The Judas Cloth Page 12

  Six

  Rome, March 1848

  A breeze blended street smells into something as poignant as a potpourri while the ex-ambassador paused to eat cheese-stuffed rice-fritters with his fingers. This gave him intense pleasure. Just now, on the Gianiculum, he had seen a cardinal descend from his crested carriage, refuse the services of three footmen and do the same. Roman nonchalance! The ex-ambassador had never been able to indulge it until now.

  An exile watches his step and His Excellency Count Pellegrino Rossi had been moving around Europe like a journeyman for thirty-four years! Minding your step lest the ground shift was sound strategy, but now it was too late. The shift had taken place and his replacement had been installed in the Palazzo Colonna with a tricolour over the door.

  His Excellency whisked crumbs from his waistcoat and tried to remember whether in childhood he had ever eaten fritters in the street. Probably not. Prodigies do not have true childhoods and he, though in his sixties, was aware of a fund of boyishness still rash and urgent in an untapped part of his soul.

  The word drew him up. It was much in use these days. So were ‘free’ and ‘fight’: buoyant words which revived memories of three and a half decades ago when the prodigy kicked over the traces and bolted. He soon learned to keep his soul well in hand.

  The fritter crumpled. Its batter was bubbly like condensing air. He had got his teeth into the radiant Roman day.

  Weeds coloured the crannies of monuments and a foreign woman, having set up her easel, was dabbing in watery approximations of this anarchic brilliance.

  He moved along. Idleness was alien to him and he had already killed time at Merle’s bookshop. It was a meeting place for the lettered whom he had no longer any reason to avoid.

  Vacating the ambassadorial appartments had cost him few regrets. His wife, a Geneva Protestant, was not persona grata to the papal government, so his three-year residency had been something of a bivouac. Charlotte, obliged to keep out of the way, had claimed not to mind and probably hadn’t. Being French ambassadress to the Holy See would not have suited her. Few could be less fit for the role. Watching her, you saw how the Reformation had come about. Not only did she get things wrong, she saw wrong everywhere – even in a cardinal’s companionably accepting snuff from his footman’s snuffbox.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Rossi reassured. But her mind was no more negotiable than a ledger. ‘The cardinal,’ he explained, ‘does not need to insist on status as a bourgeois might.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being bourgeois?’ asked his bourgeoise on whom their recently acquired title sat oddly.

  ‘Only that people here are more intimate with their servants.’

  To Charlotte ‘intimate’ meant lewd. She got homesick and, despite remissions – springtime, carnival – only recovered when back in her wholesome Geneva. Rossi understood. One became a hybrid, missing Swiss cleanliness in the scrolled and golden Roman cafés, yet – in his case – yearning, when in Geneva, for Roman ease. Charlotte did not. She complained querulously when here and had not acquired the nous of Roman ladies who knew how to feign abstraction when a gentleman was emptying his bladder into a potted shrub. Her delicacy was as vulnerable to a urine splash as demons to holy water. Thank God she was now enjoying Northern hygiene in the company of their second son. There had been one appalling occasion when some drops bounced onto her dress. At the Princess Colonna’s. Memory quailed. He shook his head.

  Theirs had not been a love match, so he had no reproaches to make. She had been the companion of his cautious years.

  He reached the Caffè Nuovo. Marco Minghetti, one of the new lay ministers, invited him to his table and Rossi sighed at the smeared marble. ‘Would you think I was being Swiss if we asked one of these fellows to clean it?’

  They took up their usual debate, pausing only when the still smeary table – the waiter’s flourish had merely rearranged the dirt – was approached by a cleric whose stoop sagged into a bow. Dottor Vigilio was off his beat in this Liberals’ café.

  ‘Bad news, Minister,’ he greeted Minghetti. ‘A man has been murdered in Ancona under the windows of the British consul whose daughters witnessed the knifing. It seems he hoped for sanctuary.’

  Minghetti looked put out.

  ‘The victim was the unfortunate Lucarelli whom I had the honour to recommend to both Your Excellencies some time back.’

  ‘Lucarelli the spy?’ asked Rossi.

