The Secret Dead: A Novella

The Secret Dead: A Novella
S. J. Parris

A short story featuring Giordano Bruno: heretic, philosopher and spy. Perfect for fans of C.J. Sansom.Even the dead have a story to tell…Naples, 1566. During a sweltering summer, eighteen-year-old Giordano Bruno takes his final vows at San Domenico Maggiore and is admitted to the Dominican Order – despite doubts over his tendency to ask difficult questions.Assisting in the infirmary, Bruno witnesses an illicit autopsy performed on the body of a young woman. Her corpse reveals a dark secret, and Bruno suspects that hers may not have been an accidental death.His investigation leads him to a powerful figure who wants to keep the truth buried – and Bruno is forced to make a choice between his future in the Order, and justice for an innocent victim and her grieving family…

The Secret Dead

S.J. Paris

COPYRIGHT (#ulink_180fb98a-ab34-507b-9b86-fbdf9fe61cd6)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Cover illustration © Daren Newman

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (background textures)

Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © JUNE 2014 ISBN: 9780007481187

Version: 2017-05-10

Table of Contents

Cover (#u51a04ce2-dbc5-5859-b3ed-a53e02505772)

Title Page (#u83d12c98-569c-54ab-8dc8-b93732c1210c)

Copyright (#u642f67cc-75d3-58e7-b675-50d3bc8cb846)

The Secret Dead (#ubc641c9e-7d44-528c-9821-22ac7b337118)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by S.J. Paris (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

The Secret Dead (#ulink_adde8005-b0e5-5055-90ae-33116e77f9e4)

I was eighteen years old and had just taken holy orders the summer Fra Gennaro found the girl. It was not the first time I had seen a naked woman. I had entered the Dominican order as a novice at fifteen, old enough by then to have tasted first love, the sweet warmth of a girl’s pliant body in the shade of the olive trees above the village of Nola. A distant cousin, as it turned out; her family were livid. Perhaps that was why my father had been so ready to pay out for my education, though God knows he could ill afford it. Sending me away to the Dominicans in the city was cheaper than a scandal. We were given new names on taking our final vows, to symbolise the shedding of our old selves. I took the name Giordano, though most people just called me Bruno.

Naples in the summer of 1566 was an inferno of heat and noise, dust and crowds; a city of heart-stopping beauty and casual violence. Two hundred and fifty thousand souls seething inside ancient walls built to house one-tenth that number, the tenements growing higher and higher until their shadows almost shut out the sun because land was scarce, so much of it taken up by the vast gardens and courtyards of the palazzos and the religious houses. Tensions in the city streets brewed and boiled like the forces of the great volcano that overshadows them. Even walking from one side of a piazza to the other felt like fighting through the front line of an advancing army: elbows and fists, baskets, barrows and hot, angry bodies jostling and shoving, trampling or crushing one another. Horses and carts ploughed through the heaving marketplaces while the sun hammered down without pity and blazed back from walls of yellow tufa stone or the flashing blades of knives drawn in exchanges of rich inventive cursing. The Neapolitans discharged the tension by fighting or fucking, often at the same time. Soldiers of the Spanish viceroy patrolled the streets, though whether their presence imposed order or fuelled the general air of aggression depended on your view of our Spanish overlords. It was a city stinking of hypocrisy: kissing in public was illegal, but courtesans were permitted to walk the streets openly, looking for business even in the churches (especially in the churches). Blasphemy was also punishable by law, but beggars, vagrants and those without work were allowed to starve in the streets, their bodies rounded up each night on carts and thrown into a charnel-house outside the walls before they could spread contagion. Thieves, assassins and whores thrived and prospered there and, naturally, so did the Church.

