License to Quill (26 page)

To the dragoman's credit, the location was a wise choice in the event of extraction. All Christopher Marlowe needed was a way in. Atop the Calle Farnese, the puzzled poet scratched his head as he planned his next move.

He thought about jumping, but the Ghetto Nuovo was encircled by too wide a canal. The only part he could reach was Ghetto Vecchio, which was surrounded by too high a wall. He then considered hiring some prostitutes as a distraction—not for the guards, but for himself. Unfortunately, the poet's pockets were empty, which also meant he could not attempt to bribe his way inside either. Running out of clean options, Marlowe's diligent mind turned to murder. Yes, he could kill the guards without difficulty, but that could prove disastrous for the Venetian Jews, whom Marlowe imagined would get blamed for the indiscretion.
Drago would have disapproved
, he acknowledged with difficulty. It was the first time the saddened poet had ever thought about his friend in the past tense.

As Marlowe brooded, he heard movement over at the Ghetto Vecchio's gates. After creeping across several buildings, he was surprised to find an old man in a red, pointed hat walking out of the ghetto. The man was stopped by guards, but he identified himself as a doctor, which reminded Marlowe of the rare instances when he came across Jews outside of the ghetto at night. Most often, they were doctors, but there was one other fine industry that employed quite a few Jews throughout the city at this hour. Particularly on festive evenings such as the first night of Carnevale.

Marlowe climbed down from his rooftop and stuffed his parrying dagger under his floppy cap so that it more closely resembled the red hats all Venetian Jews were required to wear. Once he tied the blade in place with his long hair, the still blood-covered poet strutted up to the Ghetto Vecchio as if he were the man who paid the guards' salaries.

“Lo!” a voice hollered as Marlowe approached the ghetto's gates. Two sentinels descended upon him with torches. “The gate is closed!
Vai a cagare!
”

“But I'm a Jew!” replied the poet, pointing to his red hat.

The men scrutinized Marlowe. “What are you doing out at this hour? It's forbidden!”

“I'm an actor!” he answered, throwing out his arms with an “Eh?”

The ghetto guards were unconvinced. “He's armed!” one of them shouted. The two sentries drew their swords while Marlowe kept his hands in the air. “What are you doing with a weapon?”

The poet looked down at the Venetian
schiavona
he had nearly forgotten about. “Oh,
this
? It's just a prop! You can take it, if you like!” The poet undid his belt and let the weapon fall to the ground. He then returned his hands to the air with a generous grin on his face.

One of the guards picked up the sword and unsheathed it. The fine blade was sharpened. Alarmed, he showed the weapon to his partner, and the two guards closed in. “We could have you arrested for this!”

“As I said, it is yours! Need to repeat myself, do I?”

The other guard grabbed Marlowe's shirt. “There's blood on him.”

“Let me explain! I was performing with my actors at a party this evening! They're all goys. You would love them! Anyway, they offered to walk me home, but I told them: ‘What are you talking about? On a night such as
this
? And in a city this
safe
? If this wasn't my home, I could live in this place!'”

“Who were you performing for?”

“For the doge's nephew! We know each other quite well. He lives at Piazzetta dei Leoncini. I could tell you more about him! He is a
grave
man, I assure you.”

One of the guards was unconvinced while the other remained taken with the poet's
schiavona
. “What were you performing?” asked the former.

The poet stood tall and proud. “
Doctor Faustus
, by Christopher Marlowe!”

“Never heard of him.”

The poet's eyes widened. “You've never heard of me?” he asked in his real voice.

The guards raised their eyebrows as a nervous smile spread across Marlowe's face.

“Who are you?” asked one of them.

The poet thought for a second. “Gabriel!”

Satisfied, the sentry with Marlowe's sword returned to his prize. The skeptical guard, however, needed more convincing. “You say you acted today?”

“Yes! The performance concluded around midnight. The doge's nephew had a dance to attend.”

