The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (71 page)

The letter of appointment — more properly, the summons — to treat the King came not from the monarch himself but from his mother, Louise of Savoia. By then Judah and I between us had had so many farewells and welcome-homes that I hardly regarded the journey as anything unusual.

Judah embarked for Paris directly after the Chanukah celebrations, promising to be back for Passover. Who could have predicted that by the time he was done with his royal patron he would be practicing medicine from a battlewagon?

FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI DEL MEDIGO AT VENEZIA

Beloved wife:

When I look back on how I have spent the last few years, crossing and recrossing the lands of Europe in response to this or that entreaty or bribe or threat, I begin to believe that every important personage in Europe has somehow gotten himself a dose of this foul plague now named after Niobe’s son Syphilus.

The young King, my patient, arises at eleven o’clock, hears mass, dines, spends two or three hours with his mother (that Louise who persuaded me to come to France, for which I will never forgive her), then goes hunting (since I have forbidden him whoring until the course of his treatment is done), and finally ends the night wandering here and there. This means that nobody can get an audience with him by day.

It is his heart’s desire to mount a campaign in Italy this spring and he swears he will not set off until I have eradicated the pustules that cover his private parts both without and within and which cause him much discomfort when he urinates. “A fighting man in the midst of a battle cannot stop every half an hour to get out three drops of piss,” he advised me.

He is very cheerful in his infirmity and I would number him among my more agreeable patients did he not insist that I attend his damn court. He tells me that he loves men of learning. He believes that scholars bring a prince more glory than battles. It is my misfortune that I am learned and thus an ornament to his entourage.

I rave on in my vain manner when the task before me is to clean out the King’s urinary tract so that he can go comfortably to Italy and kill a thousand Swiss mercenaries to satisfy his vanity. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, so says Koheleth. And should you take it that because you care neither for glory nor fame you are exempt from his judgment, I remind you as I close this letter that he also tells us: “Of the making of many books there is no end. And all is vanity and a striving after wind.”

Pay no attention to this dyspeptic oratory. It is but empty talk from a lonely man who misses his own bed and his own dear wife and wants only to be in Venezia with her and not here at Blois.

My compliments and a kiss.

Your devoted husband, J.

Blois, May 12, 1515.

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI DEL MEDIGO AT VENEZIA

Beloved wife:

The King is cured. He can piss without fear or reproach. Still I am with him and his army at Lyon. Why? His mother, that witch Louise, insists that I remain at his side while he crosses the Alps. She reminds me that I am protected from highwaymen and bandits by thirty thousand of the finest fighting men in Europe. The woman has fallen in love with me. But I am warned. They say at court that Louise’s embrace can be the kiss of death.

While we lodge here at Lyon, an advance party led by the venerable general Trivulzio has sniffed out an old shepherd’s path through the Alpine mountains which would deliver our army into Italy behind the Swiss mercenaries who are said to be waiting for us at Suza ten thousand strong. The King is tempted to chance it. But I hear from a corpsman in the reconnoitering party that this new pass is hardly more than a series of defiles with only room on the path for a single horse; and that torrents swollen by the melting snows run so fast no horse can keep his footing in them; and that when a horse falls it falls half a league down. I assume this estimate applies equally to a falling man, such as myself.

If the King gives this reckless venture a go-forth I mean to separate myself from him at once and make my way back to Italy through the Mont Cenis pass like a rational man. I will inform the King that we must go our separate ways because we pursue separate ends. He is after glory; I wish to save my own life. Only one other is dearer to me and that is yours, my exemplary wife.

Your devoted husband, with the King at Lyon, July 31, 1515.

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI DEL MEDIGO AT VENEZIA

These may be the last words you will ever hear from your husband, Grazia. My reasons for being where I am I will not try to explain. I have been misled by a mother with lies on her lips and a king with stars in his eyes. Now it is too late to turn back.

This is the fourth day of our passage through the Alpine mountains. For three days we have lived on bread and cheese and slept on the bare mountainside with only the mountain torrents to drink from. Even the King has gone without wine. But he has no need for it; he is drunk on glory. All he talks of is how the world will marvel at this exploit. And that his mother will be proud of him.

These paths have not seen the footprints of men on them since the time of Hannibal. And, by the way, if my life is extinguished in this mad venture I trust you to set the record straight in my name. No elephant ever came across these mountains. I will stake my life on it. I
have
staked my life on it.

The ascent was terrifying. Nothing to see but dark pines and giant peaks, nothing to hear but the roar of the swollen streams and every once in a while a strangled cry, a whinny, a screech as a man or a horse lost footing and plunged into the abyss.

Today we reached the top and started down. The descent is worse than the ascent. Climbing, one could look up at the sky and think of God. Descending, all we see is the void.

The King’s engineer, Don Pedro, and his men have constructed a series of bridges out of logs and ropes to enable the men and carts to traverse the ravines. They are so delicate that each time I step foot on one I recite the prayer for the dying and commend myself to God for I fear that such a fragile structure will not hold my weight. But thus far not one of the bridges has broken.