  ‘A sincere man who craved the consolation of kissing both your Excellencies’ hands.’ The cleric granted him ten seconds’ silence. Then: ‘There are others for whom something may yet be done. Archives have been opened stripping away the mystery which should protect such men. If we use them, can we then deny them?’

  ‘I,’ said the minister, ‘used nobody.’

  ‘Not you personally, Minister.’ Dottor Vigilio smiled mossily.

  ‘I find,’ said Minghetti, who had not asked the cleric to sit, ‘that half the Treasury’s revenues go to parasites who disgorge its vital substance to lesser creatures of their own. Your clients, Dottor Vigilio, probably belonged to the best-paid category we have. We now need money for arms and are at a loss where to look. Will they pay the state back what they milked from it?’

  ‘Count,’ the agent turned to Rossi, ‘I appeal to you …’

  ‘I am a private citizen, Dottor Vigilio.’

  ‘Oh Excellency, that is unlikely to last.’

  The young minister was impatient but Rossi relished the agent’s perceptible undermining of his own overt discourse. Something as elusive as a tonal shift solicited connivance. You and I, implied this secondary language, are birds of a feather; we live on several planes.

  To Rossi, lifelong exile and funambulist, the invitation to volatility was irresistible. Since the Paris revolution brought down the regime he represented, he had been drawing closer to the Roman one. Both Minghetti and His Holiness unofficially turned to him for advice. Weeks ago he, and he alone, had been granted an advance look at the new and grudging constitution – the first ever granted here – while it was still a draft.

  ‘Your Holiness,’ he had exclaimed, ‘it is not a constitution. It is a declaration of war on Your Holiness’s subjects.’

  Nothing mealy-mouthed about that! But the Pope published the thing anyway. A neophyte ruler – especially if more bishop than king – needed delicate handling. Had Rossi lost his touch?

  As a young refugee his misfortune had had the glamour of a war wound. But wounds, over time, become disabilities, so he learned to hide his and three times made his mark in new territory. After being exiled from Bologna, where he had been one of the law school’s shining lights, he had glowed a while in the firmament of the Swiss Diet, then moved to Paris where he could have had a cabinet post if he had not preferred the ambassadorship. That had been a coup. Alone among political exiles, he had returned on his own terms! All his roads led here – though in the end it was a near thing. Guizot, his master at the French Foreign Ministry, was now an exile himself, yet here was Rossi, home and dry, with more political nous than any man in the peninsula!

  Impetuosity tempted him as it hadn’t done since he risked his Chair of Jurisprudence to join Joachim Murat’s daredevil bid to unite the peninsula. Thirty-four years ago. Be prudent, Rossi.

  He always had been. After that one wild act he became a byword for it. His work on a constitution for the Swiss and in Guizot’s government in Paris were – he now hoped – an apprenticeship for his real task: to help glue together the jigsaw parts of his own country: Italy. It would be his youthful dream realised! A prickle of anticipation played along his skin.

  He must have smiled, for Dottor Vigilio took this as a cue.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have a new supplicant …’

  Will Minghetti think ill of me, wondered Rossi, if I encourage the agent?

  But now the minister, a man unable to spend his day in cafés, took his leave.

  The other two, like a couple left unchaperoned, lowered the
ir voices. The agent’s new supplicant was called Nardoni and, like all old spies, he had a file of papers to barter for protection. The agent, moving at a tangent, asked Rossi’s opinion on a case in the file. ‘It concerns a lady who, while married to one nobleman – let us call him Don X – had a son by Don Z. Certain parties wish to know whether the child has any standing in law.’

  ‘Normally such offspring is assumed to be the husband’s.’

  ‘Ah, but in this case the mother chose not to foist spurious issue on him. The child was delivered in secrecy while her lover stood outside her door with a cocked pistol. This lover was a foreign gentleman who returned in time to his own country. The child was bundled out to a foundling hospital and brought up by strangers. Now, however, the legitimate male line is extinct, following the deaths of Don X and his son.’

  ‘And to whom will the family fortune go? I presume this to be the pivotal interest here,’ said Rossi.

