Part 1
In nidis serpentium
1
Sweet Almond Beauty Milk
Crushed almonds, rose water, clear honey.
Brightens the complexion, softens the skin, and soothes redness.
Graziella, skirts hitched up, perched on a flat rock atop the hill, offered her bare calves to the caress of the early September sun. No one in sight: a rare moment of quiet. She yielded to the murmurs of her senses. If some old gossip happened to see her like this—braid undone, knees exposed, without a corset—her already battered reputation would shatter to pieces.
The sun descended lazily toward the horizon, after one of those scorching days when not a breath of wind stirs. Behind the house, the olive groves that fed the region shimmered, their ripe fruits ready for harvest. From afar came the insistent tinkling of goat bells, as the herder patiently guided his flock for the evening milking. The air pulsed with a thousand echoes of the countryside, carrying scents from farms and meadows.
Tiny teasing beads of sweat formed at the roots of her thick blond hair. They tickled as they traced a path down her temples, brushed her cheeks, and disappeared into the light fabric of her grey linen dress. Some strayed into her eyebrows or along the bridge of her nose, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand in irritation. God, she thought, had that tiresome habit of slipping discomfort even into the most pleasant of moments.
Graziella let out a long, disenchanted sigh. She twirled a blade of dry grass between her fingers, eyes lost in the blazing horizon, searching for answers in the dusk.
For most women, this hour of the day meant eagerly waiting for a young, fiery husband galloping up the hill to steal a passionate kiss from parted lips. Their children grumbling at the idea of leaving their games to return home. The evening would unfold in the tender warmth of hearths, filled with love and laughter. But Graziella expected none of that. Once again, Father Armando would grumble in disappointment when she confessed she still had no desire to give up her chosen celibacy.
“You were born to fulfill the Lord’s design: to marry and bear children.”
He had repeated it to her a thousand times.
She had stopped listening by the hundredth.
Serafina, her younger sister, had married a month earlier, which had only reinforced Graziella in her convictions. In Italy, in this year of grace 1496, young girls were wed as early as fourteen or fifteen. Graziella shook her head. At nineteen, she should have been settled long ago. Most of her friends from the village already trailed a swarm of children, their future shaped by the desires of men. She had remained alone with that burden: to serve her father until the end of his days.
Nevertheless, the girl’s charm escaped no inhabitant of Carvalo,[1] a cheerful village nestled in the heart of the Romagna countryside, a few leagues south of Rome. Slender, voluptuous curves, wheat-blond hair—no doubt inherited from some marauding Gaul—and eyes of a green one could easily get lost in, she charmed everyone who crossed her path.
Clumsy farmers, bumbling shopkeepers, self-important bourgeois, would-be suitors full of flattery… all had come up against her sharp tongue and been pricked by it. No man, young or old, rich or poor, had ever found favor with her.
She would never admit it out loud, but when, five years earlier, her mother had made her swear on her deathbed to always look after her father and younger sister, Graziella had felt relieved. A responsibility as heavy and futureless as taking the veil, certainly, yet she found it worthwhile, since her father wasn’t trying to marry her off to the first suitor to come along, as was customary in so many families.
She still remembered a livestock market, men inspecting mares by lifting the mares’ lips to check their teeth. A cold shiver had run down her spine when, later, she overheard a similar exchange between two fathers, whispering in the shadows of a tavern, eyes gleaming with hunger.
Being born a girl meant being treated with barely more consideration than a cow or a goat. Sold to the highest bidder. A commodity good only for spreading her legs, accepting the male seed, and pushing out the fruit. After a childhood spent roaming the neighboring farms, Graziella no stranger to the secrets of reproduction. No need for an overactive imagination to transpose onto humans what she had observed among animals. Yet another thing that would make Father Armando howl!
The young girl took wicked pleasure in shocking the good priest, whose jowls would quiver and redden with every misdeed she reported to him. His ample belly would stretch his cassock tight as he struggled to catch his breath after the moralistic sermons he never failed to deliver.
Yet he never reported her to her father when she made scandalous remarks. In truth, he pitied her, this motherless child left to fend for herself and burdened with a load far too heavy for her.
*
Back in the main hall, Graziella contemplated the portraits of her ancestors on the walls. These stern-looking men and women stared at her with severity. How had her father let it all fall apart? He proved incapable of managing the estate, unlike his father before him, once the undisputed master of lands and business.
Graziella adored her father, a cheerful and affable man. His side of the family, wealthy landowners, had relentlessly climbed the social ladder over the years by snatching up every available plot of land.
They cultivated the fertile soil of Romagna, growing grains, vines, and olive trees to supply nearby Rome. Rome—voracious and never sated—bought, bought, and bought… enriching rural bourgeois families and ensuring the livelihood of thousands of sharecroppers and laborers.
