Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (7 page)

“Of course,” he said, nodding.

At this time, there was not yet a single wall around the ghetto, although many of the streets that would have led out of it were blocked by piles of stone and rubble. Since the announcement of the edict expelling the Jews from Spain, talk had increased of the need to build an actual wall, but thus far it was only talk.

Even so, it was no easy matter to come and go between the ghetto and the rest of Rome. Wagons were allowed through only one checkpoint, guarded by condotierri who decided who could pass according to what was pressed into their palms.

Those on foot passed a little more easily but not much. Only Vittoro’s air of authority and the Borgia insignia he did not hesitate to display assured that we were admitted without harassment. That proved to be a mixed blessing. The moment I stepped inside the ghetto, I feared I would gag. The smell of so many people packed together in so small a space was overwhelming. Garbage and offal lay everywhere, the stinking piles covered with swarms of mosquitoes drawn from the river. With every high tide, filthy water washed into the lower floors of many of the ramshackle shops and tenements, leaving deposits of mud and waste. Hardly a breath of air stirred between buildings so closely packed together as to all but block out the sun.

But all that paled beside the mass of humanity that spilled from every doorway and packed the streets—spindly, dull-eyed children; men and women stooped and worn far beyond their years; and the very few elderly, huddled despite the heat, rocking back and forth as though trying to escape the unbearable grief that was their lives.

“My God,” I whispered and gripped Vittoro’s hand.

He nodded somberly. “The priests say the expulsion from Spain is only God’s latest punishment of the Ebreos for killing Christ.”

I had heard this but could not claim to understand it. The house priests who conducted Mass at the Cardinal’s palazzo rarely mentioned such matters. They favored sermons exalting the wisdom of authority and the necessity of obedience to it. But occasionally they would mention, almost in passing, that the Jews were to blame for every ill in the world because they had killed the Redeemer of Mankind, Christ.

Once I had asked my father why the Jews had done that, but he had only smiled sadly and reminded me that it was Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross.

Was it then really Rome that was being punished? The Rome of Holy Mother Church with its plague of princes and palaces? With men like Rodrigo Borgia who aspired to be its ruler?

I shied away from such thoughts. They were matters best left unquestioned by anyone hoping to remain alive. But they were also distracting enough that I failed to feel the hand slipped lightly into the slit in my skirt and from there into the pouch I wore beneath where I carried coins, my keys, and a few other important items. If I hadn’t stumbled on a jagged cobblestone at just that moment, the pickpocket relieving me of my purse might have gotten away unnoticed.

Instead, I felt the hand against my leg and instinctively cried out: “Thief!”

The culprit attempted to dart away into the crowd but Vittoro, despite his age, was faster. His hand lashed out, closing on the scruff of an unwashed neck.

“Not so fast!” The captain gave a hard shake to the thin, ragged creature dangling a foot or two off the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Incredibly, the boy—who looked no more than six or seven years of age but was probably several years older—made no effort to plead for mercy. Instead, he kicked fiercely, trying to land a blow anywhere he could and at the same time shrieked:

“
Bastardo!
Let go of me! Let go!”

Vittoro raised his free hand to strike the child but I grabbed hold of his arm. “Best not,” I said softly and inclined my head toward the surrounding crowd.

The captain followed the direction of my gaze and saw what I
had seen. No one among the Ebreos was making any sort of threatening gesture toward us, much less attempting to rescue the boy. But the great mass of them on all sides and their silent watchfulness raised the question of what exactly they would do if they thought the boy in danger of arrest or worse.

“This won’t help us,” I said, still keeping my voice very low.

Vittoro nodded. He set the boy on his feet but kept firm hold of his thin arm.

“What is your name?” he asked the young thief.

The answer was a great wad of phlegm, remarkable for so small a boy, that landed precisely an inch beyond the tip of Vittoro’s boots.

The captain sighed and shook his head. “What way is that to act? I asked you a civil question.” He looked down at the boy, who was beginning to frown through his defiance as the scene failed to play out according to his expectation. “But perhaps you don’t know your name,” Vittoro suggested. “Perhaps you don’t know your father.”

