as if it
had been designed to contain something more substantial than a picture. Something
concealed behind it, perhaps. Such things were used for smuggling secret
communications, I had heard. With this sudden understanding, my skin prickled
into goosebumps. Of course a master goldsmith would know how to work a hidden
compartment into a pendant like this. The question was how to find the opening
without damaging the mechanism. I worked at the clasp with the tip of my knife
with no success, before trying the same trick with the hinge on the other side.
I nicked my fingertips so many times that the surface and the blade grew
slippery with blood, until at last I heard a catch give and the back of the
locket opened smoothly. I licked the blood from my fingers, wiped them on my
habit, and drew out a folded square of parchment.
The writing on it was tiny and densely packed, though neat
and precise as if it had been written with a quill as fine as a needle. But my
heart was hammering as fiercely as the moment I first saw the girl’s body, for
the characters written there were Hebrew. I mouthed the first words — Shema
Yisrael — and realized I was holding a text more dangerous than anything I
had read in my life. This was a copy of the Shema , from the Jewish
prayer service. Anyone found to possess this would be immediately summoned
before the Inquisition, with little hope of a pardon. No wonder Maria was so
terrified of its falling into the wrong hands.
Officially, there were no Jews left in Naples. They had been
expelled in 1541, though a few had chosen to convert and stay. Maria’s father
must be one such convertito , if he was permitted to trade here as a
Neapolitan. I had heard that their houses were raided occasionally to ensure
that they had truly renounced the faith, but it was rumored that some had
managed to cling to their traditions in secret. I recalled the deliberate cruelty
of Donato’s insult to Maria; the way she had flinched as if he had struck her. The
insinuations he had made to me — that he could taint me with the same slur if
he wished. What did he know of Maria’s family history? If the girl Anna had
believed herself in love with him, how much might she have confided? To hide
the Shema in the locket suggested that, however tentatively, she had chosen
to hold on to her identity. Surely she would not have given up such a dangerous
secret to a man who belonged among the city’s Inquisitors, no matter how strongly
she felt for him?
I folded the parchment and replaced it in the locket with
trembling fingers. As I closed the secret compartment, I saw that a drop of
blood from my finger had stained the edge of the prayer crimson. I could not
think what to do. In my heart I knew I had no choice but to return the locket
to Maria; I understood its value now, not least as a memory of her dead mother
and her sister. But to return it was as good as confirming that I knew
something about the girl’s fate, and the bloodstain on the parchment would surely
fuel their fears; they would take it for hers. I could not keep it. Fra Gennaro
would no doubt see it as more evidence to be erased, so I could not ask for his
help. I hid it again inside my undershirt and prayed earnestly for guidance.
*
* *
Despite Fra Donato’s warning that I was being watched, I decided
to miss my theology class after the midday meal, asking Paolo to say I was
still feverish, and slipped out into the tired heat of the city. With my hood
pulled up around my face, I cut along Via Tribunali in the direction of the
Duomo. Strada dell’Anticaglia stood steeped in shadow from the high buildings closing
in on both sides. Lines hung with washing dripped on me from above as I passed
under the ancient arches of the Roman theater that spanned the street, seeming
to hold up the houses. I walked quickly, my head down, scanning the doorways and
barred windows for the sign of a goldsmith’s. After walking the length of the
street, I returned to the only
had been designed to contain something more substantial than a picture. Something
concealed behind it, perhaps. Such things were used for smuggling secret
communications, I had heard. With this sudden understanding, my skin prickled
into goosebumps. Of course a master goldsmith would know how to work a hidden
compartment into a pendant like this. The question was how to find the opening
without damaging the mechanism. I worked at the clasp with the tip of my knife
with no success, before trying the same trick with the hinge on the other side.
I nicked my fingertips so many times that the surface and the blade grew
slippery with blood, until at last I heard a catch give and the back of the
locket opened smoothly. I licked the blood from my fingers, wiped them on my
habit, and drew out a folded square of parchment.
The writing on it was tiny and densely packed, though neat
and precise as if it had been written with a quill as fine as a needle. But my
heart was hammering as fiercely as the moment I first saw the girl’s body, for
the characters written there were Hebrew. I mouthed the first words — Shema
Yisrael — and realized I was holding a text more dangerous than anything I
had read in my life. This was a copy of the Shema , from the Jewish
prayer service. Anyone found to possess this would be immediately summoned
before the Inquisition, with little hope of a pardon. No wonder Maria was so
terrified of its falling into the wrong hands.
Officially, there were no Jews left in Naples. They had been
expelled in 1541, though a few had chosen to convert and stay. Maria’s father
must be one such convertito , if he was permitted to trade here as a
Neapolitan. I had heard that their houses were raided occasionally to ensure
that they had truly renounced the faith, but it was rumored that some had
managed to cling to their traditions in secret. I recalled the deliberate cruelty
of Donato’s insult to Maria; the way she had flinched as if he had struck her. The
insinuations he had made to me — that he could taint me with the same slur if
he wished. What did he know of Maria’s family history? If the girl Anna had
believed herself in love with him, how much might she have confided? To hide
the Shema in the locket suggested that, however tentatively, she had chosen
to hold on to her identity. Surely she would not have given up such a dangerous
secret to a man who belonged among the city’s Inquisitors, no matter how strongly
she felt for him?
I folded the parchment and replaced it in the locket with
trembling fingers. As I closed the secret compartment, I saw that a drop of
blood from my finger had stained the edge of the prayer crimson. I could not
think what to do. In my heart I knew I had no choice but to return the locket
to Maria; I understood its value now, not least as a memory of her dead mother
and her sister. But to return it was as good as confirming that I knew
something about the girl’s fate, and the bloodstain on the parchment would surely
fuel their fears; they would take it for hers. I could not keep it. Fra Gennaro
would no doubt see it as more evidence to be erased, so I could not ask for his
help. I hid it again inside my undershirt and prayed earnestly for guidance.
*
* *
Despite Fra Donato’s warning that I was being watched, I decided
to miss my theology class after the midday meal, asking Paolo to say I was
still feverish, and slipped out into the tired heat of the city. With my hood
pulled up around my face, I cut along Via Tribunali in the direction of the
Duomo. Strada dell’Anticaglia stood steeped in shadow from the high buildings closing
in on both sides. Lines hung with washing dripped on me from above as I passed
under the ancient arches of the Roman theater that spanned the street, seeming
to hold up the houses. I walked quickly, my head down, scanning the doorways and
barred windows for the sign of a goldsmith’s. After walking the length of the
street, I returned to the only
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