The Secret Dead (2 page)

“With what?” Now that he had recovered from the shock, I
noted 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 of
disapproval. “You should not have been in the cloister. By rights, I should
report you to the prior.”

I lowered my eyes. We both knew it was an empty threat: I
had given him better cause to report me before this and he had not done so. But
he wanted me to know that he was angry.

“Forgive me, Brother,” I murmured. “I was restless and
needed a walk. When I saw you, I thought only to offer my assistance. I want
every 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 an
unreadable expression, narrowed eyes glinting in the flame of the lantern. “You
wish to learn, huh?” He appeared to be weighing something. After a moment, he
stepped forward and gripped my upper arm so hard that I flinched away. His face
loomed inches from mine, oddly intent; I could smell on his breath the ginger
root 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 have
been good to you, have I not?”

I nodded eagerly, unsure where this was heading.

“There are words you have spoken in my dispensary that
anyone else would have reported instantly to the prior. Words that would lead
you straight before the Father Inquisitor. I have let them pass, because I
recognize in you a spirit of enquiry that, while yet undisciplined, is born not
of 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 of
myself. That is why I have not reported you for voicing opinions that to others
would 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. “Then
we are both agreed you owe me a debt of confidence. You could assist me
tonight, but you must first swear that you will never speak of what you see to
anyone, inside or outside these walls.”

My gut tightened with excitement as my thoughts raced
ahead, trying to imagine what kind of medical emergency would demand such a
level 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 of
violet bruises. Eventually, it seemed he was satisfied. He gave a single curt
nod and released his grip.

“Wait here, then. I must go to the dispensary to collect my
instruments and heat some water. If anyone should come by, make sure they don’t
see you.”

“Why don’t I come with you?” I offered. “We could carry
twice as much between us. Or, better still, they will surely have a fire in the
servants’ dormitory — could we not heat a pail of water there? It would make
sense to be closer to the patient.”

He made an aggressive gesture for me to be quiet. “The
patient is not in there,” he said, dropping his voice until I had to strain
forward to catch his words. “If you are to work with me tonight, Bruno, there
are two rules. You obey my every instruction, to the letter. And you ask no
questions. Is that clear?”

I nodded. “But why can’t I come with you?”

“
Madonna santa!
” He threw up his hands and stooped
to gather his pail. “Because, as far as anyone knows, you are tucked up in your
bed dreaming of saints and angels. Now do as I ask.”

He disappeared into the dark, until all I could see was the
small spark of his lantern bobbing across the garden in the direction of the
convent buildings. Silence fell around me, punctuated only by familiar night
sounds: the snort and stamp of a sleeping horse, the drawn-out cry of an owl,
the relentless, one-note song of the cicadas. Farther off, a whoop, followed by
a gale of raucous laughter from the streets beyond the wall. I pressed myself into
the shadows of the outbuildings and waited. Where was this mysterious patient,
then, if not in the servants’ quarters? I glanced across to the door Fra
Gennaro had locked behind him. In the storehouse? Why could he not be treated
in the infirmary, like any other …

A sudden understanding flashed through me, flooding my
veins with cold. This man must be an enemy of the state, someone it would not
be politic for us to be seen helping. San Domenico had a reputation for
fomenting resistance against the kingdom’s Spanish rulers; it was well known
that the more rebellious among the Neapolitan barons met regularly in the
convent’s great hall to discuss the form of that resistance, with the ready
involvement of some eminent Dominicans. Perhaps this secret patient was a
conspirator who had been wounded in the course of action against the Spanish.
That would explain Fra Gennaro’s insistence that I ask no questions. Pleased by
my own reasoning, I bunched my hands into fists beneath my robe and slid down
against the wall of the storehouse to squat on my heels, bouncing with
anticipation.