The skeptic narrowed his eyes and pulled his torch back. “Show us a scene from the play.”

“With pleasure.” The poet bowed, and then he shot up with a look of profound surprise on his face. He raised his hand in the air and slowly, dreamily …

Marlowe drew back his hand. “Do any of you speak English?”

The guards remained silent.

Marlowe shook his head. “Never mind.” He got back into character and translated his lines into Venetian.

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!

The poet moved toward the skeptical guard as if to kiss him. The man drew back in disgust while his partner laughed and applauded, his new sword tucked under his arm.

“There's more!” Marlowe offered.

The skeptic reached for his keys and unlocked the Ghetto Vecchio's gates. “Get the hell inside!” he ordered.

“May God bless you.” The poet bowed once more, and then sauntered into the Venetian Ghetto.

 

Chapter XXVII

Life

Marlowe strolled down Calle del Ghetto Vecchio as its iron gates closed behind him. The narrow street ran through an urban valley of tenement houses nearly one hundred feet high, forcing a chilling breeze to billow through the poet's cape. The buildings were as expressionless as empty faces and all featured the same simple facade: a vast departure from the lavish palaces beyond the ghetto's walls. Nearly six thousand Jews from all over Europe were packed into these apartments. They surrounded Marlowe, sleeping, eating, praying, arguing, coughing, and adding to the population. Such was the Venetian Ghetto, and the English poet found it fascinating for a most unlikely reason. It very much reminded him of London, sans the horses, filth, and the unfriendly weather, naturally.

Two young men converged on the poet until they were walking right next to him. “Hello, boys!” he greeted.

“Please lower your voice. I am Azariah,” said Azariah Figo, a twenty-five-year-old rabbinical student, “and this is Simone.”

“Shalom! How did you find me?”

“We heard you shout your name from the gates. Voices travel far here, so please lower yours.”

“Oh!” Marlowe covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Where's your large friend?” Azariah asked.

All playfulness slipped from the distressed poet's face. “I don't know. We were ambushed by female assassins at la Piazza. They turned the whole crowd against us!”

“Is he dead?”

“If he is injured, we have doctors,” entered the twenty-one-year-old Simone Luzzatto.

“I don't know his fate. From what I saw, I…” Marlowe whimpered. “It looked like he fell in the fighting.”

The two students exchanged anxious glances as they entered Campiello delle Scuole. They turned left at the ghetto's modest piazza, guiding Marlowe past a tall yellow building: la Scola Spagnola. The elder student unlocked its doors, and the three men entered.

La Scola Spagnola, “the Spanish Synagogue,” was a clandestine temple erected by Venetian Jews who survived the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition. Although its interior paled in comparison to its later renovations by Baldassare Longhena, Marlowe was nevertheless surprised by how large the candlelit temple appeared from the inside. All four floors of the building were one enormous place of worship crowned with a single continuous balcony not unlike a London theater. It was the largest synagogue in Venice, and one of the largest temples left in use in the world.

Azariah picked up a waiting lamp while Simone took Marlowe's bloody cloak. Not knowing what to do as a sign of respect, Marlowe crossed himself as Azariah led him through the temple. Three older men were seated on its wooden benches: rabbi and merchant Joseph Pardo, Rabbi Judah Leib Saraval of the ghetto
beth din
, and Ben Zion Sarfati, the chief rabbi of Venice. The three rabbis took one look at the blood-covered poet and gasped: “What is
this
?” “
This
is a
disaster
!” “
What
have we
done
?” “Why is
he
here, but
not
the dragoman?” “We
never
agreed to
this
!”

“I can hear everything you're saying,” Christopher Marlowe interrupted in Hebrew.

The three men turned their heads, as did Azariah and Simone.

“Where did you learn Hebrew, young man?” asked Rabbi Pardo.

“At Corpus Christi College in Cambridge.” In truth, Marlowe had taught himself Hebrew during his semester abroad, but he figured Corpus Christi would elicit more of a reaction out of the rabbis. Which it did.

