The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (2 page)

On shore, a smart-looking woman in good boots and a miniver-lined cloak raises her hand in a ragged salute to the departing vessel. At her side stands a boy. Together they watch the
Triton
’s sails billow out in the stiff wind. Suddenly, the boy leans far over the edge of the quay in a perilous effort to catch one last sight of the figure at the prow of the disappearing ship. He is Danilo del Medigo. The woman beside him is his mother, Grazia dei Rossi del Medigo. The passenger at the prow of the
Triton
is her husband, Judah del Medigo, journeying to Turkey to take up the post of body physician to Suleiman the Magnificent.

In moments the
Triton
and its passenger are lost in the Tyrrhenian mists. Grazia turns to her son. It is time to leave. With obvious reluctance he follows her back to the carriage that brought them from Roma.

To the denizens of the port of Ostia, this carriage is a thing of wonder. It runs on wheels like a cart. But the driver, dressed in livery like a house servant, is perched on a box. And behind him, raised high above the wheels on four coiled springs, sits a little enclosed room with glazed windows cut out of its crested doors.

A few of these so-called coaches have been seen in Roma but this is the first one to make an appearance in Ostia. It is the year 1526. Gentlemen still ride about on horseback as they did in the Dark Ages. Pregnant ladies and old men are carried through the streets on litters. And the poor convey themselves on what God has provided — their feet.

From the moment of its arrival on the quay, the exotic conveyance has been the cynosure of all eyes. Not so a certain Nobilia, one of the girls who caters on the sailor trade. What takes her fancy is not the coach but one of its occupants, the boy she takes to be the lady’s page. A juicy boy, she thinks. Not yet quite a man but close enough, with a man’s shoulders and strong, shapely legs. And got up like a prince in a velvet doublet and parti-colored hose. A striking contrast to Nobilia’s usual clients.

She pushes forward and positions herself, hand on hip, to bar the page as he enters the coach. “Sir, if you please, sir, whose carriage is this?” she trills.

“This rig belongs to Marchesana Isabella d’Este of Mantova,” he answers good-naturedly. “It’s not mine, if that’s what you’re thinking.” And with a jaunty grin, he steps into the coach and is gone.

Speeding toward Roma on the Via Appia Antica, the ironbound wheels of the coach raise a racket almost loud enough to drown out the silence of the occupants. The boy, Danilo, has been keeping to himself since the journey began, but he is not a natural dissembler and cannot hide his feelings. His bowed head and slumped shoulders give mute evidence of a deep sadness.

His mother reaches across and takes his hand. “Believe me, Danilo, it is your destiny to stay in Roma with me.”

“I believe you, Mama,” he replies. But as he says the words he withdraws his hand.

“Your life in Roma will be wonderful,” she persists. “And someday soon —”

“We will go to Constantinople and be with Papa again?” he interrupts.

“No. We will not go to Constantinople. But you will grow older and learn to accept the rightness of this decision.”

Impatient with her efforts to cure his pain with platitudes, he wrenches his hand out of her loose grasp, and they ride on in silence.

Roma at last. The rattle of the wheels changes to an even series of jolts, indicating that the coach is traversing the ancient metal bands of the Ponte Sisto. The journey from Ostia, which has seemed so slow and tedious, is now moving swiftly. The Palazzo Venezia is already behind them. Just ahead lie the massive outer gates of the Palazzo Colonna. They have arrived at their destination.

Inside the palace an order is given to unbolt the lock. The great studded door swings open. A light appears in the lunette above the portal.

Danilo offers his arm. Together the mother and son pass slowly under the Colonna arms emblazoned on the arch. The great wooden door shuts behind them with a heavy thud.

Lit only by two flickering torches, the long reception chamber stretches ahead like a cavernous hole. The click-clack of their two pairs of heels reverberates in the silence. There are three hundred rooms in this palace, but at this hour not a soul is stirring in any one of them save the watchman. Madonna Isabella tends to wind down at the close of day; unless she is revived by the promise of some captivating evening’s entertainment she retires directly after vespers. Naturally her courtiers follow suit. Even the little dogs she dotes on are asleep in their baskets by the third hour.

At the foot of the broad staircase a figure emerges from the darkness rubbing his eyes. He is familiar to Grazia as no less a personage than Marchesana Isabella’s major domo, Alessandro. “I will conduct you to your rooms, signora.”

He motions her toward the staircase. She steps forward. Beneath her feet the red and black mosaic, a zigzag flash of color by day, has turned to streaks of blood and bile.

How could she ever have agreed to live here? To bring her son here? Already, as if infected by the protocol of the palace, he is mounting the stairs one step behind her.

As they round the corner of the landing, the light of another torch can be seen slithering along the covered loggia of the
piano nobile
. It is borne by Costanza, Madama’s own maid. “Bidden by my mistress to stay alert for the arrival of the lady Grazia,” she announces, and without ceremony, grabs Grazia’s traveling bag and leads the way down the long corridor.

“This way, young sir. We have a fine light chamber for you up on the top story.” Before she can protest, Grazia sees her son disappearing up the staircase in the firm grasp of the steward. Too fast. Too fast. She opens her lips to call him back. But it is too late. The boy is out of her sight, snatched from her by that brute of a butler.