I recited psalms and sonnets to measure the time; another
twenty minutes passed before Gennaro returned, with a bundle tied over his
shoulder and carrying the full pail of water, steam rising from the cracks in
its lid. I leapt up and hurried to take it from him; he nodded and paused to
check all around before fitting the key to the padlock. As soon as we were
inside, he secured the door again behind us.

He held up the lantern and turned slowly to reveal only an
unremarkable room with stone walls and a paved floor. Wooden crates lined one
wall; barrels were stacked against the back. A sound of scurrying overhead made
me jump; I looked up, and a fine dust filtered through between the planks that
had been laid over the roof beams to partition the eaves into a loft space. A
ladder led up to a closed hatch.

“Only rats,” Gennaro muttered. “Keep that light over here
where I can see it.”

He gestured toward the furthest end of the room. At first I
could not make out what he meant to show me, but as I drew closer with the
lantern, I saw a wooden hatch set into the floor, the stones at the edges scraped
clean where the crates concealing it had been moved away. The hatch was also
held fast with a padlock. Gennaro selected another key from his belt, knelt,
and unfastened it. He paused with one hand on the iron ring and looked up at
me, his eyes large and earnest in the flickering light.

“Your oath, Bruno, that whatever you witness here will
remain sealed in your heart as long as you breathe.”

I could have taken offense that my oath was not good enough
the first time; instead I was too impatient to see what lay beneath the door.
Goosebumps prickled along my arms. I swore again, on my life and all I held
sacred, my right hand pressed over my heart. Fra Gennaro studied me for a long
moment, then lifted the hatch and led the way down a flight of stone steps into
an underground chamber.

The air was cooler here, with a taint of damp. Though I could
see little at first, on peering harder I made out an arched ceiling and walls
lined with stone. No sound came from the dense shadows further in, none of the
jagged breathing you would expect from an injured man. A cold dread touched me:
Suppose the patient had died while Gennaro was fetching his instruments and I
was waiting uselessly outside? But the infirmarian showed no sign of panic. He
closed the hatch and slid a bolt across so that we could not be disturbed. Next,
he unwrapped an oil lamp from the pack he had brought and lit it carefully from
the lantern. In the brighter glow, I saw that the chamber was dominated by a
sturdy table draped with a thick shroud, under which was laid the unmistakable
outline of a human figure.

A strange fear took hold of me, somewhere under my ribs,
constricting my breath. Gennaro removed his cloak and hung it on the back of
the door, indicating that I should do the same. In its place, he shrugged on a
rough hessian smock, such as the servants wear, and over this a wide leather
apron. Then he rolled up his sleeves, dipped his hands into the steaming water,
and rubbed them clean before opening the bag he had brought with him. In the lamplight,
I caught the flash of silver blades. The last item he extracted was a large
hourglass, which he set upright on a box beside the table to allow the sand to
settle. When he had assembled all the equipment to his satisfaction, he took
one corner of the shroud in his hand and glanced at me.

“Ready?”

I tried to swallow, but my throat had dried. I managed a
nod, and he pulled back the sheet covering the body.

In the stillness, I heard myself gasp aloud, though I had
the presence of mind not to cry out. Stretched out on the table was the body of
a young woman, about my own age, unmoving as a marble tomb. Her flesh was so
unblemished that it seemed at first she might be merely sleeping; indeed, I
dared to hope as much for the space of a heartbeat, until I looked more closely
and saw in her face the unmistakable contortions of strangulation. It was
clear, despite the bulging eyes, the protruding tongue, and the discoloration of
the face, that she must have been unusually beautiful, not very long ago. Her
skin was pale and smooth, her dark hair flowed around her shoulders, and her
waist was small and neat, her hips narrow, and her breasts full. Ripe bruises like
shadow fingers formed a ring around her white throat.

“By my reckoning,” Gennaro said, turning over the hourglass,
now brusque and businesslike, “we have about two and a half hours until Matins.
There is no time to waste.”