  ‘There is a daughter who married into a Republican family.’

  ‘So the bastard’s sponsors must be – don’t tell me – the Gregorians? Well, my answer is the same: a child born in wedlock is the husband’s. Pater est quem justae nuptiae demonstrant.’

  ‘Indeed. But the mother has scruples. Her former confessor told her that the real sin was in importing alien blood into the family and adulterating the stock. Women who sin can be seized with an aversion for the sin’s fruit. The lady’s present confessor, a more humane man, hopes to persuade her that her attitude lacks charity. She wants to apprise the Pope of her dilemma.’

  ‘And your friends distrust His Holiness?’

  The agent turned up his hands.

  ‘You think he is surrounded by bad advisers? Perhaps,’ it struck Rossi, ‘you wonder about me?’

  ‘Excellency, you are a known moderate.’

  ‘So you are testing me?’ The case, Rossi guessed, was no doubt a fiction and so perhaps were Nardoni and his file. In seminaries such cases of conscience were regularly invented to try the resourcefulness of aspiring priests.

  ‘If the case were to come to trial would you think the present climate favourable?’

  ‘To Liberals or Republicans?’

  The agent nodded.

  ‘No.’ Rossi rose.

  ‘I’ll walk out with you.’

  Outside, the agent murmured. ‘It is a real case. I know Your Excellency is discretion itself. It would be hard to win, would it not, if the mother were to declare the boy a bastard?’

  ‘Would she?’

  ‘Who knows? These are strange times. It is probably your duty, Excellency, to save us from the extremes which threaten us.’

  ‘If I did, would they threaten me?’

  The agent’s hands sketched the gestures of a priest offering up the sacrifice of the mass. Perhaps he was offering up Rossi? Returning to the Nardoni file, he whispered: ‘Any man who takes power will need information he can use for his own protection …’

  Rossi interrupted him: ‘No,’ he said. ‘Blackmail is what you’re proposing, isn’t it? So: no.’ He felt elated. Challenge was like wine to him.

  *

  A letter had come from Monsignor Amandi. It was addressed to the Rector. Pale fingers folded it into a trumpet, turning the writing from Nicola who would not be shown the contents.

  ‘You’re to leave us.’

  The Rector looked harassed. He lowered the paper trumpet and began to mumble. A pity to interrupt one’s studies. Normally – but where now was normality? The school itself might shortly be closing down. ‘Don’t forget the principles we have endeavoured …’

  It was a demobilising speech. Man and boy looked at each other with tired sympathy.

  ‘Pray for us,’ said the Rector. The light was silver on the surface of his soutane. The Jesuits wore their clothes until they were too threadbare to be given to beggars.

  Tears filled Nicola’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Father …’ It was the washing out of something he had not had time to quite feel: the quick quitting of a debt. Oh God, he thought – and the tears sprayed. God would be staying here in this target for threats and missiles. It was shameful to be so glad to go.

  Before leaving, he divided his few possessions and gave away one or two of the things he liked best: a magic, propitiatory move.

  *

  His confessor embraced him. ‘I have information for you.’ Father Curci drew him into an empty classroom. ‘I have discovered who first delivered you to your wet nurse.’

  ‘The bishop …’

  ‘It wasn’t he.’ The confessor’s eyes were bright. ‘I’m not happy about telling you. At another time I’d wait but we’ll soon be packing our bags. Hotheads are pushing the Holy Father into this war with Austria and we’re seen, God knows unjustly, as Austrophiles …’

  Nicola waited.

  ‘Before I tell you,’ Father Curci looked severe, ‘I want you to remember that anyone living under obedience should let himself be directed under divine providence as though he were a corpse – perinde ac cadaver. A corpse or a staff in an old man’s hand. Remember that when you see us kicked out. You won’t hear a murmur from us. Just remember why when we’re maligned by men like Gavazzi. It was he,’ Curci paused, ‘who brought you to your wet nurse.’

  ‘The preacher? Father Gavazzi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he a bad priest?’