The cannons are swung across on swings operated by an ingenious set of pulleys also designed by Ser Pedro. (This Spaniard is a genius.) Since we can only go in single file, we proceed like ants down the face of each defile with interminable waits for slinging the cannons. The boredom is excruciating. Yet the King appears to be enjoying himself. Clad in full armor except for his helmet, he manages to be everywhere — encouraging, cursing, laughing, lending his great strength here to swing a cannon, there to quiet a panicked horse. Everybody adores him. He is irresistible. But when he smiles at me, I want to cry, “Can you not see, sire, that I am too old for these knightly antics?”

Oh, my dear wife, I long for a world which recognizes something other than jesting, jousting, and boasting.

My folly has brought me to this. I swear that if God allows me to cross these mountains alive I will never again curse the gondola, that perfect cradle of a vehicle, or General Sassatello, that prince among patrons, nor stray farther from your side than the winged lion of Saint Mark’s. Only let me live that I may demonstrate my deep love for you with more than words. Until that day, I am your devoted husband, J.

From the French HQ at Col d’Argentière, August 20, 1515.

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI DEL MEDIGO AT VENEZIA

Still not home, wife —

Today is the King’s twenty-first birthday and I am still riding his wagons like a camp follower. Have I become a war lover? No. It is not combat that entices me. I have succumbed to a much more insidious infection: tenderness. I have appointed myself godfather to this great boy of a king. All my homeless father-feelings have come to rest on him. Today was his twenty-first birthday. And I worried that he would eat too many sweetmeats and give himself a bellyache before the battle. He needs protection both from his excessive appetites and from his excessive valor. And who is there to protect him besides me?

We are camped amid the swampy rice fields of this plain on the only high, dry ground for miles around. Constable Bourbon (I still marvel that Montpensier’s little son has grown into a formidable general) is the King’s tactician as well as his second in command. He has chosen our position well. We stand some forty leagues from Milano waiting for the Pope’s Swiss mercenaries to decide whether to do battle or no. They are democratic, it turns out. They vote on whether or not to fight. Last week our King offered them an enormous bribe to turn tail and march themselves back to their cantons. Some twelve thousand of them took their booty and went home. But the Swiss of the eastern cantons have thrown in their lot with Cardinal Schiner, one of those warlike churchmen, who just yesterday preached a sermon in front of the Milano cathedral announcing that he wanted to wash his hands and swim in French blood. Our spies tell us that this Christian sentiment had its desired effect and that, as I write, the Swiss are preparing to descend upon this valley and gratify the saintly bishop’s wishes. Remember the name of this place: Marignano.

Do not worry over me. I will stay far behind the lines to tend to the wounded and to be of service to my patron should his reckless courage land him in trouble. After this battle, home.

Your devoted husband, J.

In the field at Marignano, September 12, 1515.

FROM FRANCIS, KING OF FRANCE, AT MARIGNANO

TO GRAZIA DEI ROSSI DEL MEDIGO AT VENEZIA

WRITTEN THE 18TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 1515.

Madame:

It pains me to inform you that Maestro Judah has been wounded in the field at Marignano while succoring me. With God’s grace, he was spared the terrible fate of many on that day and my physician assures me that his wounds will heal with time and no ill effect of them be felt. Take it as a measure of our regard for him that he leaves here today in the care of one of my most valued lieutenants. God willing, their party should reach Venezia in ten days’ time.

Maestro Judah took the field at Marignano in the company of heroic men. Be proud that he acquitted himself no less nobly than the noblest knight. Accept the thanks of a grateful King.

46

I
t was a hot shiny day such as Venezia often enjoys in late autumn. A gondola emblazoned with the arms of the Brotherhood of San Rocco skittered along the
rio
below my balcony like a swift, black snake. I knew that this brotherhood volunteered its services to the dead, and was convinced that Judah had died on the way home from Lombardia and that this death craft was carrying his body home. The black curtains that sealed the occupants from view played directly into my fears.

As I watched, the gondolier guided the craft out of my sight to dock at the landing stage below my balcony. Moments later there was a pounding on the stair and our servant broke into my room without knocking. “The maestro . . .” he panted. “They’ve brought him home from the war. Oh, madonna . . .”

I thrust him out of my way and rushed down the stairs. I recall the sun streaming in through the open gates at the end of the
sala
, blinding me. Silhouetted against the sky, two men were climbing out of the gondola, half carrying a bent-over figure, a moving frieze.

As I stepped forward to meet them, they moved from the sun’s glare into the shadow of the door canopy. Now I could make out the hunched-over figure. It was Judah. A pale, weak-kneed figure, but alive. At the same time, a third man who had been giving orders to the other two emerged out of the glare and turned to face me.

I rubbed my eyes to make certain the sun hadn’t tricked me. But no. The fine wrinkles at the edges of the eyes had broadened into furrows. Long days in the saddle had darkened the fair complexion. And the bronze sheen of his hair had faded to a golden brown. But the eyes were still as blue, the teeth as white, and the form as straight and sturdy as ever. The years had been kind to Pirro Gonzaga.