“I’m not the bastard,” the boy shot back. “You are.”

“In fact, I am not,” Vittoro replied patiently. “My name is Vittoro Romano. This lady is Francesca Giordano. Who are you?”

Grudgingly, the boy replied, “Benjamin Albanesi.”

“Good,” Vittoro said. “Benjamin Albanesi, I am going to release you. When I do, you have two choices. You can run off and be done with this. Or you can stay, help us find the place we seek, and earn a silver penny for your trouble instead of trying to steal one.”

Benjamin stared at him suspiciously. “Let me see the penny.”

With a sigh for the demands of children, Vittoro did as he was bid. The pickpocket looked carefully at the coin, then held out his hand. When it was placed in his palm, he weighed it with equal caution before he finally nodded.

“
Bene.
I will help you.”

The crowd, apparently satisfied, moved on. Vittoro released the boy who remained where he was, looking at us both.

“What is it you seek?” he asked.

I drew out the paper the Cardinal had given me and showed it to the boy, assuming that I would have to read it for him, but Benjamin surprised me. He took a quick look and nodded.

“I know the place. Come on.”

We followed him down one crowded street, around a corner into a narrow lane, and out again onto another street. Deeper and deeper we went into the maze of the ghetto until I began to wonder if we were being taken in circles. Along the way, we saw streets of another sort, where the tidal overflow from the river did not impinge, nor did the teeming masses. Behind high, featureless walls constructed to give no hint of what they concealed, Jewish merchants who did business from L’Angleterre and the far-off lands of the Rus to the souks of Morocco and Istanbul lived in what was whispered to be unbridled luxury. Though they might have greater comforts than others of their tribe, they were no more free to live outside the ghetto than was any other unconverted Jew. The only route to such freedom lay in the denial of their faith. More than a few Jews had taken that path and become
conversi,
but not without great peril. They were the first to be proclaimed heretics and the first to burn.

At last, we came to a crooked lane all but hidden in shadow. A straggling line of people waited in front of what appeared to be an apothecary’s shop. Several held sick children in their arms. Others supported friends or family members who were unable themselves to stand.

“Cover your face,” Vittoro ordered as he quickly pulled up a length of his shirt and did the same.

I obeyed. My eyes darted back and forth, narrowing as I took in
the misery on every side. In quick succession, I saw suppurating sores, unhealed wounds, breathing that racked skeletal bodies, and people so close to death as to be insensible. With difficulty, we reached the apothecary’s door just as a middle-aged woman opened it.

“Binyamin,” the woman exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

The boy, who had not bothered to cover his face, eyed the woman confidently. “Benjamin, Signora Montefiore.
Per favore,
my name is Benjamin.”

“Such foolishness. You have no business here. It is not safe.”

“I do have business, signora. I have brought these two to meet you.” He stepped aside and with a flourish, indicated the two of us.

Seeing us, the woman frowned. Her gaze settled on me as, without thinking, I lowered my shawl from in front of my face. After studying me for a moment, the woman asked softly, “What brings you here, lady?”

Remembering the name on the paper the Cardinal had given me, I replied, “I seek Signore Montefiore, your husband, perhaps?”

A faint smile touched the woman’s exhausted face beneath the cloud of silver hair emerging from a roughly tied kerchief. “Then you seek in vain. My husband died ten years ago. I am Sofia Montefiore. I think it is I you want to see.”

She stepped aside for us to enter.

Once in the apothecary shop, I looked around quickly. What I saw confirmed what I already suspected: The shop was functioning as a hospital for the very sick. Almost every inch of the floor was taken up with patients lying on litters or on the floor itself. Most were wrapped in threadbare blankets. Others, those in the throes of fever, had thrown off their blankets. A handful of men and women went among them, offering what comfort they could.

Vittoro tugged hard on my arm. “We must leave.
Now
.”

Tempted though I was to agree with him, I shook my head. “Not yet. I must find out why the Cardinal sent me here.”