So saying, he took a broad-bladed knife and slit the girl’s
shift lengthwise in one swift movement, from hem to neck, leaving the fabric to
fall away either side. I tried to avert my eyes from the dark thatch of hair on
her pubis, but it was difficult; I had not seen a woman’s body in three years.
If Gennaro noticed my confusion and the color rising to my cheeks, he was
discreet enough not to mention it.

“Who is she?” I whispered, fixing my gaze on her feet. The soles
were bare and dirty.

“Beggar. Homeless. Come, hold that lantern closer.” His reply
came just a fraction too quick.

“But — how does she come to be here?” I blurted, forgetting
my earlier promise.

“She was found in the street by one of the night patrols
and brought to me. They thought they might be in time to save her. Alas, they
arrived too late.”

He could see that I did not believe this version of events.
I was not convinced that he did either. No Spanish soldier in the city would
trouble himself to help a vagrant girl. They were more likely to be the ones
who had abused and killed her. At least he had the grace to look away as he
said it.

“But she has clearly met with a violent death, and quite
recently—–”

He laid the back of his fingers on the girl’s neck, his
expression speculative. “An hour or so, I would say.”

“Then surely we should report it?”

“Fra Giordano, I thought we had agreed no questions?”

I bit my lip. He paused and straightened, his hand hovering
over a selection of knives. I could not miss the impatience in his face, though
his voice was softer. “Listen. You told me you have read the work of Vesalius.”

“I have, but—–”

“And how did Vesalius come by his knowledge of the human
body? Where did he find his raw materials?”

“He stole corpses from the gallows at night.” I felt as if
an invisible hand were squeezing my own throat.

“Exactly. And you know he also robbed graves? In the
pursuit of understanding, it is sometimes necessary to interpret the law in one’s
own way.”

“But this girl has been murdered! He may not have got far —
someone might have seen something—–”

“That is not our concern, Brother.” The sharpness in his
tone took me by surprise. He sighed. “In the medical schools of Europe,
professors of anatomy are allocated the bodies of felons for public dissection
under the law — as many as four a year in some places.” His jaw tightened. “I
will never be a professor of anatomy now. God in His wisdom saw fit to call me
to His service in another way. But that does not mean my desire to learn is any
the less.” His tone suggested a degree of skepticism about the divine wisdom in
this instance. He planted both hands flat on the table and leaned across the
girl to nail me with a fierce stare. “Listen to me, Fra Giordano. I see in you
the makings of a man of science. I mean it. For such as us, pushing the boundaries
of what is known, shining the light of true learning into the dark corners of
Creation — there can be no higher good. I know you agree.” He jabbed a
forefinger into the air between us. “And do not let anyone make you afraid of
God’s judgment. All of Nature is a great book in which the Creator has written
the secrets of the universe. Would He have given us the gifts of reason and
enquiry if He did not wish us to read that book?”

In the soft light, his face was avid as a boy’s. I
hesitated. Fra Eugenio, my novice master, had taken great pains to impress upon
his flock of intellectually ambitious youths that the first and greatest sin of
our forefather Adam was the desire for forbidden knowledge. He held firmly to
the view that the Almighty intended much of His creation to remain beyond our meager
human understanding. I was of Fra Gennaro’s mind, but I was still afraid.

“You mean to anatomize her.” My voice emerged as a croak.
This time I did not frame it as a question.

He picked up a long knife and studied the tip of its blade.
“You know as well as I that this city is overrun with indigents.” He gestured
with the knife toward the figure on the table. “She was a street girl, a whore.
No one will mourn her, poor creature. If she were not lying here now, she would
be on a cart full of corpses heading for Fontanelle. At least this way some
good will come of her sad existence before she ends up there. In life, she gave
her body up to rogues and lechers. In death, she will give it up to the service
of anatomy.” He fixed me with a long look, tilting his head to one side as he
pressed the knife’s point into the pad of his finger. “You are not obliged to stay,
if your conscience advises you otherwise. But think of the opportunity. You are
the only one here I would trust to assist me.”