Graziella’s grandfather, a shrewd and ambitious man, had sacrificed part of his arable land to construct buildings for storing grain, turning grapes into wine, and pressing olives into oil. By controlling the entire production process, he was also able to speculate on the price of goods and accumulate real wealth during years of scarcity.
Her father had wanted for nothing: tutors, music masters, drawing teachers… He had received an education worthy of the finest families. A gamble that may have seemed clever, but which now risked causing the downfall of the entire estate.
Graziella’s father fancied himself an artist and would proclaim to anyone who cared to listen—usually drunkards happy to relieve his purse of its contents—that he could rival the most famous painters. The abandoned brushes rolled across the table, soaking in a puddle of ochre. A wine-stained tablecloth, a bit of gnawed bread. And he, laughing loudly beneath the arbor, one arm slung around the shoulders of a drinking companion, once again promising that he would start his masterpiece… tomorrow.
The grandfather’s ambitions knew no bounds: he had added an extra layer of respectability to his name by marrying his only son to a young noblewoman from an impoverished family. A passionless union, yet a successful one, for it was marked by deep mutual respect and unwavering affection. Of course, upon the death of Graziella’s mother, the title and its associated privileges immediately became void. If only the union had produced a male heir, a dispensation could have been requested from the prince. But with “only” two daughters…
The grandfather had passed away after a bad fall from his horse, just after Graziella’s eighth birthday. Her father had tried everything to take up the torch, with very mixed results. Unable to focus on the accounting columns, with no business sense at all, preferring to daydream on the terrace with a cup of good wine in hand; he missed appointments, let deadlines slip by, and accumulated debt. Worn down, he eventually handed over the reins of the estate to a crafty steward, a man with a simple motto: one ducat for the Maraval family, two ducats for his own pocket.
Graziella seethed as she witnessed the misdeeds of the scoundrel almost daily. For instance, the stock recorded in the books never matched what she saw with her own eyes in the warehouses. When she tried to warn her father, he brushed aside her concerns with a wave of the hand.
“Come now, my darling, don’t clutter your pretty head with such things. These matters don’t concern women. Go read a little poetry or make a lovely bouquet for the merenda[2] table.”
Yet she too had received the best education accessible to her social status. Beyond the traditional reading, writing, embroidery, music, dance, Latin and philosophy, Graziella had solid knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, rhetoric, history, and theology. All subjects generally reserved for boys.
She bit her tongue in frustration, powerless, dreaming of a world in which she would be allowed to take over the family business and dismiss the steward with great fanfare. Alas, she had no choice but to keep a close eye on him and quietly correct his “errors” in the account books whenever she could.
*
Back in the house, Graziella cast a thoughtful glance through the half-open door and slowly set down the knife she was using to chop herbs for a healing ointment. Always with caution, even when no one was around to stop or question her, she slipped into the garden and climbed up to the olive grove.
Her favorite tree, with its gnarled and twisted trunk, offered her the shelter of its outstretched branches, hidden from view, letting through just enough of the gentle warmth of the day’s end. Lost in contemplation of the setting sun, turquoise and mother-of-pearl mingled with crimson, Graziella gave free rein to her emotions, convinced that it resembled a sin. But was it truly a sin, that irresistible feeling that sometimes swept over her?
What would her destiny be? How would it take shape in such a small village? She had no idea. Would it be a great love? A great disaster? An unexpected opportunity? She would have been hard pressed to say. Her only certainty: she would one day leave Carvalo, and the course of her life would be changed forever. Where did this conviction come from? She did not know, and she did not care.
She had never felt brave enough to confess it to Father Armando, nor to admit to him the source of her gloomy moods. He would probably have urged her to drive all those dark thoughts from her mind, warning her against the works of Satan meant to corrupt her pure soul as a good Christian. And yet, without that obscure hope buried deep within her being, she could not bear her life.
2
Verbena Water for Troubled Dreams
Light infusion of lemon verbena, taken at nightfall.
Drives away nightmares, encourages true dreams.
“Graziella?”
Serafina! They had always shared a deep closeness, finding refuge in one another after their mother’s death. Graziella had raised her younger sister. Before Serafina’s marriage to Salvatore, a charming farmer, the old secret tree had often spread its branches kindly to shelter their private moments. Graziella rose quickly and held out both hands to her younger sister in welcome.
“Oh, Serafina, how good it is to see you again! I felt so alone.”
They embraced warmly. Her sister’s dark eyes were shining; her whole body radiated a serene, playful sensuality that her elder had never noticed before. Serafina hugged her, and Graziella inhaled the sun’s warmth still trapped in her skin. The scent of wheat and fresh milk clung to her black hair. A peal of laughter rang out, light as a bell.
Is this what love does to someone?
Serafina nestled in turn against the mossy trunk, her skirt swirling around her in a movement of unconscious coquetry, a charming pout on her lips.