To Sofia Montefiore, I said, “My name is Francesca Giordano. I am—”

“I know who you are,” the woman said. She wiped her red, worn hands on the apron covering her simple gown, both clean despite the chaos surrounding her, and gestured toward the rear of the shop. “We can talk in there.”

With a quick glance at Vittoro, she added, “Unless you are afraid to linger.”

The captain flushed but I did not hesitate. I followed the woman toward the back, mindful that Vittoro did the same. Briefly, I considered asking him to wait outside, but to do so would be to offend both his pride and his sense of duty. Together, we accompanied Sofia Montefiore into a small workroom.

When the door was closed behind us, shutting out the mass of suffering humanity in the front of the shop, I asked, “You recognized me. How?”

Sofia Montefiore leaned against a cluttered table. She appeared to be inexpressively weary yet her voice remained strong. “I knew your father. One day when you went with him to the Campo dei Fiori, he pointed you out to me while you were looking at spices. He was a good man. His death is a terrible tragedy.”

“Thank you,” I said, and immediately pressed on. “How were you acquainted with him?”

I truly could not imagine what would ever have brought Giovanni Giordano into contact with the Jewess, much less that they could have become friendly enough for him to point out his daughter to her. Not that my father had ever expressed any sentiment against the Jews. It was just that he scarcely mentioned them at all.

“My late husband was an apothecary,” Sofia said. I had the impression that she was choosing her words with great care. “He and your father knew each other as young men. They resumed their acquaintance when Giovanni came to Rome to serve Cardinal Borgia.”

“That must have been shortly before your husband died.” My father had been ten years in the service of Il Cardinale, which meant that he and Sofia Montefiore’s husband could not have had long to renew their acquaintance before the latter’s death.

“That is true,” Sofia said. “When my husband died, Giovanni came to offer his condolences. As I took over Aaron’s work, we remained in touch.”

“You became an apothecary?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. I had heard of women in some of the guilds—dyers, brewers, and the like—who succeeded to their husbands’ positions upon becoming widows. But they did so only with great difficulty and then only until any sons they had became old enough to take their places. The Jews, of course, were not allowed in the guilds. Presumably, they had their own rules.

“I did,” Sofia said with a faint smile. “Surely, you do not disapprove of a woman in a man’s profession?”

The way she said it made me suspect that Sofia Montefiore knew of my own recent ascension to the ranks of women doing men’s work. Given that rumor is the chief product of Rome eclipsing all else, that was not surprising.

“Of course not. What you do is your own affair. But I do want to know what contact you had with my father in recent months as well as anything that he may have told you or left here with you.”

A look of bewilderment came over the older woman. She shook her head slowly. “I have no idea what you mean. It was winter when I saw your father last.”

I stiffened. Sofia Montefiore was telling me that Borgia had sent me on
una ricerca vana,
a wild-goose chase. Given that Il Cardinale had the most extensive and highly skilled network of spies in Rome, the Papal States, and beyond, it was highly unlikely that he would do any such thing.

“It would be a mistake,” I said carefully, “to underestimate the Cardinal’s interest in this matter.”

Calmly, Sofia said, “I assure you I would never do that. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my patients.”

With no better choice, Vittoro and I left through the back door of the shop. It gave onto a dank and narrow alley, which took us finally to one of the larger streets and from there to the gate leading out into the city. Once we were free of the ghetto’s stifling confines, I all but sagged with relief. Nothing had prepared me for the suffering of Rome’s Jews. Even as I walked away quickly, I knew I would be haunted by what I had seen.

Under the circumstances, and given that I had nothing of any substance to report to Il Cardinale, I persuaded Vittoro to escort me only so far as Rocco’s shop in the Campo. There the captain left me with my promise that I would not return to the palazzo without the guard he would send to fetch me.

You may wonder why I went there. To put it plainly, I was overwhelmed and had no idea where else to turn. To all intents and purposes, I had failed in my first mission for Borgia, having discovered nothing to indicate what my father had been doing, much less records of his work. Sofia Montefiore claimed complete ignorance of his activities. The only other person I could think of who might know was Rocco.