Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole

easy to manage.
    Vittoro seemed to be following my train of thought for he smiled, a rare disturbance of the normally somber folds of his face. “I haven’t been to the Jewish Quarter in quite awhile. I am curious to see what is happening there.”
    I understood what he was referring to. In the almost three months since their most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, issued their edict expelling all Jews from their kingdom, tens of thousands of desperate refugees had streamed into other parts of Europe, including Rome. There, as in other cities, they had to cram into the already overcrowded ghettos where increasingly the Ebreos were forced to live. Conditions in the ghetto, situated on marshy tidal land beside the Tiber, had never been good, but it was said that now they were rapidly becoming deplorable.
    “Do you know what we will find at the address the Cardinal gave me?” I asked as we stepped out onto the street. Rain showers during the night had washed away the dust and grime from thecobblestones and left the air cooler than in recent days. A light breeze carried the scent of the lemon and olive orchards just outside the city.
    “I do not,” Vittoro replied promptly enough that I believed him. “However, I am certain that whatever may be there, you will deal with it properly.”
    The frank expression of his confidence surprised me. I did not know the captain well, having only observed him during my years growing up in the palazzo. But I was aware that he had been friends with my father. The two men had played chess together regularly.
    “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I will do my best.”
    With Vittoro at my side, the walk down to the Sant’Angelo district where the ghetto was located was uneventful. Even so, I could not shake off my sense of apprehension. At the entrance to every shadowed alley and lane we passed, I relived the moment when my attackers sprang out at me. By the time we neared our destination, my palms were damp and I was breathing rapidly.
    “Do you need to rest?” Vittoro asked. He took my arm lightly to steady me.
    “No,” I assured him. “I am fine.” I looked ahead to the walls rising before us and the rooftops beyond. Despite the sunny day, a grim shadow of despair seemed to hang over the ghetto. I could not wait to be done there.
    “I would just like to finish with this,” I said.
    “Of course,” he said, nodding.
    At this time, there was not yet a single wall around the ghetto, although many of the streets that would have led out of it were blocked by piles of stone and rubble. Since the announcement of the edict expelling the Jews from Spain, talk had increased of the need to build an actual wall, but thus far it was only talk.
    Even so, it was no easy matter to come and go between the ghetto and the rest of Rome. Wagons were allowed through only one checkpoint, guarded by condotierri who decided who could pass according to what was pressed into their palms.
    Those on foot passed a little more easily but not much. Only Vittoro’s air of authority and the Borgia insignia he did not hesitate to display assured that we were admitted without harassment. That proved to be a mixed blessing. The moment I stepped inside the ghetto, I feared I would gag. The smell of so many people packed together in so small a space was overwhelming. Garbage and offal lay everywhere, the stinking piles covered with swarms of mosquitoes drawn from the river. With every high tide, filthy water washed into the lower floors of many of the ramshackle shops and tenements, leaving deposits of mud and waste. Hardly a breath of air stirred between buildings so closely packed together as to all but block out the sun.
    But all that paled beside the mass of humanity that spilled from every doorway and packed the streets—spindly, dull-eyed children; men and women stooped and worn far beyond their years; and the very few elderly, huddled despite the heat, rocking back and forth as