Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole Page A

though trying to escape the unbearable grief that was their lives.
    “My God,” I whispered and gripped Vittoro’s hand.
    He nodded somberly. “The priests say the expulsion from Spain is only God’s latest punishment of the Ebreos for killing Christ.”
    I had heard this but could not claim to understand it. The house priests who conducted Mass at the Cardinal’s palazzo rarely mentioned such matters. They favored sermons exalting the wisdom of authority and the necessity of obedience to it. But occasionally they would mention, almost in passing, that the Jews were to blame for every ill in the world because they had killed the Redeemer of Mankind, Christ.
    Once I had asked my father why the Jews had done that, but he had only smiled sadly and reminded me that it was Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross.
    Was it then really Rome that was being punished? The Rome of Holy Mother Church with its plague of princes and palaces? With men like Rodrigo Borgia who aspired to be its ruler?
    I shied away from such thoughts. They were matters best left unquestioned by anyone hoping to remain alive. But they were also distracting enough that I failed to feel the hand slipped lightly into the slit in my skirt and from there into the pouch I wore beneath where I carried coins, my keys, and a few other important items. If I hadn’t stumbled on a jagged cobblestone at just that moment, the pickpocket relieving me of my purse might have gotten away unnoticed.
    Instead, I felt the hand against my leg and instinctively cried out: “Thief!”
    The culprit attempted to dart away into the crowd but Vittoro, despite his age, was faster. His hand lashed out, closing on the scruff of an unwashed neck.
    “Not so fast!” The captain gave a hard shake to the thin, ragged creature dangling a foot or two off the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Incredibly, the boy—who looked no more than six or seven years of age but was probably several years older—made no effort to plead for mercy. Instead, he kicked fiercely, trying to land a blow anywhere he could and at the same time shrieked:
    “
Bastardo!
Let go of me! Let go!”
    Vittoro raised his free hand to strike the child but I grabbed hold of his arm. “Best not,” I said softly and inclined my head toward the surrounding crowd.
    The captain followed the direction of my gaze and saw what Ihad seen. No one among the Ebreos was making any sort of threatening gesture toward us, much less attempting to rescue the boy. But the great mass of them on all sides and their silent watchfulness raised the question of what exactly they would do if they thought the boy in danger of arrest or worse.
    “This won’t help us,” I said, still keeping my voice very low.
    Vittoro nodded. He set the boy on his feet but kept firm hold of his thin arm.
    “What is your name?” he asked the young thief.
    The answer was a great wad of phlegm, remarkable for so small a boy, that landed precisely an inch beyond the tip of Vittoro’s boots.
    The captain sighed and shook his head. “What way is that to act? I asked you a civil question.” He looked down at the boy, who was beginning to frown through his defiance as the scene failed to play out according to his expectation. “But perhaps you don’t know your name,” Vittoro suggested. “Perhaps you don’t know your father.”
    “I’m not the bastard,” the boy shot back. “You are.”
    “In fact, I am not,” Vittoro replied patiently. “My name is Vittoro Romano. This lady is Francesca Giordano. Who are you?”
    Grudgingly, the boy replied, “Benjamin Albanesi.”
    “Good,” Vittoro said. “Benjamin Albanesi, I am going to release you. When I do, you have two choices. You can run off and be done with this. Or you can stay, help us find the place we seek, and earn a silver penny for your trouble instead of trying to steal one.”
    Benjamin stared at him suspiciously. “Let me see the penny.”
    With a sigh for the demands of