Francesca Allegri

By Norman Gautreau

Uprooted from her ancestral home of Aquilac in the South of France, Francesca Allegri comes to live with her uncle, the noted composer Gregorio Allegri, in Rome. Almost instantly, this highly educated, headstrong woman is plunged into the high-stakes intrigues of the Vatican. Her defiance of a papal decree makes her an enemy of the establishment who chase her and her lover all across Europe. If she is caught, a dungeon awaits and, perhaps, burning at the stake. Her response? She stokes their anger even further by authoring a book, more heretical even than Galileo, in which she challenges the Church's worldview.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norman Gautreau
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476475509

Norman Gautreau

Norman and his wife Susan were driving through the South of France, he at the wheel, Susan doing what she loves best when traveling: reading aloud the history contained in good travel guides. On that day they learned a lot about the troubadours and about the Cathars and the crusade to exterminate these peaceable people. Somewhere between Carcassonne and Toulouse they noticed a road sign, “Route Entre Deux Mers” – Road Between Two Seas – and a metaphor took shape in Norman’s mind about a land between the dark Atlantic and the bright Mediterranean where, through the ages, people expressed the darkest and the brightest recesses of the human soul. It is a place some still call Occitania. That night, he scribbled out an outline of a James Michener type epic stretching from the days of the prehistoric cave paintings all the way to the French Resistance in World War II. That brainstorm on the road has evolved in the past twenty years to 25 stories in 8 volumes called the Paratge Saga, the first published volume of which is Francesca Allegri. He began to explore other stories he wanted to write that were unrelated to the ongoing Paratge Saga project. In 2002, MacAdam/Cage, brought out his novel Sea Room. This book went on to win the prestigious Massachusetts Book Award. He followed it with Island of First Light, also published by MacAdam/Cage, a novel that has become a readers’ group favorite. These books have been followed by the recent releases of The Sea Around Them and Iniquity by Trobador Publishing. Norman continues to work on the next volume in the Paratge Sage: Songs of the Dove: A Quartet, as well as several other projects all of which he hopes to publish in 2013.

Book preview

Francesca Allegri

The Paratge Saga (Years 1652-1655)

by

N.G. Gautreau

Praise for the Author's Work

" ... an absorbing, moving and thoughtful novel, rich in the qualities of character and setting that allow the reader to enter into the lives and moral dilemmas he portrays."

— The Historical Novels Review

... [Gautreau has] a strong eye for detailed atmosphere ... the characters are wonderfully rendered.

— Publisher’s Weekly

...stands out for [his] ability to bring both place and character to life for the reader.

— Massachusetts Center for the Book

...transports the reader back in time when integrity and a higher purpose in life was not merely an aspiration but an honorable resolve ... exquisitely written.

— David Baldacci, New York Times bestselling author of Last Man Standing and Absolute Power.

[He] perfectly captures [the] struggle with the elements as a way of life, the fury and the bounty of the ocean and the tough, basically good-hearted folk who understand life at its most basic ... core.

— Curledup.com

... well and truly told, vivid, engrossing and edgy as life can get. The reader cares about the people, about their place ... a tale worth the telling, people worth the meeting. One of the few books I’ve read recently that I read twice—once because I cared so much how it came out and the second time for sheer pleasure.

— The Courier-Gazette, Bangor, ME

Characters, both major and minor, are vividly drawn ... — Library Journal

... very highly recommended ...

— Library Bookwatch

Setting and characters intertwine nicely ... a fast moving novel ...

— Portland (ME) Press Herald

By the same author

As Norman G. Gautreau

Sea Room

Island of First Light

The Sea Around Them

As N. George Gautreau

Iniquity

Trobador Publishing

Wakefield, MA 01880

http://www.normanggautreau.com

Copyright © 2012 by Norman G. Gautreau

All rights reserved. Published 2012

Smashwords Edition

Cover photograph: Copyright by Arman Zhenikeyev

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Notes

On the Latin Used in theis Book

Chapter One—The Brass Latch / The Hymn of Orpheus

Chapter Two—Athanasius Kircher / Once Pious

Chapter Three—Viterbo / Marietta

Chapter Four—I Bricconi / Aquilac

Chapter Five—A Midsummer Barn / Montaigne / Paris

Chapter Six—Amsterdam / Dresden / Freiburg / Rome

Chapter Seven—Malta / Freiburg Redux

Chapter Eight—Castro / Dolça

Chapter Nine—The Order of the Golden Spur / Salzburg

Chapter Ten—Freiburg (Redux?)

