The air hung close, heavy with the scent of night blooms anda faint aroma of roasting meat from beyond the walls. Through the silence, Icaught the soft murmur of conversation drifting from the dormitory behind me,the occasional burst of laughter, the chink of Murano goblets. Fra Donatoentertaining his fellow aristocrats, I supposed. The wealthier friars — thosefor whom the Church was a political career built on contacts and greased palmslike any other — often held private suppers at night in their richly furnishedrooms. As with the nocturnal excursions, the watch brothers remained tactfullydeaf and blind to this.
Footsteps echoed behind me on the flagstones across thecloisters, over the low whisper of voices. There was no time to determinewhether they were friend or foe; I slipped quickly along the corridor andthrough the archway where I had seen Fra Gennaro disappear. Here, behind theconvent’s grand courtyards, the grounds were laid out to gardens with anextensive grove of lemon trees. A path followed the line of the boundary wall,toward the side gate. If you continued past the gate to the far side of thetrees, you reached a scattering of low buildings: grain houses, storerooms, thesaddlery and stables. Beyond these lay a whitewashed dormitory of two stories,where the convent servants slept.
Without a moon, there was no hope of seeing which directionFra Gennaro had taken, though if I strained my ears hard, I thought I couldmake out a distant rustling ahead among the lemon trees. The obviousexplanation was that he must be attending to one of the servants who had fallensick — but my curiosity was still piqued by his furtive manner and his pretenseof not having heard my call.
Like every other novice, I had learned to navigate the pathfrom the outer cloister to the gate in pitch darkness, feeling my way andcalculating distance from the scents of the garden and the recognition offamiliar landmarks under my feet and fingers: the twisted stalk of the vinethat grew up the wall at the point where the lemon grove began; the slightdownward incline as the path neared the gate. The footsteps persisted at myback, crunching on the hard earth. I moved off the path and into the shelter ofthe trees as two figures approached, fearing I had been discovered by thewatch. But they paused a short distance away, and I retreated further into thedark as I caught the wavering light of a taper hovering between them. Urgentwhispers followed the scraping of metal against metal; I heard the creak of thegate and a gentle click as it closed again behind them. Novices or young friarsheading out to the Cerriglio, the tavern two streets away, for a brief gulp ofthe city air before the Matins bell called them back to piety. I craned my neckand looked up through the leaves, wishing I could see the moon; I had no ideahow late it was.
The gardens were unfamiliar to me beyond the side gate, andI stumbled my way through the lemon trees, unsure if I was even moving in theright direction, my arms held up to protect my eyes from the scratchingbranches. After some while I emerged into open ground and could just make outthe bulk of a row of buildings ahead. A horse whinnied softly out of the darkand I tensed; grooms slept above the stables and would be awakened by anydisturbance. Holding my breath, I edged my way toward the storehouses and stoodstupidly, looking around. Had Fra Gennaro come this way? Most likely he wasalready in the servants’ dormitory, tending to some ordinary sprain or burn.How foolish I would look, lurking here in the shadows as if I were spying onhim.
Minutes passed, and I was debating whether to knock at theservants’ quarters when I heard the muted creak of a door from one of theoutbuildings behind me. A hooded figure slipped out and set down a pail at hisfeet. I heard the jangle of a key in a padlock, though it was clear he wastrying to make as little noise as possible. A cone of light slid back and forthacross the ground from the lantern in his hand. From his height I was certainit was the infirmarian, though I waited until he was almost upon me beforestepping into his path.
“Fra Gennaro.”
“Dio porco!” He jumped back as if he had beenassaulted, stifling his cry with his fingers as the pail clattered to theground.
“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to startle you.” I moved closer,pulling back the hood of my cloak.
“Fra Giordano?” He peered at me through the darkness, hisbreathing ragged in the still air. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“I wanted to offer my help.”
“With what?” Now that he had recovered from the shock, Inoted the hard edge to his voice. He was not pleased to have been intercepted.
“Whatever you are doing. I saw you in the cloister and you seemed…” I searched for the right word “… burdened. I thought, perhaps-”
His mouth twitched to one side in a sharp noise ofdisapproval. “You should not have been in the cloister. By rights, I shouldreport you to the prior.”
I lowered my eyes. We both knew it was an empty threat: Ihad given him better cause to report me before this and he had not done so. Buthe wanted me to know that he was angry.
“Forgive me, Brother,” I murmured. “I was restless andneeded a walk. When I saw you, I thought only to offer my assistance. I wantevery chance to learn. Is one of the servants ill? I could fetch and carry for you,if you let me observe the treatment.”
He did not reply immediately, only watched me with anunreadable expression, narrowed eyes glinting in the flame of the lantern. “Youwish to learn, huh?” He appeared to be weighing something. After a moment, hestepped forward and gripped my upper arm so hard that I flinched away. His faceloomed inches from mine, oddly intent; I could smell on his breath the gingerroot he chewed to settle his stomach. “There is much you might learn tonight,and I could use another pair of hands. But listen to me, Fra Giordano. I havebeen good to you, have I not?”
I nodded eagerly, unsure where this was heading.
“There are words you have spoken in my dispensary thatanyone else would have reported instantly to the prior. Words that would leadyou straight before the Father Inquisitor. I have let them pass, because Irecognize in you a spirit of enquiry that, while yet undisciplined, is born notof rebellion, but of a true desire for knowledge.” He paused and sighed,passing the flat of his hand over his cropped hair. “In that you remind me ofmyself. That is why I have not reported you for voicing opinions that to otherswould fall barely short of heresy.”
I bowed my head. “And I am grateful for it. But-”
He held up a hand to pre-empt me and lowered his voice. “Thenwe are both agreed you owe me a debt of confidence. You could assist metonight, but you must first swear that you will never speak of what you see toanyone, inside or outside these walls.”
My gut tightened with excitement as my thoughts racedahead, trying to imagine what kind of medical emergency would demand such alevel of secrecy. I stared at him.
“I swear it. On my life.”
He peered into my face with that same fierce scrutiny,still holding my arm so tight that the next morning I would find a ring ofviolet bruises. Eventually, it seemed he was satisfied. He gave a single curtnod and released his grip.
“Wait here, then. I must go to the dispensary to collect myinstruments and heat some water. If anyone should come by, make sure they don’tsee you.”
“Why don’t I come with you?” I offered. “We could carrytwice as much between us. Or, better still, they will surely have a fire in theservants’ dormitory — could we not heat a pail of water there? It would makesense to be closer to the patient.”
He made an aggressive gesture for me to be quiet. “Thepatient is not in there,” he said, dropping his voice until I had to strainforward to catch his words. “If you are to work with me tonight, Bruno, thereare two rules. You obey my every instruction, to the letter. And you ask noquestions. Is that clear?”
I nodded. “But why can’t I come with you?”
“Madonna santa!” He threw up his hands and stoopedto gather his pail. “Because, as far as anyone knows, you are tucked up in yourbed dreaming of saints and angels. Now do as I ask.”