The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (50 page)

He hesitated a moment. “I will be delicate, Grazia. It takes more than kissing.”

So that was the love disease. I ought to have guessed from the name. No wonder the Neapolitans called it the French boils. Fuck a whore, get infected, blame it on the French. That was the Italian
bravo
’s style.

Now I understood Judah’s predicament. How do you tell a wife that her husband is ailing without disclosing that the disease was caught from another woman? Fortunately the wife hadn’t cared enough to ask. A strange woman, Chiara Gonzaga, Duchess of Montpensier.

Her husband did die in Napoli as Judah feared he might, and his little son was immediately shipped off to France with his tutor. From what I can piece together of his story, he never saw his mother again. She lived out her days in Mantova an embittered, poor, neglected widow.

A sad little story, is it not? But before you heave too deep a sigh for the widow and her son, let me remind you that this fatherless French boy has grown up to be the same Constable Bourbon who betrayed his King and country to put himself at the service of France’s great enemy, Emperor Charles V; that he is also the same Constable Bourbon who leads the barbaric Imperials toward Roma as I write, the same Constable Bourbon who menaces this city — and those of us in it — as no force has done since the Huns poured over the Alps to sack Roma in the year 410. In great measure, my son, we sit shivering here in this palazzo, fearing for our very lives, because of that little boy grown up.

Our visit to the Reggio was a respite for my fretful soul, but only that. The same evening, Judah undertook a full examination of my father, purely to confirm what the first look had already told him. “It is a bad tumor, Grazia,” he explained to me when we were alone in our chamber. “One of those that duplicates itself within months. That old fool Portaleone was right for once. A surgeon is of no use here. Cut this growth out and two more will appear to take its place.”

“Are you telling me there is no hope?” I asked.

“You know that is not my judgment to make. Only God decides who lives and who dies.”

“I hate God,” I muttered.

“Grazia!”

“He is so unjust. So arbitrary! At least Christ has some compassion.”

“So they say,” he answered mildly. “But I have yet to see the proof of it. Christians die as suddenly and as cruelly as we do. Like us, they are stricken by plague. Their babies are born dead, their children maimed. I do not see any particular compassion being lavished on Christians. Except perhaps for rich Christians. There I see a difference. Observation has taught me that the poor of all religions suffer more grievously in this life than the rich. If you wish to eat injustice, chew on that for a time.”

I had irritated him with my blasphemy. Worse, I had blamed him for God’s will after he had traveled over sea and land to come to my father’s aid.

“Please forgive me, honorable husband,” I asked humbly. “Perhaps what we need is a surgeon to cut out my sharp tongue.”

“No surgeons,” he answered, his anger gone. “This will be a hard time for you, Grazia. To see someone you love wasting away is one of life’s great trials. But you have the strength for it. And the love your father needs. Now, may I give you some advice?”

“Please . . .”

“Come close to me.” He beckoned me to move toward him in the bed and placed his arm around my shoulders. “If Daniele’s case follows the usual course, he will weaken and lose weight. These tumors seem to gobble up all the nourishment we feed the patient and leave none for the rest of the body. I have spoken frankly to your father. He does not fear death. He has given himself over to the disease. He is prepared to die. And you must help him do it easily. Are you up to the task?” I nodded, mute.

“Good. Prepare yourself then. Soon he will begin to refuse food. Do not force him to eat. As the end approaches he will spend most of the hours in a doze.”

“And when will that be, Judah?” Whose voice was this, calmly requesting a deathbed schedule?

“No man can predict the moment of death,” he answered. “I would judge a few months. Mind you, I have been wrong before.”

A few months. I could bear that, I thought.

“I will leave you a vial of powerful medicine. Should he be in pain a drop or two on the tongue will ease it. Three may kill him. It is that powerful. Do you understand?”

I nodded my understanding.

“I would stay and see you through this if I could,” he went on. “Believe me, I do not willingly burden you with this responsibility. But my patron the King of France demands that I return to Napoli. I believe he is planning to battle his way back to France. And I hear the Venetians have hired Francesco Gonzaga to cut him down en route.”

“We hear the same. These wars never end?” I asked, half to myself.

“Not until the money runs out,” he replied cheerfully. “Bravery and honor have their place. But it takes cash to field an army. And even more cash to incite them to fight bravely.” Charles VIII had turned Judah into a cynic.

Next morning the mules were at our door at matins, and before I knew it, Judah had paid one last visit to Papa, donned his traveling cloak, and was at the portal ready to mount.

There we stood alone in the misty morning, just the two of us — and the unspoken matter that lay between us.

“When this is over . . .” Judah began.

“Yes?” I encouraged him.

“There will be time enough to talk. In Firenze. When we are alone.”

“We are alone now,” I reminded him.

“But time is short. And the shadow of death hangs over us.”

Exactly the time, I thought, to speak of the future and of happiness. However, the habit of compliance was etched deep in me, so I did not insist. And so the moment passed.

FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE

TO MARCHESA ISABELLA D’ESTE DA GONZAGA AT MANTOVA

WRITTEN ON THE 10TH OF MAY, 1495.

Honored Wife and Consort:

We have news that the French king is about to retire from Napoli and to make for the Alps and thence back to France. Our plan is to head him off at the Taro River. For this we will need the reinforcement of the Swiss stradiots. As always, they are insisting on payment in advance. Here is the problem I face: Once again, the Venetian
signoria
procrastinates with its payments and I am left to equip my cohort out of my own treasury. I need seven thousand ducats at once. Do anything you must to raise the money. If necessary place your jewels in pawn with the Jews. You will have them back in due time. The Venetians always pay their debts eventually. But I need ducats now. These stradiots do not unsheathe a weapon until they see the color of money. Be quick.