Connect With the Author

Notes

The motet Miserere mei, Deus by Gregorio Allegri (1582—1652) plays a central role in this story. As of this writing, a visit to YouTube with the entry Allegri Miserere will yield several performances.

The diminutive for Francesca, Chicca, is pronounced KEEka in Italian.

The alert reader who is familiar with the Book of Job will detect an error in Francesca's reading of it. This error is deliberate and is part of the story.

On the Latin used in this book

Miserere mei Deus … dele iniquitatem meam—From the first two lines of Psalm 51: Have mercy on me, O God … and cleanse me from my sin.

Cantus Firmus—Literally, fixed song. It was the basis of polyphonic compositions of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The melody was usually taken from the Gregorian chant and would provide a slow, underlying motif upon which more rapid lines, either vocal or instrumental, were built. This is the structure of Gregorio Allegri’s Miserere.

Abbellimenti—The variety of embellishments such as trills, mordents, appoggiaturas, acciaccaturas, and glissandos that ornament a piece of music. Such embellishments marked the Sistine Choir’s performance of the Miserere during the 17th century.

Tenebrae—Latin for shadows or, alternatively, darkness. The name of the services on Holy Wednesday and Good Friday at which the Miserere was performed in the Sistine Chapel. By papal decree, it was forbidden to perform this piece at any other time or in any other place.

Falsobordone—A term for a style of recitation based on root-position triads, with the form and melody of a Gregorian psalm-tone. It was the basic technique of Allegri’s Miserere.

Stile antico—Literally ancient style, referring to a manner of composition and performance that is historically faithful.

Miserere mei Deus … dele iniquitatem meam.

—Psalm 51

Part 1

1652

Cantus Firmus

Chapter One—The Brass Latch / The Hymn of Orpheus

She wrote on the first recto page opposite the bookplate, the ex libris, with its embossed illustration of a wind rose that marked the journal as hers:

10 February, Anno Domini 1652.

By these, the first words I write, I am become Francesca Allegri—writer, thinker, explorer after truth; a transfiguration from timid sparrow to bold she-philosopher.

As was customary, the major wind of the rose, pointing north, was signed with a fleur-de-lis, while the major wind pointing east contained a cross that symbolized Jerusalem. When her uncle, Gregorio Allegri, presented her with this journal, he said the wind rose represented the notion that her journal would guide her on many and wide-ranging journeys of thought. But lest she be seduced by strange ideas, she should always refer to the cross in the east wind to remind herself not to stray too far from her Faith.

She stole a glance at that cross now as she rocked back on her seat at a wide-plank table, opposite the house’s entry door, in the scant light of her uncle’s kitchen. She rocked forward again. The freshly inked page of the leather-bound journal lay beneath the quill she held poised under her nose. She stared fixedly at the door’s brass latch where weak reflections of firelight danced. Soon the arm would rise with a little metallic whisper and the door would creak open. Everything depended on who next walked through that door. If her uncle, returning from morning prayers, she’d be assured the day’s asylum she needed as she waited to escape with Paolo, her lover. But, if instead, Matteo, the brute who was her husband, her dreams of a new life might be smashed like a vase in the face of his jealousy and rage.

Her breath made the finer feathers of the quill shiver. A candle flame, hugged by a gauzy halo, guttered to air currents unfelt by her and blushed the contours of her delicately sculpted face: her chiseled nose; her high cheekbones; her full lips; her dimpled cheeks. Its agitated reflection danced in her brown eyes. Her nostrils involuntarily twitched at the beef-fat stink of the tallow candles.

She glanced to the far side of the room where the fire was beginning to shrink down to embers that hunkered blood-orange-red in the massive fireplace. She listened to the wheeze and chuff of the bellows as Porzia, her uncle’s serving girl, coaxed the fire to new life under a new log.

Outside the oilskin window, the moon, veiled by a scrim of cloud, spilled a miserly light on the street. Almost nobody was about in this sleeping, predawn neighborhood of Piazza del Popolo in Rome. She heard the groan of a shutter, a gruff cry of Mind the water! then the plash of piss to the pavement before an unseen hand closed the shutter again with a creak. She recognized the voice—Signor Scolari. In the distance, a dog barked, a horse neighed, another nickered. Close by came the yowl of a cat in heat.

She watched as moon-faced, plump-bellied Porzia removed the heavy poker from its hook with a bell-like ring, and started to prod the fire vigorously, the flesh of her upper arms jiggling. Moments later the fire began to crackle and spit. Francesca stared at the leaping flames, momentarily mesmerized. A shiver went through her as the fire burst into full being with a sudden foomph.