In the midst of this simmering human soup stood the magnificent basilica of San Domenico Maggiore, where the faithful could worship the wooden crucifix that had once spoken aloud to St Thomas Aquinas. San Domenico was one of the wealthiest religious houses in the city; the local barons all sent their superfluous younger sons there as a bribe to God, and many of my brothers dressed and strutted like the young lords they still felt themselves to be, keen to preserve the distinction of degree despite their vows. The deprivations of religious life were interpreted here with considerable lassitude; it must have been well known to the prior and his officials that a number of the novices had copied keys to a side gate and often slipped out into the heat of the city streets at night, but I never saw anyone punished for it, provided they were back in time for Matins. Drinking, dicing, whoring – sins such as these were straightforward, easy to overlook in young noblemen with high spirits. It was sins of thought that the authorities could not countenance. In its favour, I should say that San Domenico prized other qualities than birth: it was famed as the intellectual heart of Naples, and a mere soldier’s son like me might be admitted at the Order’s expense if he showed enough promise as a scholar.

By early September, the city had grown heavy and slow, exhausted by the ferocity of the long summer’s heat; people barely made the effort to curse as you pushed past them. There was a sense of apprehension, too; the previous autumn had brought a season of thick fogs off the sea carrying the contagion of fever and the epidemic had infected half the city. I had taken my final vows and been admitted to the Order in the spring, despite some misgivings on the part of the novice master, who confided to the prior that Fra Giordano Bruno had trouble submitting to authority and a taste for difficult questions. During my novitiate I had shown aptitude for my studies in the natural sciences, and the prior had set me to work for a while as assistant to Fra Gennaro, the brother infirmarian, in the belief that vigorous practical tasks – measuring, chopping and distilling remedies, helping to cultivate and harvest the plants used to make them, as well as tending to the ailments of those brothers confined to the infirmary – would occupy my mind and curb my wilfulness. In this he was mistaken; the more I learned about the natural world, its correspondences and hidden properties, the more my questions multiplied, for it seemed to me that our understanding of Creation, handed down from antiquity through the Scriptures and the Church Fathers, did not stand up to the most elementary scrutiny and observation. Fra Gennaro regarded my questions with forbearance and a hint of dry humour; for the most part he proved an attentive, if non-committal, audience while I formulated my doubts and theories aloud and only rarely did he reprimand me when I overstepped the bounds of what he judged a God-given hunger for knowledge. Few of the other friars would have shown such tolerance.

Fra Gennaro had studied medicine and anatomy at the famous medical school in Salerno; he had wished to become a doctor and eventually a professor, but some years earlier his family’s fortunes had shifted for the worse, obliging him to leave the university and offer his skills in God’s service. It was not the worst blow Fate could have dealt him – he was granted considerable freedom to further his medical knowledge in his new role, though I understood there was some dispute with the prior over the morality of using certain Arabic texts – but it was not the life he had aspired to and, though he never voiced this, I sensed in him a restlessness, a wistful longing for his old world. He was barely forty, but to me, at eighteen, he appeared to possess a wealth of knowledge and wisdom that I yearned towards – and not all of it sanctioned. In his heart he was a man of science, and a Dominican only incidentally, as I felt myself to be; perhaps this accounted for the instinctive affinity that quickly grew between us.

I was skulking through the darkened cloister one starless night in the first week of September, clouds sagging overhead like wet plaster and a warm, sickly wind sighing in off the bay, when I glimpsed him on the far side of the courtyard, his arms bundled full of linen. He was heading not to the infirmary but towards the gardens, in the direction of the outbuildings and storehouses at the furthest extremity of the compound, where the high enclosing wall backed on to a busy thoroughfare. Something in his bearing – his unusual haste, perhaps, or the way he walked with his head down, leaning forward, as if into a gale – caught my attention. Though I risked punishment for being out of my cell at that hour, I called out to him, curious to know what he was about. If he heard me, he gave no sign of it, though I knew my voice must have carried. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the ground ahead as he hurried through an archway and disappeared.

