. I drifted in and out of sleep. When I was awake, I thought of Nando, sent to the countryside for safety, and of the possibility that his father would become a hunted man because of me. How carelessly I had involved him in my troubles, convincing myself that I had no alternative when the truth is that we always have choices. If harm came to Rocco, I would bear full responsibility for it.

I was dwelling on that unpleasant possibility when I heard footfalls on the stone steps leading to the crypt. Rocco heard the same and stood up immediately. I nudged David, who had been dozing. We crouched down behind a sarcophagus as Rocco moved to intercept whoever was coming.

A moment later, I heard the low murmur of voices. I could not make out the words but there was no sound of argument. Shortly, Rocco returned bringing with him a man in the white habit and black cloak of the Order. He was of an age with Rocco but a few inches shorter and slighter in build with a dark, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His expression was open and frankly curious. He did not appear alarmed to see us.

“This is Friar Guillaume,” Rocco said. “He will help us.”

“Rocco says you escaped from the
castel,
” the friar said, looking from one to the other of us. So intent was he that he did not so much as wrinkle his nose at our stench. “However did you manage that?”

David stood up. He flexed his shoulders, curled his hands into
fists, and looked at Guillaume quellingly. “Why do you want to know?”

Guillaume flushed slightly before the none-too-delicate threat but did not back down. “I’m curious. The
castel
is a kind of puzzle. To unlock it, you need wisdom, insight, and perhaps a little luck.”

“Guillaume likes puzzles,” Rocco said with a smile. With a glance at me, he said, “Most particularly, he likes the puzzles to be found in nature. Ask him about bees.”

“Bees?” I repeated, at a loss.

The friar looked a little abashed but such was his enthusiasm that he could not restrain himself. “Bees are the most amazing of God’s creatures, far more than Man himself. They toil diligently and selflessly toward their appointed purpose. In the course of which, they engage in several fascinating forms of behavior. For instance, a bee, upon returning to the hive, may alight outside and perform what appears to be an intricate dance, the exact steps of which may vary in ways I suspect are to different purposes. Other bees, watching this dance, will then depart, often in the same direction from which the first bee came.”

“Fascinating,” David said. He had unclenched his fists and was looking at the friar with something close to amusement.

“But that isn’t all,” Guillaume went on. “I am almost certain that there is a pattern to the breeding of bees, by which I mean to their number. The count in any hive advances according to the sequence of numbers discovered by the great mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci. That same sequence appears in myriad other natural settings . . . the petals on a sunflower, for example, the spirals formed by the scales of a pinecone, the—”

“Amazing,” I said, and truly I did find it so. But time was passing too quickly and a plan for our escape had yet to be devised.

“Forgive me,” Guillaume said, looking not at all abashed. “I do tend to go on and on. Perhaps that is why the master of our Order allows me the freedom to pursue my studies in private—to the greater glory of God, of course.”

Only then did I recall that the same Dominican Order that had spawned Torquemada had, in its better days, nurtured the likes of Saint Albertus Magnus, who argued that science and faith could exist side by side in accord, and, supreme above all, the great Saint Thomas Aquinas, upon whose shoulders the Church can fairly be said to stand. How far the Order had fallen from such heights of brilliance into the fevered passions of the Grand Inquisitor

“You have found a strange place to do your work, Friar,” David said.

Guillaume spread his hands in simple acceptance. “I am where God has set me. Now, as to the present circumstance, you are safe to remain here for the time being. I tend the crypt lamps, checking them before we pray each of the offices. It is now almost matins. My brothers will be in the church above but none will venture down here. Come daylight, we will see how matters stand and, if need be, we will make other arrangements. Is that agreeable to you?”

When we had assured him that it was and more, he added, “Before prime, I should be able to return with food and, if at all possible, news. Until then remain here and try to rest.”

Rocco walked back with him toward the steps as David and I sat down again. Just before I fell into exhausted sleep, it occurred to me that I had finally met the man I had hoped Morozzi to be, a seeker of truth hidden within Holy Mother Church itself. If there were others like him, and if they had Guillaume’s courage, there might yet be hope that the Torquemadas of this world would be defeated.

On that thought, I slept, deeply and without dreams, rousing only a little when I heard, drifting down the steps from the altar, the friars chanting the holy office:
Rest in God alone, my soul. He is the source of my hope.

“Francesca?” A deep voice, very low. A gentle touch on my arm. I opened my eyes. Rocco crouched beside me, his face creased with concern. Above, at the top of the steps leading to the altar, I saw faint daylight.

“What hour is it?” I asked as I struggled back to full consciousness. I had slept deeply but to little good. My mind remained fogged with exhaustion and I ached everywhere. Rocco extended a hand to help me rise. I took it, grateful for his strength and the steadiness of his presence.