At last, she sighed heavily and, with a last glance at the door latch—now twitchy with reflected firelight—she leaned over her journal. The long sleeve of her linen gown snagged on the rough edge of the table. She carefully lifted it and positioned her arms for writing. After a moment’s hesitation, she dipped the tip of the quill into the glass inkwell with a soft click then added a new sound to the early morning soundscape—the busy, shy scratch of the quill dragging on virgin paper.

Being in a determined and choosing mood, and sadly unconstrained by living relatives—except for my uncle, of course—I could choose the maiden name of my poor mother of loving memory, namely Breasiac, a noble family in Aquilac, near Tolosa, where I spent many happy days of my childhood. However, I loved my father dearly and it was he who honored me with the name Allegri. And there is my uncle, Gregorio Allegri, the famed composer and maestro di cappella at the Sistine Chapel who, until my unfortunate marriage, had cared for me ever since Papa and Mamma were gone. He, too, must be honored.

So, Allegri it is.

But mostly in honor of Papa.

She paused, quill suspended under her nose, when an unwanted memory intruded on her thoughts and broke past the barrier of her carefully nurtured forgetfulness. It was the smoke drifting through the room from an unseasoned log Porzia carelessly threw into the fire that brought the memory on. Her hand holding the quill gave a slight tremble; her breath quickened.

A wagon sits in a town square. Two people lie on straw piled in the back, bound together, back to back, buttocks to buttocks, feet to feet. She exchanges a sad, fearful gaze with her father. A man touches a torch to the straw. It erupts into flame. Tentacles of flame leap and writhe toward the heavens. Smoke rises as from an obscene thurible in some maleficent rite.

And then, with a shake of her head, she expelled the disturbing image from her mind.

Never Boscoli! As touching upon my surname by marriage, I repudiate it! I am proud to reclaim my family name. This is a private journal and in any case Matteo has never learned to read. If he should happen to lift up these pages with his rough hands, he would see only scribbles that hold no meaning for him. After all, he’s the man I fooled with a little pig’s blood on the sheets to persuade him of my virginity, the same man I so recently and easily made a cuckold—mainly out of my passion for Paolo, it’s true—but also to avenge the beatings Matteo seems pleased to administer me with increasing frequency.

I’ve heard that in the later years of the Roman Republic a husband or a wife—INDEED, A WIFE!—could win a divorce simply by saying I divorce you three times. Well, in the private world of this journal I say to Matteo, I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!

And in a day’s time, in the living, breathing world outside these pages, I will make my real escape. I refuse to subject myself any longer to his churlish ways.

I will leave him to be with Paolo. Yes, I will. TOMORROW!

For, I, who write these pages, am, by self-proclamation, Francesca Allegri: a free, thinking woman; an educated woman; a polymath.

A hundred years ago Leon Battista Alberti said a man can do all things if he will.

I say, likewise a woman!

ECCE FEMINA UNIVERSALIS!

She paused, gently rolled the blotter over the beading ink, and drew the tip of the quill’s feather across her cheek as she pondered her next sentence. Outside the window, a beggarly light lightened the charcoal predawn. Smoke from her tallow candle writhed as it rose toward the ceiling, tickling her nose. She ignored the stink of the tallow.

The door latch with its fiery reflections remained motionless.

She wrote at the table in her uncle’s house because she knew if Matteo caught her writing he would likely beat her for shaming his illiteracy—and for sneaking out of his bed before dawn. She was certain he didn’t notice her leaving because he’d been in a drunken stupor since the previous evening. But sooner or later he’d wake and find her missing.

Gregorio Allegri’s stone house, having only two stories, was small for this part of Rome populated mostly by three and four story apartment buildings. A kitchen and two tiny rooms occupied the first floor. The second floor housed Allegri’s capacious study with writing desk, shelves of books, music stand, a huge tapestry on one wall, and a large walnut metronome. Next to the study was a bedroom.

It was unusual for the kitchen to be on the first floor; they were most often placed on the top floor where smoke could exit through a hole in the roof according to a tradition established before chimneys came into wide use. But Allegri’s house was once owned by a baker and an oven squatted where the street-level shop used to be. It had been an easy matter to convert the room into a kitchen.

The house crouched between buildings that contained on one side an apothecary, and on the other a shoemaker’s shop. Francesca often thought some of the slow, propulsive rhythms in her uncle’s music had their inspiration in the light, regular tapping of the cobbler’s hammer.