Written in haste by my own hand . . .

FROM MARCHESANA ISABELLA D’ESTE AT MANTOVA

TO HER HUSBAND, THE MARCHESE OF MANTOVA, IN THE FIELD

WRITTEN ON THE 15TH OF MAY, 1495.

Most Honored Lord:

I am of course always ready to obey your Excellency’s commands, but perhaps you have forgotten that most of my jewels are at present in pawn at Venezia, not only those you have given me but those I brought with me as a bride to Mantova or have bought myself since my marriage. I say this not to make a difference between yours and mine but to show you that I have parted with everything and have only four jewels left in the house — the large balas ruby which you gave me when we married, my favorite diamond, the small diamond I received from my mother, and one other. If I pledge these I shall be left entirely without jewels and shall be obliged to wear black, because to appear in colored silks and brocades without jewels would be ridiculous.

Your Excellency will understand that I say this out of regard for your honor and mine. On this account I will not send away my jewels until I have received your Excellency’s reply.

By her own hand.

from the marchese francesco gonzaga in the field

to his wife, marchesa isabella d’este da gonzaga, at mantova

written on the 19th of may, 1495.

Pawn the jewels and be quick about it!

(signed with his initials, F.G.)

34

P
easants customarily arrive to borrow money at our
banco
with sacks containing their pitiful capital: two pots, five linen towels, a few worn garments. Princes send emissaries bearing their treasure in gilded casks to demand outrageous sums for allowing Jews the honor of taking their goods in pawn. The Gonzagas sent us a swaggering courtier with a long plume in his hat and an arrogant expression on his face.

“Fetch me Maestro Daniele, girl,” he ordered me. Not a greeting, not a “good day.” This fellow needed taking down.

“Maestro Daniele is indisposed. I am his daughter and his deputy,” I replied softly.

“No, girl. Get the Jew.”

“I do apologize, sir,” I answered, even more compliant than before. “But my father is ill. If you would be gracious enough to tell me the nature of your business with him . . .”

“Regular banking business,” he replied, with that particular disdain that Christian knights take on when they lower themselves to dabble in commerce. “Her Excellency the Marchesana Isabella wishes him to take some articles in pawn. She has temporary need of fifteen thousand ducats.”

Beside me Asher paled at the mention of so large a sum. But I remembered the lessons learned at my father’s knee and kept myself from displaying anything more than a routine interest in the transaction.

“May I see the contents of the cask, sir?” I inquired humbly.

“They are for the eyes of Maestro Daniele,” he insisted.

“My father has instructed me to handle all business that comes to our door,” I answered. “So I fear, sir, that either you conduct your business with me or not at all.” And I turned away to other business to drive my point home.

Of course, after a moment or two of indecision he opened the little box and turned out the contents.

Taking my time about it, I began to inspect the treasures one by one. Two immense diamonds, one with a flaw visible with a jeweler’s glass but the other seemingly perfect. Madonna Isabella must have paid dearly for that one. Five thousand ducats at least. And a thousand, I would have judged, for the other. She had also sent five large rubies, unset. Ten thousand for those on the open market. And these were not the whole of it. There were also a few small pieces — one I especially remember, an amazing Saint George paved with diamonds, riding astride a dragon carved from a single pearl with a glittering tail of emeralds wound around the saint’s foot. But most valuable of all was the necklace, a masterpiece of the goldsmith’s craft forged from links so cunningly entwined that no one without a glass could ever know where they were joined. This must be the
illustrissima
’s Necklace of a Hundred Links, celebrated as a triumph of the art of Maestro Fidele, the Jewish goldsmith who glittered up half the princes of the peninsula with his inventions. I daresay so much wealth had never resided at one time in the dei Rossi Mantova branch as did that morning.

“Nice little trinkets,” I commented to the courtier. “But not worth anything like fifteen thousand ducats to us. Take them back to your mistress. Tell her we cannot supply her with the money she requests. With regrets.” And to underline my point I began to place the stones back in their satin bags.

“But madonna . . .” I had suddenly come up in the world. “The stones alone are worth at least twenty thousand ducats and the necklace is priceless,” he sputtered.

“As a sentimental piece, of course,” I replied. “But when it is melted down we are not likely to extract more than a few hundred ducats’ worth of gold from the thing.”

“Melted down!” He was genuinely horrified by the suggestion. “This is the
illustrissima
’s Necklace of a Hundred Links, famous throughout Europe. Copied by queens and empresses.”

“That may be, but to us it is merely gold.” I threw the thing on the scale as if it were a dead fish. “No more than three hundred ducats’ worth there. See for yourself.”

“You will not take these pieces, then?” he asked, by now quite drained of his arrogance.

“Not for fifteen thousand ducats. Five perhaps. Eight at most.”

“Eight thousand ducats for all of this?”

“Maybe,” I answered. “You may tell the great lady that Grazia dei Rossi is managing the
banco
due to her father’s indisposition and that she knows her father would never countenance the payment of a penny more than eight thousand.”

“Well . . .” The fellow began to gather up his baubles. “I certainly cannot accept eight thousand ducats for this lot. The lady would have my head for it.” He scratched his pate, perplexed. “I might take twelve . . .” he ventured.