S. Parris - The Secret Dead

“No.” I regarded him with a steady eye. “My family haslived in Nola for generations. You may make any enquiries you wish.”

“Oh, I have,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “Your fatheris a soldier, is he not? And a soldier for hire at that — not even an officer.”He sounded regretful. “Still — with the right patronage, a young man with yourrare abilities might achieve great things in the Dominican order. You werefortunate to be admitted to San Domenico. Without your place here, I fear yourexceptional talents would go to waste.” His eyes skated over me from head tofoot as he spoke, as if he were trying to detect whether I was concealinganything.

“I do consider myself fortunate, Brother.” I lowered mygaze to demonstrate deference.

“You might prove it by showing a little less disregard forthe rules,” he said. I jerked my head up and stared at him, indignant. He laughedand stretched his arm out to pull down a branch of the tree above us. “No doubtyou think me a hypocrite for saying so. But here one has to earn the right to adegree of flexibility. You are very cocksure for a friar who has barely takenhis vows. Not my words, Brother, but those of others who have noted yourtendency to pick and choose when to honor the vow of obedience. And I do notbelieve you have the learning to challenge the authority of Holy Scripture inthe way you do. I offer this as a friendly warning. But you should be awarethat they are keeping a close eye on you.” He snapped off the twig in his handsand stood there, twirling it between his fingers.

I walked away. I did not know if there was any truth in hiswords, but the warning itself was not to be ignored. Donato was certainlywatching me, and he wanted to be sure I knew he could break my future as easilyas that branch. When I reached the far side of the gardens I glanced back tosee him under the trees, searching the ground and kicking at the grass with thetoe of his calf-leather shoes.

** *

As soon as I was alone in my cell for silent prayer, Iopened the locket. The clasp sprung with a satisfying click, to reveal aminiature portrait of a dark-haired woman. It was cheaply rendered; the paintblurred in places so that it was hard to make out her features, though Iassumed it must be the girls’ mother. I turned the locket over in my hand,perplexed as to why Maria should have been so afraid of losing it. I picturedagain the flash of panic in her eyes, the desperate catch in her voice. Perhapsit was more valuable than she admitted, or it was all the sisters had toremember their mother. But I could see that the back of the golden oval wasdeep and rounded, though the portrait it contained was flat. It looked as if ithad been designed to contain something more substantial than a picture. Somethingconcealed behind it, perhaps. Such things were used for smuggling secretcommunications, I had heard. With this sudden understanding, my skin prickledinto goosebumps. Of course a master goldsmith would know how to work a hiddencompartment into a pendant like this. The question was how to find the openingwithout damaging the mechanism. I worked at the clasp with the tip of my knifewith no success, before trying the same trick with the hinge on the other side.I nicked my fingertips so many times that the surface and the blade grewslippery with blood, until at last I heard a catch give and the back of thelocket opened smoothly. I licked the blood from my fingers, wiped them on myhabit, and drew out a folded square of parchment.

The writing on it was tiny and densely packed, though neatand precise as if it had been written with a quill as fine as a needle. But myheart was hammering as fiercely as the moment I first saw the girl’s body, forthe characters written there were Hebrew. I mouthed the first words — ShemaYisrael — and realized I was holding a text more dangerous than anything Ihad read in my life. This was a copy of the Shema , from the Jewishprayer service. Anyone found to possess this would be immediately summonedbefore the Inquisition, with little hope of a pardon. No wonder Maria was soterrified of its falling into the wrong hands.

Officially, there were no Jews left in Naples. They had beenexpelled in 1541, though a few had chosen to convert and stay. Maria’s fathermust be one such convertito , if he was permitted to trade here as aNeapolitan. I had heard that their houses were raided occasionally to ensurethat they had truly renounced the faith, but it was rumored that some hadmanaged to cling to their traditions in secret. I recalled the deliberate crueltyof Donato’s insult to Maria; the way she had flinched as if he had struck her. Theinsinuations he had made to me — that he could taint me with the same slur ifhe wished. What did he know of Maria’s family history? If the girl Anna hadbelieved herself in love with him, how much might she have confided? To hidethe Shema in the locket suggested that, however tentatively, she had chosento hold on to her identity. Surely she would not have given up such a dangeroussecret to a man who belonged among the city’s Inquisitors, no matter how stronglyshe felt for him?

I folded the parchment and replaced it in the locket withtrembling fingers. As I closed the secret compartment, I saw that a drop ofblood from my finger had stained the edge of the prayer crimson. I could notthink what to do. In my heart I knew I had no choice but to return the locketto Maria; I understood its value now, not least as a memory of her dead motherand her sister. But to return it was as good as confirming that I knewsomething about the girl’s fate, and the bloodstain on the parchment would surelyfuel their fears; they would take it for hers. I could not keep it. Fra Gennarowould no doubt see it as more evidence to be erased, so I could not ask for hishelp. I hid it again inside my undershirt and prayed earnestly for guidance.

** *

Despite Fra Donato’s warning that I was being watched, I decidedto miss my theology class after the midday meal, asking Paolo to say I wasstill feverish, and slipped out into the tired heat of the city. With my hoodpulled up around my face, I cut along Via Tribunali in the direction of theDuomo. Strada dell’Anticaglia stood steeped in shadow from the high buildings closingin on both sides. Lines hung with washing dripped on me from above as I passedunder the ancient arches of the Roman theater that spanned the street, seemingto hold up the houses. I walked quickly, my head down, scanning the doorways andbarred windows for the sign of a goldsmith’s. After walking the length of thestreet, I returned to the only shop that seemed likely, though it had no markeroutside, and peered through the small window. Inside, a man stood canted over aworkbench with two lamps lit beside him; though it was the brightest hour ofthe day, the sun would never penetrate to the interior of this little shop inits canyon of a street. He held a thick lens to one eye to magnify his visionas he worked with a delicate, tweezer-like tool. I could see only the top ofhis head: graying curly hair and the beginnings of a bald patch the size of acommunion wafer.

A bell chimed as I entered the shop. The man looked up witha smile that froze on his lips as he registered my habit. He lowered the lensand straightened his back with an air of resignation.

“Have you come to search my home again, Brother? It isbarely two months since they were last here.” He sounded as if the prospectmade him weary rather than angry. “We are true Catholics, as we have been fortwenty-five years.”

Twenty-five years. He could not be much over fifty; thatwould mean he had been little more than my age when he had been asked to choosebetween his history and his home.

“No, sir,” I said, quickly, appalled to have caused himalarm. “I hoped I might speak to your daughter. Maria.”