Francesca spent five years in this house—after the horrific events of Freiburg and Castro—studying with her uncle and her mentor, Father Kircher, a Jesuit. They were years filled with music, philosophy, geometry, medicine, theology, astronomy, and Greek and Latin literature; all of which her mind devoured as a gourmand swallows food or a devotee of Bacchus swills wine. Her greedy mind took it all in, hoping to crowd out the unwanted memories.

Now, she looked at these surroundings with sadness, for the following day she would leave Rome and her uncle. She would leave Rome with her lover Paolo and travel with him throughout Europe. And now that the day of departure was almost at hand, now that her dream of a life with Paolo was about to be fulfilled, she felt that keen apprehension that accompanies the eve of momentous events. It came as a bird-like fluttering of the pulse in her throat, a worry that, with happiness so close at hand, something would happen to shatter it.

That’s why she left Matteo’s bed to come here. The less time with him in these final hours, the less chance he’d do something to thwart her plans—like beat her so severely she couldn’t travel. And that’s also why she took up the quill and began to write—something both her uncle and Father Kircher had been urging her to do for some time. It would help make the hours go faster. Plus, it would be a parting gift to her uncle when he returned and saw her writing.

She sighed, dipped the quill in the inkwell and wrote two additional words. Paolo. Francesca.

§

The previous summer Francesca’s uncle told her of a conversation he’d had with Father Kircher. It seems there was a young painter Father Kircher was tutoring in philosophy who, after seeing Francesca in the marketplace, expressed a desire to pose her for one of the figures in a new painting he was contemplating. Since this man came from a fine, upstanding family, Francesca’s uncle saw no harm and arrangements were made—without, of course, telling Matteo, for both her uncle and Father Kircher suspected his violent, jealous nature. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, her uncle hired a carriage to take her to the young artist’s home and instructed the driver to wait outside in case Francesca called for help. Though Paolo della Luna lived far from the notorious neighborhoods of Via dei Condotti and Via del Corso that were favored by most artists of Rome, a place where the models were often courtesans, one could never be too careful.

When she first arrived at the home of Paolo della Luna, not far from the gardens of Villa Borghese, she was delighted to see a jacaranda tree standing tall behind the high walls of the artist’s garden. Its purple blossoms reminded her of childhood summers at Aquilac, in Southern France, where lavender bushes seemed to be everywhere.

There had been a jacaranda tree in her parents’ garden in Castro.

At their first meeting Francesca learned Paolo, in addition to being a painter, was an itinerant actor who traveled the Italian peninsula and throughout Europe with his troupe of performers, entertaining at fairs and seeking commissions for paintings. Though still a young man, the corners of his eyes were permanently creased with laugh lines. He had a strong, Roman nose like a finely chiseled flying buttress and luminous eyes, mostly hazel, but with flecks of other colors that in certain lights could turn his eyes to green or light brown. Francesca found herself drawn to him almost instantly.

Paolo guided her into his spacious atelier, a single-story extension of the main house. It had a slanted roof. In the center was a large easel with a virgin canvas. Paintings were leaned along one wall and a tall cabinet, its door open revealing shelves crammed with jars, sat against another wall. At a third wall was a table littered with tools of the painter’s trade: a dazzling array of brushes, a grinding stone, a paint-smeared palette, several jars of liquid, probably turpentine, and an assortment of palette knives. Later, after quizzing Paolo during her posing sessions, Francesca would learn that among the brushes were some made of bristle that cost anywhere from one to four baiocci each; other more expensive ones set in lime, pine or maple handles; and still other smaller ones set in quills from swans or geese. Also set in quills were brushes made of polecat hair.

At the wall opposite the garden was a small platform facing the back of the easel where Francesca assumed she would pose. Her gaze wandered to a large window built into the roof above the easel.

You’ve never seen one of those before, Paolo said with a smile.

No. I’ve never even heard of a window in a roof.

I first saw one in France. It’s an innovation of a French architect named Francois Mansart. I made a sketch of it and had my builders copy it. You’ll notice the window faces north.

Why? Wouldn’t you get better light from the south?

Too direct. It washes out colors and creates stark contrasts. Indirect light is much more subtle. The Dutch painter, Gerrit Dou, uses northern light. That’s where I learned how much better it is.

Opening out to the garden was a pair of unusual doors with frames of wood and glass-paneled windows supported by wrought iron mullions, unlike the oiled cloth windows more familiar to Francesca.