Almost at once her common sense reasserts itself. What after all did she expect? That she and Danilo would live cozily side by side in this great house as they had in Judah del Medigo’s modest establishment across the Tiber? Grazia has spent enough time in palaces to understand the arrangements. Children and servants go under the eaves. Even married couples are scattered about with fine disregard for their pleasure in the matter. If their rooms happen to fall a hundred doors apart, more’s the pity. What could have led her to assume that she and her son would be treated differently from courtiers and relatives?

Costanza stops to wait for her at a doorway halfway down the hall. With a dramatic flourish the maid throws aside the heavy velvet curtain.

“This is your room, signora,” Costanza announces. “It is called the Room of the Fishes. See?”

Grazia looks up. Above her on the ceiling schools of painted marine creatures swim about as if suspended in an upside-down sea.

“Madama chose it for you because you were born under the sign of Pisces,” the maid explains.

“How kind,” Grazia answers with automatic courtesy. But how much kinder Madama would have been, she thinks, to have allotted her a small room under the eaves close to her son and other unimportant people of the household. Of course such a thought would never occur to Madonna Isabella. To such a lady the marks of her favor are like jewels to be received gratefully and worn proudly whether desired or not.

Grazia sighs at the prospect of the envy sure to be evoked by this sign of preferment. And Costanza shakes her head in bewilderment at how a no-account Jewess can remain so unmoved by the favor of such an exalted personage as Madonna Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga, Marchesana of Mantova.

On this note, the maid is sent away.

Grazia is finally alone. One by one she turns out the contents of her handbag — two linen towels, a manuscript of Maimonides’
Guide for the Perplexed
in velvet covers, a miniature jewel chest, a somewhat larger box filled with cosmetics, a hand mirror, a bottle of musk scent — and lays them away in the coffered chest that was her wedding
cassone
. It is the single piece of furniture she has brought with her from the old life. Now it sits against the wall of the Room of the Fishes, a powerful reminder of the deep past and of the rocky path that has led her to this day and to the sad farewell at Ostia.

It has been a long, dreary ride from the seaport in Madama’s coach, so graciously lent for the occasion and so punishing on the back. Even so, she holds herself straight as she walks toward the writing table. Like all products of a humanistic education, she is a bear for posture.

She seats herself, adjusts her chair. Then, in a wonderful free gesture, she pulls off the golden filet that keeps her coif in place and releases a cascade of wine-dark hair that reaches her waist. Grazia always lets her hair down when she sits to write.

She reaches for a quill and dips it into the inky innards of the silver fish that Madama has provided as an inkwell. A further example of the lady’s exquisite tact.

A stack of vellum sheets lies at hand. Nothing but the best for the Marchesana of Mantova, or for her confidential secretary. Grazia lays out a sheet of the precious parchment and begins to write in her immaculate hand: “I dedicate this book to my son, Danilo, to be read when he crosses the threshold of manhood . . .”

Grazia’s
Book

I dedicate this book to my son, Danilo, to be read
when he crosses the threshold of manhood.

I
f I were a queen, my son, I would grant you vast lands and great wealth. If I were a goddess, I would bestow upon you an honorable wife and a tribe of healthy children — female as well as male. But I am a scholar and a scribe, so the best I have to offer you is a document.

For generations, Florentine merchants have kept secret books —
libri segreti —
which they leave behind for the edification of their sons. I have seen one such book, inscribed by my old Florentine friend Isaachino Bonaventura to his son, as follows: “So that you may know whence you come and take benefit from the experience of those on whose shoulders you stand, as your own sons will someday stand upon the foundations you have laid.”

What I propose to compile for you is such a document, a
libro segreto
in the Florentine manner, so that you may know whence you came and on whose shoulders you stand. But in one important respect, I will depart from the Florentine model. To the Florentines everything begins and ends with profit. What they reveal are the secrets of the ledger. What I propose to set down for you are the secrets of the heart.

I will tell it all, from the long-ago days of my childhood in Mantova to the moment of our arrival at this palace tonight. This I vow to do no matter the press of work, the seductions of court life, the distractions of court intrigues, or the lure of romance — yes, romance; your mother may be an overblown rose but she has not entirely lost her pungency or her hue.

As I write, you will come to know my innermost thoughts and feelings along with the facts. Here, I vow to shun the florid style and to follow Judah’s wise precept: “There is a morality in authorship as in all things,” he said to me in my early days as an author. “For the author, true morality lies in accuracy of observation and clarity of statement.”

Tonight I have made a beginning. Pray God my hand remains steady and my will firm. If I succeed, this document will dispel your confusion and ease the pain that is in store for you. Parting from your father has wrenched your young heart. But believe me, my decision has been made with your happiness uppermost in my mind. Not that I do not wish for my own happiness as well. I am no martyr. But your well-being is my first concern. There are reasons why you have been torn from the arms of a father you love dearly and brought to live in this great, cold, drafty, intrigue-ridden palazzo, reasons of justice and of love. Believe me, I love you more than I love my life, Danilo, my beloved son.

Grazia dei Rossi del Medigo, 17th day of October, 1526, Colonna Palace, Roma