  ‘Who can look into his conscience? He was a prison chaplain in Parma and seems to have been unbalanced by what he saw. Now he’ll unbalance others. Letting him loose among the common people is like throwing a live brand into hay.’ The confessor squeezed Nicola’s hands in his own and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Nicola went to take his leave of the Prefect of Studies and found his cell door open and Father Grassi standing at it. He was in mid-harangue. ‘Sixty!’ cried Grassi. ‘Sixty bishops have declared their support fur us, yet the Holy Father will not let their letters be published!’

  There was a gentle mumble from inside the cell. The Father Prefect was no doubt in favour of behaving perinde ac cadaver.

  Grassi was impatient. The Jesuits, he reminded, had been founded to deal with this world and even Pope Clement, when on the point of suppressing them, had said they should not change. Aut sint ut sunt aut non sint! ‘Remember,’ urged Grassi, ‘let them be as they are, capable of dealing with the world as it is.’

  ‘By scheming?’

  ‘Using our heads!’

  ‘Profiting by an adultery?’ Here the voices sank. ‘My sister …’ groaned the Father Prefect.

  Grassi stepped into the cell and closed the door behind him. ‘She could,’ Nicola heard him say, ‘be taken to law!’

  After that the argument was muffled. Then Father Grassi came out and strode off, kicking his soutane as he turned the corner.

  Nicola said goodbye to the Father Prefect who was tremulous with distress. ‘Can you believe that our probable refuge,’ he said, ‘will be Protestant England?’

  Martelli, who was leaving too, was waiting in the porter’s lodge. They arranged to meet. Nicola was to spend some days with Don Eugenio, and Martelli would be with his cousin.

  The porter had a story about how the Pope had promised to support the Jesuits but – there was no time to finish. As Nicola’s carriage left, a glove waved. It looked like a broken hand.

  *

  News of fighting in the North now held up his plans, for Monsignor Amandi sent word that until things settled he should stay put and Don Eugenio agreed. He had just heard that the Pope had agreed to let a volunteer force from here march to the aid of Piedmont and appointed Father Gavazzi to be its Chaplain General.

  ‘Gavazzi’s leaving with them tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Nicola was gripped by disappointment. Supposing the chaplain were to be killed before he could question him.

  ‘Yes. With four of his brothers.’ Don Eugenio’s tone was mocking. ‘Five vigorous Gavazzi off to fight the Austrians! Plus a ragtag of volunteers! A crusade, they’re calling
it.’ He shrugged his shoulders. His Holiness had ordered this. Could we be returning to the awful era of popes and anti-popes?

  Nicola explained why he wanted a word with the abate. Was there any hope of this? Don Eugenio said Gavazzi would be at the Circolo this evening. It might be hard though to get his attention.

  ‘He’s the hero of the hour. He gave a speech in the Colosseum which I’m told would melt stone. More to the point, it stiffened our Mammas who began offering up their sons like Roman matronae.’

  Not even Nicola’s news of Gavazzi’s connection with himself could disturb Don Eugenio’s phlegm.

  Martelli was at the Circolo and pointed out celebrities. A greasy-haired, heavy man with a mustache was the famous Ciceruacchio, the people’s tribune. Gavazzi was not yet here. An English clergyman, going from group to group, kept asking about the morality of Roman women and whether civil servants objected to the obligation to confess and take communion once a year.

  ‘The obbligo di Pasqua,’ he kept repeating. ‘Will it be abolished?’ His name was Archdeacon Manning and he pronounced the letter ‘t’ as though imitating a bird.

  People told him that nobody minded the requirement since a certificate of compliance could be bought for a half scudo. No, they did not think this hypocritical. Were English civil servants not expected to show loyalty?

  But now Gavazzi was said to have arrived. Nicola’s heart pounded. ‘Gavazzi,’ said unknown gentlemen to each other. His name was on every lip. Had he really persuaded the Holy Father to make war on Austria? Now that he was leaving would his influence wane? A schism? Might there … Hush.

  Nicola returned to the hall. By the door stood the man whom he had been told was Ciceruacchio. He had his arm around a young boy.