You’re noticing the doors, said Paolo. "Another French innovation. They call it a porte vitrée. He walked to the doors and opened them like a priest opening the doors of a tabernacle. They provide wonderful light and admit perfumed air from the garden." Instantly, Francesca felt a zephyr, laden with jacaranda scent, on her cheeks.

Paolo returned and guided her to a stool. "When I saw you in the marketplace, Chicca, I knew I wanted you to pose for me. I’m prepared to pay you thirty baiocchi a session for as long as my painting takes. It’s the going rate."

It’s our first meeting, said Francesca. Don’t you think calling me Chicca is overly familiar? It was a pet name only her family and Father Kircher had ever used.

Not at all, he replied. There must be no barriers of convention between us because otherwise your pose would not be natural and relaxed but hindered by stiff formality. He said the title of his painting would be Hymn of Orpheus and he started to explain who Orpheus was.

But before he could utter more than a few words, she barged in to say in one long breath, Orpheus was the son of Calliope and Apollo and he was the greatest musician in Greek myth. His songs were so beautiful they charmed wild beasts and even caused rocks to move. When a serpent bit his wife Eurydice and she died, he went to the underworld where he sang his songs so beautifully that Hades released her back to life. Francesca tilted her head, lifted one eyebrow, and smiled at Paolo.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes flashing with pleasure. Finally, he asked, On what condition?

That he not look back as he brought her to the surface.

And?

Being pig-headed like most men, he looked back just before they reached the surface and Eurydice slipped back into the underworld.

Paolo continued to stare at her in amazement.

With a demure smile, she asked, Which hymn do you mean to depict, Signor della Luna?

Please, if I am permitted to call you Chicca, you must call me Paolo, he said. Which hymn? Just a hymn of Orpheus.

But there are more than three dozen, all on different themes. Don’t you think you should choose one in order to better inform the composition of your painting?

I intend to depict the power of music to stay the hand of war.

When he said that, she was taken aback.

The child’s charcoaled hand reaches for … for what? Salvation? Mercy?

What happened just then? asked Paolo.

What do you mean?

A shadow crossed your countenance.

She stared at him for a long moment before saying, You should choose the ‘Hymn to Mars.’ She, herself, was convinced her uncle’s motet Miserere mei, Deus, had such power to stay the hand of war and human cruelty—a power squandered because the Vatican forbade its performance outside the Sistine Chapel.

May I suppose you know this hymn?

You may.

By heart?

Of course.

He shook his head as if to ask if there was no limit to her surprises. What kind of unnatural memory do you possess?

I studied rhetoric and memory with Father Kircher. We examined the memory palaces of Giulio Camillo and Giordano Bruno. I, myself, have constructed my own memory palace in my imagination.

Indeed, Paolo said, continuing to stare in amazement. Isn’t it dangerous to study the works of Giordano Bruno?

She shrugged.

You don’t care?

Will you report me?

Of course not.

Then?

I see, he said, smiling. Well I, too, have studied with Father Kircher. A brilliant man. But he doesn’t seem to have taught me nearly as much as you.

Perhaps you are slower than I, she replied with an arch smile.

Paolo gave a hearty laugh. So much sass and intellect in so beautiful a face and body! All right, then, let’s have it—the ‘Hymn to Mars.’

Francesca recited the hymn, emphasizing the last lines in which Orpheus implores Mars, the god of war, To lovely Venus, and to Bacchus yield, To Ceres give the weapons of the field. Encourage peace, to gentle works inclined, And give abundance, with benignant mind.

Paolo remained silent for a very long time. She watched him pace his atelier, stopping several times to stare at the huge, blank canvas and murmuring, Yes … and give abundance. Finally, he said, I will pose you as Venus. You will be floating like a spirit among lush gardens and vineyards—greens, vermilions, yellows, a deep purple for the grapes.

What sort of pose do you have in mind?

He paused. A mock sinister smile came to his face. I can assure you it will be nothing like the portrait ‘Isabel of Portugal’ by Titian. Are you familiar with that painting?

I am. Very demure, a high ruffled collar hiding most of her neck.

Exactly. Your portrait will be nothing like that.

What then? More exposure of the neck? A heat came to her own neck as she said it.

Quite a lot more.

Then perhaps like another of Titian’s, ‘La Bella,’ where the neck and the shoulders are revealed?

Yes, and a good deal of the bosom, he said. But no, not like that portrait either.