“Come forward,” the head rabbi asked in an old, wispy voice.

“But please accept our apologies if we ask you
not
to sit,” added Rabbi Saraval.

“You're covered in blood, young man,” Rabbi Pardo explained.

“Yes, I know,” Marlowe sighed as he looked down at his crimsoned garments. “It's not mine.”

The rabbis looked at one another in an unspoken acknowledgment of the dangerous waters they were entering into.

“May I sit?” the bloodstained poet asked.

After a moment's hesitation, “Yes,” Rabbi Pardo replied.

“… provided it is on the
floor
,” Rabbi Saraval clarified.

The head rabbi overruled them. “Sit next to me, young man.”

Marlowe, already down on one knee, looked up with surprise as Ben Zion Sarfati waved him over. The poet rose from the floor and approached the rabbis while young Simone hustled over with some cloths to cover the benches with. Marlowe sat, and the four men spoke in whispers while Azariah and Simone guarded the sepia temple.

“Your great friend told us about you,” Rabbi Pardo began. “Is he still alive?”

Marlowe shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Do you
think
he is still alive?”

Marlowe's lips flinched speechlessly until he painfully acknowledged: “I think he's dead. It is possible the doge's guards captured him, but even if they did, he will probably be executed. I do not expect to see him again. Ever.” The poet sniffled.

Rabbis Pardo and Saraval looked to each other and then turned to Ben Zion Sarfati. The head rabbi's eyes appeared absorbed in thought, so Pardo asked: “Do you know
why
we agreed to help you?”

Marlowe shook his head. “I know my friend worked with more people than I could ever keep track of. It was just easier to assume he knew everyone in the city.”

“So, you do
not
know what he did for
us
?”

Marlowe shrugged. “An information exchange? Some other business?”

“This is not about
business
,” said Rabbi Pardo. “We are speaking about
life
!”

Marlowe paused, confused.

“Your friend,” the head rabbi spoke in an ancient voice, “filled these walls with hundreds of people over the course of a decade. Men, women, little boys and girls from throughout the Continent. People who needed
hope
.”

“People?” asked Marlowe. “You mean for this synagogue?”

“For survival,” said Rabbi Pardo. “Your friend approached us ten years ago and offered to help us bring displaced Jews to Venice. We let your friend know where they were and who needed help the most. He arranged their safe passage here at great risk to himself. It is because of
him
that every one of these people are still alive.”

Marlowe scratched his head, at which point he realized he was still wearing his parrying dagger in his hair. “Just so I know, how was something like that permitted? Shouldn't the government have disapproved?”

“The Venetian government
paid
him to do it!” Rabbi Saraval explained. “As a dragoman, he was able to persuade the Council of Ten about the
boon
that dispelled Jews had been for Istanbul. He told them how commerce increased thanks to Jewish merchants under Ottoman protection, and he read them a letter signed by the Sultana Safiye herself praising her
Jewish
dragoman, Esperanza Malchi! This convinced the council that more Jews should be brought to Venice, and that those already living here should be given more liberty. And the reason the Venetian government attempted this with your friend was because they knew he was
not
the government!”

“It was a secret,” Marlowe realized. “They did not want the public to know.”

The rabbis shook their heads.

“Well,” the poet exhaled, “that was certainly nice of him! So…” Marlowe paused to rub his hands together. “My friend helped you, and … you Jews will help me?”

“We are helping
him
,” the head rabbi clarified, “by assisting you at this dark hour
.
”

The poet shrugged. “Just as good. Thank you! What's the plan, then?”

“There is a rabbi in Ferrara named Leon Modena whom I will send you to,” said Rabbi Pardo. “You are welcome to stay with him or live elsewhere with the money the dragoman has left you.”

“Money?” asked Marlowe, raising his eyebrows. “How much?”

“Three thousand ducats.”