She instinctively knows how to stir a man’s desire, Graziella thought, smiling inwardly.
As dark and olive-skinned as her sister was fair, with pale skin sprinkled with freckles, Serafina matched the classic Italian beauty in every way.
“I almost feel ashamed of my happiness… I worry so much about you. Salvatore and I both think you can’t keep wasting your life here, sacrificing your youth for Father. He spends more time in taverns than at home, chasing impossible illusions. With your exotic charm, you’d set Rome’s hearts aflame! You could become a Duchessa,[3] or even a Principessa!”[4]
“Rome!” cried Graziella, laughing. “You’re dreaming, Serafina! You might as well imagine me flying in one of Sir Leonardo da Vinci’s absurd machines. If only you had heard this, Serafina… That itinerant painter spent an hour or two talking with Father last night. Though he’s praised as ‘the greatest artist of our time’, he’s beginning to sound like a madman with his claims of making men fly through the sky like birds. Can anyone imagine such absurdity?”
“Certainly not,” agreed her younger sister.
She leaned forward, and her voice became a whisper, just audible above the chirping of the crickets.
“We had a visitor too, yesterday. A messenger from the great Cesare Borgia, the Cardinal of Valencia. He stopped at our farm to enjoy our bread and the creaminess of our goat’s milk before setting out again for the twelve leghe[5] that still separated him from his destination. We welcomed him well, as you can imagine. If he were to whisper a kind word about our products into the ears of the palace cooks, our fortune would be made. Oh, Graziella, the intrigues he told us about!”
Serafina’s ebony eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Although their father, our beloved Pope Alexander VI, is the true sovereign of Rome and naturally of all Christendom, the city seems dominated by Cesare—the Magnificent, as they call him—and his beautiful sister Lucrezia. They collect perfection like we once did snail shells or glittering pebbles. The rarest and most finely cut jewels flock to their court. But according to the illustrious messenger, only human beauty is priceless to them. The most admirable athletes, the most handsome pages, and young women who would make even Helen of Troy herself green with envy compete for their favor.”
Graziella raised her eyebrows as she listened to Serafina. The beauty cherished by the Cardinal of Valencia… She was flattered, but part of her rebelled.
So that was their ideal? Bodies to line up, possess, and display like rare vases?
Serafina paused to catch her breath, shortened by her enthusiasm. Then she quickly added:
“You wouldn’t be out of place in their selection, Graziella. On the contrary, you’d enhance it.”
Graziella drew her younger sister close in a gesture of gratitude, also meant to hide the strange spark of revolt she felt dancing in her eyes.
“I’m not a display figurine,” she said curtly. “My place is here; I can’t break the vow I made to our mother—that would be sacrilege! Besides, I don’t even have enough for a scrawny donkey to travel such a distance.”
Sensing Serafina stiffen against her, surprised by her tone, she let her usual sense of humor take over.
“Can you imagine your famous Borgias paying attention to a penniless girl, dressed in worn-out rags and reeking of manure? In the midst of a crowd of whining beggars?”
Serafina jumped to her feet. Salvatore would be back from the fields soon, and her sister’s attitude annoyed her.
“You always exaggerate! Penniless? Oh, please! You could leave tomorrow if you wanted to. Our father would manage! I left the evening soup unattended on the fire just to bring you this news, and that’s how you react? But the world is at your feet; you only have to reach out and take it. What are you waiting for?”
Serafina bounded away. Graziella bit her lip, troubled by all the words she was holding back.
How could she explain the situation to her younger sister in all its dreadful reality? How?
*
The day before, after their guest had gone to bed, the young girl had taken advantage of one of her father’s rare sober evenings. Maestro Leonardo was known for advocating a simple and balanced diet, without excess—particularly when it came to drink. So, in order not to give the famous inventor a poor impression, her father had felt obliged to moderate his consumption.
“Padre, the laborers are grumbling. They haven’t received their stipendio[6] for the August harvest. Many are threatening to look for work elsewhere. What will we do next month, when the olive harvest begins, if they all abandon us?”
Messere[7] Maraval had stroked her cheek as he puffed on his fragrant pipe.
“God will provide…”
“But…”
“No buts, my child. That peddler who came through Carvalo a few weeks ago was offering pigments far too magnificent for me to let him go! I have a feeling that with his blue, I’ll create unforgettable paintings. Leonardo himself confirmed to me that the quality of the materials affects the final result…”
Graziella clenched her fists, fighting back tears. Yet another purchase she hadn’t known about, adding to the long list of her father’s follies. He swore only by the most expensive pigments and materials, spending without restraint. After hearing him discuss endlessly with passing artists—who emptied their wine cellar and pantry—the young girl now knew by heart everything that filled a painter’s daily life.