Then I can’t imagine what you might have in mind, she said shyly, lest it be more like the ‘Venus’ of Botticelli, or the graces that surround Spring in his ‘Primavera’. She was shocked at her audacity and wished she could take the words back. "That is not what you have in mind … is it?"

He smiled. Why am I not surprised you know these paintings?

My uncle and Father Kircher took me to see them in Florence, she replied. So, is my Venus to be similar to Botticelli’s?

Yes, very much so.

I see, she said barely above a whisper. She lowered her gaze to the floor.

He laughed. You’re wondering if I will pose you nude.

She shot him a quick glance then averted her eyes, shifting her gaze to the garden.

How else could the goddess of love be portrayed? he asked.

She said nothing. A ripple of heat came to her breast.

I will also pose you as Ceres bringing forth fruits and grain from the earth.

A similar pose? she asked timidly.

He thought a moment. No, with a transparent gown to symbolize the treasure of the pregnant earth—hidden, yet not hidden.

I see.

Again, he was silent for a time before saying, And I will do self portraits for Bacchus and Orpheus.

Similarly clothed?

Of course. This painting will be about peace and harmony which cannot exist with concealment and secrecy. Only openness and freedom will do.

I … I don’t know, Francesca said, a slight tremor to her voice.

You’re nervous about posing nude?

She nodded. Aren’t all nude models courtesans?

True, many artists used courtesans, but not all. Rubens, for example, used his wife for Venus in his Judgment of Paris. And Piero di Cosimo did a portrait of Simonetta Vespucci as Cleopatra that shows her bare-breasted. And you know who Simonetta was.

Francesca nodded. A Florentine noblewoman.

Exactly, a noblewoman! And what about the artist Zeuxis? Do you know of him?

Yes. A painter in ancient Heraclea.

What do you know about him?

Francesca smiled demurely. He couldn’t find a woman beautiful enough for his painting of Helen of Troy, so he inspected the girls of the city and chose four.

The girls of the city; not courtesans. And so it is with me. Nobody but you is beautiful enough for my Venus and Ceres. He looked into her eyes. She smiled then quickly averted her gaze. I can see you’re still reluctant, he said. Go home. Think about it. But be assured, not all nude models are courtesans and I most certainly do not think of you that way.

All the same, it’s improper for a woman to be alone in an artist's studio.

Then why are you here?

Francesca didn’t answer. Instead, she gazed at the table full of brushes and palette knives; she looked out at the jacaranda tree; she stared at the cabinet full of jars; anything to avoid looking into his eyes.

I should tell you also that Orazio Gentileschi posed his very own daughter, Artemisia, nude and I don’t imagine he thought of his daughter as a courtesan. Go home. Think about it.

§

Francesca returned to her uncle’s home brimming with excitement mixed with trepidation. She dared not tell her uncle the particulars of her interview with Paolo lest he call a halt to it on the spot. She said only that Signor della Luna wished to paint her portrait.

Did the young man tell you what kind of portrait he will paint?

He made reference to ‘Isabel of Portugal’ by Titian.

Ah, yes, I know the painting. Very stately, modest, a high neck collar.

Yes. He mentioned that painting.

I’m sure it will be fine, then, Allegri said. I’m very proud of you.

§

The following morning, Francesca was relieved when Paolo said he first wanted to draw chalk sketches of her face. I must work on capturing the essence of your beauty, he said. Besides, I’ve not fully worked out the composition of the painting and, unlike Titian, I prefer to make some preliminary sketches and full-size cartoons of the painting before I start applying paint.

How shall I pose, then? Francesca asked, noting the blue, skin-tight breeches and open white shirt in which he worked. Though he was working only with the red chalk stick, he held a brush between his teeth as a lover might carry a rose.

As you are, he said.

I see.

While Paolo sketched, Francesca gazed, through the open doors of the porte vitrée, at the private garden surrounded by high terracotta walls. A small fountain burbled in a marble basin under an orange tree. Sparrows flitted and swooped around the tree. In the corner of the garden the jacaranda tree blossomed with clusters of lilac-blue, trumpet-shaped flowers giving off a sweet fragrance which drifted in on a soft breeze. It stirred the downy hairs on her arms, making her shiver and raising goose bumps. She took some comfort, knowing they would have total privacy when it came time for her to pose without clothes … if, that is, she could bring herself to do it.

During the three hours Paolo worked, they carried on a continuous, lively conversation about a variety of topics. Francesca started by saying, You must be paid handsomely for your paintings.

Why do you say that?

You use beeswax candles.