I hesitated in the shadows, hoping I would not run into the watch brothers. They made a tour of the cloisters shortly after Compline to confirm that everyone was tucked up in his cell and observing silence during the few hours of sleep, then retired somewhere more comfortable until their second circuit just before the bell chimed for Matins at two o’clock. If they knew of the nightly exodus through the side-gate in the garden wall, they were practised at looking the other way. But for a friar like me, with no family influence to consider and a growing reputation for disobedience, it would be a mistake to be caught. I could easily find myself a scapegoat for those they did not dare to discipline too harshly.

The air hung close, heavy with the scent of night blooms and a faint aroma of roasting meat from beyond the walls. Through the silence I caught the soft murmur of conversation drifting from the dormitory behind me, the occasional burst of laughter, the chink of Murano goblets. Fra Donato entertaining his fellow aristocrats, I supposed. The wealthier friars – those for whom the Church was a political career built on contacts and greased palms like any other – often held private suppers at night in their richly furnished rooms. As with the nocturnal excursions, the watch brothers remained tactfully deaf and blind to this.

Footsteps echoed behind me on the flagstones across the cloisters, over the low whisper of voices. There was no time to determine whether they were friend or foe; I slipped quickly along the corridor and through the archway where I had seen Fra Gennaro disappear. Here, behind the convent’s grand courtyards, the grounds were laid out to gardens with an extensive grove of lemon trees. A path followed the line of the boundary wall, towards the side gate. If you continued past the gate to the far side of the trees, you reached a scattering of low buildings: grain houses, storerooms, the saddlery and stables. Beyond these lay a whitewashed dormitory of two storeys where the convent servants slept.

Without a moon, there was no hope of seeing which direction Fra Gennaro had taken, though if I strained my ears hard, I thought I could make out a distant rustling ahead among the lemon trees. The obvious explanation was that he must be attending to one of the servants who had fallen sick – but my curiosity was still piqued by his furtive manner and his pretence of not having heard my call.

Like every other novice, I had learned to navigate the path from the outer cloister to the gate in pitch-dark, feeling my way and calculating distance from the scents of the garden and the recognition of familiar landmarks under my feet and fingers: the twisted stalk of the vine that grew up the wall at the point where the lemon grove began; the slight downward incline as the path neared the gate. The footsteps persisted at my back, crunching on the hard earth. I moved off the path and into the shelter of the trees as two figures approached, fearing I had been discovered by the watch. But they paused a short distance away and I retreated further into the dark as I caught the wavering light of a taper hovering between them. Urgent whispers followed the scraping of metal against metal; I heard the creak of the gate and a gentle click as it closed again behind them. Novices or young friars heading out to the Cerriglio, the tavern two streets away, for a brief gulp of the city air before the Matins bell called them back to piety. I craned my neck and looked up through the leaves, wishing I could see the moon; I had no idea how late it was.

The gardens were unfamiliar to me beyond the side gate and I stumbled my way through the lemon trees, unsure if I was even moving in the right direction, my arms held up to protect my eyes from the scratching branches. After some while I emerged into open ground and could just make out the bulk of a row of buildings ahead. A horse whinnied softly out of the dark and I tensed; there were grooms who slept above the stables and would be woken by any disturbance. Holding my breath, I edged my way towards the storehouses and stood stupidly, looking around. Had Fra Gennaro come this way? Most likely he was already 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 on him.

Minutes passed and I was debating whether to knock at the servants’ quarters when I heard the muted creak of a door from one of the outbuildings behind me. A hooded figure slipped out and set down a pail at his feet. I heard the jangle of a key in a padlock, though it was clear he was trying to make as little noise as possible. A cone of light slid back and forth across the ground from the lantern in his hand. From his height I was certain it was the infirmarian, though I waited until he was almost upon me before stepping into his path.

‘Fra Gennaro.’

‘Dio porco!’ He jumped back as if he had been assaulted, stifling his cry with his fingers as the pail clattered to the ground.

‘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, his breathing 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, 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.’