The ultramarine blue he mentioned topped the list. Obtained from hand-ground lapis lazuli, imported at great cost from the distant Orient, it could fetch up to three florins per gram. Enough to pay a farmworker’s wages for a week!
“How much did you buy from him?”
The question had burst out, abrupt, with none of the filial deference Graziella owed her father. Fortunately, he, delighted to talk about his passion, didn’t notice.
“Oh, just two little grams. That’s all he had to offer me.”
The young girl silently gave thanks to the Almighty.
“On the other hand, I managed to get two ounces[8] of vermilion for twenty-two florins. A good deal!”
His cheerful expression drew a groan from Graziella. More weeks of human labor vanished onto her father’s palette. Why couldn’t he be content with ochres from nearby Tuscany or charcoal black? Why not replace ultramarine and vermilion with azurite and madder lake, which cost less?
Likewise, he swore only by sable brushes, scorning those made of pig bristle, which he deemed too coarse. And like maestro Leonardo, he painted only on wood, poplar or walnut. Linen canvas found favor in his eyes only for what he called his “training smudges.”
Graziella loved him too much to bluntly tell him what she thought of his talent. Or rather, of his total lack of talent. It would kill him, surely. And yet, how much longer could the estate survive his lavish habits?
*
Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. The weather was slowly turning to storm. The heat radiating from the embers in the hearth felt unbearable to Graziella, who was grilling fish freshly caught by a sharecropper in the nearby river. Her face was burning, and beads of sweat trickled beneath her thick hair hastily tied at the nape of her neck. There was still at least an hour before her father returned, if not more. He would likely pay no more attention to her state of mind than on other days, absorbed in some new idea meant to secure their fortune. Yet another, doomed to failure like the ones before.
In addition to fancying himself a painter, he was convinced he was a fine connoisseur of economics and business. He got involved with every dreamer, anyone who needed funds to start some kind of venture. But also with every truffatore[9] in the region, drawn by easy money and who had no trouble convincing him to empty his purse, before disappearing for good, a satisfied smile on their lips. In any case, swindlers or not, it made no difference in the end, as he generally ended up declaring sheepishly:
“Ah, bad luck. It’ll be better next time.”
After setting aside the sizzling pot, the young girl climbed up to her room. An even more stifling atmosphere greeted her there. The sun’s heat had built up under the roof during the day, and the tiny opening let in not the slightest breeze. The pungent smell of turpentine, closely mingled with that of linseed oil, wafting from her father’s studio on the other side of the hallway, almost made her choke.
“Plague on painters!” she grumbled. “I’d have preferred him to take up poetry. At least paper and ink are cheaper and don’t smell so bad. Though he might have gotten it into his head to create a collection of poems illuminated with gold leaf!”
Chuckling at her own remark, Graziella swiftly unfastened her silver belt—a lovely chain of interlaced doves inherited from her mother—and let her sweat-dampened grey dress slip to the floor. Her hair quickly twisted into a graceful bun and secured in a fine net dotted with pearls, she pulled on a white linen chemise that left her neck and shoulders bare. To hell with her leather-strapped sandals! She gladly gave the soles of her feet to the relative cool of the ochre-tiled floor, bounded down the stairs, and stepped out into the garden.
She always breathed better outside than inside the house, heavy with the burdens of daily life.
A thick vine clinging to a trellis shaded the little courtyard where the table was set for cena[10]. It consisted of a simple olivewood board, worn smooth by years of use and care, resting on trestles. A wooden bowl overflowed with fruit: oranges, grapes, olives, sweet lemons. Another held all sorts of vegetables marinated in oil and sprinkled with coriander seeds. Two polished metal goblets flanked a wineskin brimming with sun-drenched wine and a jug of fresh well water. The fish would soon be cooked. In the meantime, Graziella let herself sink voluptuously into the bed of soft grass that beckoned her.
The storm that had broken out a few minutes earlier was moving away. Occasional flashes of lightning still crackled over the hills toward Rome. The heavy clouds had given way to a sudden darkness that struck her as ominous. The moon was hiding somewhere, and the carpet of stars she usually gazed upon refused to appear tonight. Only the lantern placed on the table, a few steps away, offered a bit of light, like a beacon in the storm. A swarm of moths pressed in around the fragile flame. Graziella shivered. The electrically charged air had her nerves on edge.
She stood up, ears alert. Why? She couldn’t have said. Nothing disturbed the silence but the chirring of cicadas in the tall surrounding grass.
[1] Fictional town.
[2] Light afternoon meal, usually between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m.
[3] Duchess.
[4] Princess.
[5] Approximately eleven miles.
[6] Wages of agricultural day laborers.
[7] Mister or sire.
[8] Approximately 28 grams in an ounce.
[9] Swindler.
[10] Dinner, usually eaten between 6 and 9 p.m.
Céline Saint-Charle 