Yes, it’s true I can afford them, Paolo replied. Besides, I hate the stink of tallow candles. Here, I’ll show you something else. He crossed the room to a set of shelves and returned with two lamps. They were bronze representations of an acrobat sitting on his buttocks with his legs held high over his head, his knees by his ears. The small basin for oil was located at his anus.

Francesca wrinkled her nose. Oh, how ... how inelegant!

Paolo laughed. They’re oil lamps. And say what you mean; you mean to say they’re obscene and crude.

Where did you get them?

In Biarritz from Basque whalers, along with a supply of whale oil, when my troupe was performing nearby in Bordeaux.

She averted her gaze from the oil lamps and said, Also, you have a house in a very nice area of Rome.

Not all my doing. My father was a gilder. He even assisted Caravaggio.

Gilders make that much money?

"Not really. He was very thrifty—miserly, if the truth be known. Plus, he owned a bottega where he sold works of art. It’s where I sold my first painting. But what really made the difference for him … and my inheritance … was that he invested in luoghi."

Is that something to do with finance?

He nodded. Long-term bonds that earn about five percent a year.

When did he die, your father?

Eight years ago.

The same year Papa and Mama died.

Is your mother alive?

She died within weeks of him.

They were silent for a long while. Finally, Francesca asked about his troupe of performers.

"It’s called I Bricconi. We perform commedia dell’arte all over Europe."

"I Bricconi—the Rascals, Francesca said with an approving smile. But all that travel must take a great deal of time from your work."

On the contrary, the troupe is my work every bit as much as my painting. And it liberates my painting.

How so? She wanted to keep the conversation going to hide her trepidation about posing nude.

The same way my father’s investments liberated my painting. I’m handsomely paid when we perform at courts, weddings or carnivals. It means I can paint what I want without worrying about pleasing a sponsor.

They talked of his travels throughout Europe; they talked of her lute playing; they talked some about Masilio Ficino and his translations of the Hymns of Orpheus; they talked about her uncle’s music; and they talked about other painters, particularly Michelangelo Buonarroti. I’ve seen the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel several times, said Paolo. Each time I’m amazed at the grandeur of his work. And he had to worry about a sponsor.

I agree about its grandeur, replied Francesca. But something about it disturbs me.

How can it possibly disturb you? It’s perfect in every way.

It’s truly magnificent, but every time I go to hear my uncle’s choir, I get a feeling there’s something not quite right with the ceiling. Perhaps it’s so great, it’s beyond my comprehension and that’s what troubles me.

Paolo laughed. No doubt. For a person with so much learning, it must be frustrating to encounter a mystery so great as to confound understanding.

They talked so much about so many things, Francesca felt she’d known the man for years.

Although she was not needed for posing, Francesca went to his atelier the following day to watch him make his paints. Using a mortar and pestle, he ground up various natural mineral pigments he took from the tall cabinet—lapis lazuli, azurite, cinnabar, yellow ochre, obsidian, malachite, hematite, and others—and mixed them with linseed oil and, in some cases, egg yolk. When he finished, he showed her the cartoon he’d drawn to work out the composition of the painting.

With a frisson of anxiety she saw that, for Venus, she was to be presented in profile looking inward toward the center of the composition. She would be completely nude and her right arm would be extended toward Mars in the upper right of the painting. The position would expose the full curve of her right breast. Her fear only grew when she saw how she would pose as Ceres. Here, the figure was facing the viewer (and the artist!) in a shameless, frontal manner, her diaphanous gown clinging to her body—and especially her mons pubis—as if blown by wind. The east wind from Jerusalem?

Given your interpretation, Francesca said, that part of my anatomy should be called the Mound of Ceres rather than the Mound of Venus. As soon as the words slid from her mouth she gasped and blushed brightly.

He smiled, saying nothing.

To cover her embarrassment she asked quickly, How do you intend to make the gown cling like that? Will you have a wind machine?

No. You'll pose without the gown and I'll add it later. That’s the best way to make it appear to conform naturally to the curves of your body.

The pulse in her neck rippled like the flesh of a bird’s breast. I see, she whispered.

§

Father Kircher took pains to show me there have been many she-philosophers and there’s no shame in it. He flattered me by saying I was Heloise to his Abelard—most certainly without the sexual intimacy, I blushingly and hastily add!

That is now reserved for Paolo.

We leave Rome tomorrow. TOMORROW!

Father Kircher and I spent a lot of time reading Hildegard von Bingen, the so-called Sybil of the Rhine, who was thought so brilliant that bishops, popes, and kings came to her for advice. She wrote treatises about natural history and the medicinal uses of plants, animals, trees and stones. She had visions of the divine nature of the world and felt compelled to write about them. But at first, like me, she lacked the confidence. When I learned that, I was immediately enchanted by her.

Hildegard wrote the Book of Divine Works in which she argued mankind is the peak of God’s creation and the mirror through which the splendor of the macrocosm is reflected.

Perhaps. But perhaps she never witnessed something like Freiburg. Or Castro.

The child has been shot. She has been shot and the fire has consumed her sweet-smelling body, reducing it to charcoal. The child’s stiff, black arm is raised. Her hand, curled at the wrist like the head of a crozier, is clenched into a half fist as if reaching for something. A roasted hand raised as if reaching for her mother, as if reaching for a god who was calling to her, as if reaching for comprehension. A baffled child reaching for comprehension. And near the child’s other hand is a wooden doll, denuded of its dress and blackened by flame.

Francesca glanced at the scorched doll sitting on the sideboard. She closed her eyes tightly to dispel the image. She wiped the nib of the quill with a small cloth, laid the quill down, and closed the pewter top of the ink well.

She stared at the door latch.

She flinched when she saw it move.

The door swung open violently, as if kicked.

§

Porzia carried several logs in her arms as she would cradle a baby. Sorry for kicking the door in, she said. These are heavy. I have drier wood this time. She had bulging eyes and a doughy face. She was like a sister to Francesca. What are you doing? she asked.

Writing.

Mary, mother of God! A woman who can write! I’ll wager even ‘Once-Pious’ can’t write.

You shouldn’t call her that; you’ll bring trouble.

But everybody calls her ‘Once-Pious’.

They were talking about Donna Olimpia Maidalchini Pamphili who was sister-in-law to Pope Innocent X and the most powerful person in Rome. Everyone knew how the woman dominated His Holiness, making her the real power behind the papacy. Some even rumored that after her husband, Innocent’s brother, died, Donna Olimpia had seduced Innocent into a scandalous affair to strengthen her grip on power—and the money that comes with it. It’s why the magpies of Rome pronounced her name Olim-pia with a pause between the first two-syllable group and the last syllable, transforming the meaning to Once-Pious—something that gave most people delight.

Just don’t let her hear you, Francesca said.

And when would I be close enough to her fat, high-and-mighty presence for her to hear me?

All the same …. replied Francesca. Now the fire has died down again. Why don’t you wake it up so it will be nice and warm for my uncle when he returns from morning prayers.

As Porzia tended the fire, Francesca dipped the quill in the ink, glanced again at the door latch, and resumed writing.

Hildegard wrote music—exquisite, mystical music like angels singing. She said music is the means of recapturing the original joy and beauty of Paradise. She said in the beginning Adam had a pure voice and joined the angels in singing praises to God. But after the fall, mankind had to invent music all over again to try to return to that sublime place. I think Uncle Gregorio would agree with her. That, it seems to me, is precisely what his Miserere strives to do.

Though we spent much time discussing the thoughts and music of Hildegard von Bingen, Father Kircher did not show me ALL her writings. What follows, I found on my own during one of those afternoons when I had free rein in his library while he attended to other matters: When a woman is making love with a man, a sense of heat in her brain, which brings with it sensual delight, communicates the taste of that delight during the act and summons forth the emission of the man’s seed. And when the seed has fallen into its place, that vehement heat descending from her brain draws the seed to itself and holds it, and soon the woman’s sexual organs contract, and all the parts that are ready to open up during the time of menstruation now close in the same way as a strong man can hold something enclosed in his fist.

THIS FROM A NUN!

Everything I write makes me think of Paolo!

Will I ever write like Hildegard? I am still far too shy to write that explicitly about my feelings for Paolo. For now, I can only say that from the first time I saw him I was drawn to his callipygian charms! But perhaps after these first entries (which are mere rehearsals) I shall write more like Hildegard.

Once again, I give thanks the armorer’s trade requires no reading. But even if Matteo could read, the brute would not know what to make of what Hildegard said.

Thin, slatted sunlight kindled dust specks that danced in its slant, agitated by the faint stirring of air caused by Porzia as she pumped the bellows to enliven the fire.

A spider scampered across Francesca’s freshly penned paragraph. She watched it, quill suspended in the long fingers of her writing hand. The downy quill feathers quivered as her hand trembled.

After the spider paused for an instant then scurried