Sarah, Son of God

Prologue

Venice, June 1560

Mother of God!

Massimo screamed as he dropped to the end of the rope and the strappado dislocated his shoulders. He sobbed as he hung, swaying in a small arc.

The Dominican inquisitor rose from his chair and braced his hands on the table, his long sleeves slipping like eels from under his satin mozzetta. Their whiteness contrasted sharply with the filth around him. Not only had lice made a home in the brocade cover of his table, but the room reeked of sweat and urine from countless accused men who had pissed themselves during torture.

He studied the face of the agonized Massimo for a moment, then came around in front of the table. He took care not to touch the prisoner but shook his head slowly. He spoke gently, a loving shepherd. Take care to not add another blasphemy to your sins, my son. Answer the question truthfully and all will be well.

Massimo whimpered incoherently.

The inquisitor signaled the torturer at the winch to reel the moaning man back up onto the high platform. Once more, my son. Clear your troubled conscience before God and end your suffering. Where are the books?

Massimo knelt panting at the edge of the platform, his bound wrists drawn up high behind his back. I swear, my lord, he moaned. On my soul. I know not. He who ordered them claimed them of an evening.

And whither brought them? Who was he, by name and origin? The inquisitor repeated his questions for the third time, gesturing to the torturer to haul the man to his feet.

I told you. It was a Turk or Jew named Hakim. He fetched the books away anon they were printed. I know not where.

The inquisitor took his time, glancing first at the notary to assure that the response was recorded, then at the doge, who could bear witness to his attempt at mercy. Finally he nodded to the torturer on the high platform. Obeying the signal, the masked man shoved the prisoner from the platform so that he fell, jerking to a halt in midair. As the muscles of his back tore again, he released a raw, rasping scream.

In the wooden cell adjacent to the torture chamber, Leonora Barotti cowered, her stomach churning at her brother-in-law’s torture. Massimo was telling the truth. He did not know the fate of the heretical books, but she did, and she trembled, knowing that they would torture her next. How long could she hold out against the strappado, or any of the other horrors they used on women? Not long, she feared.

Poor courageous Massimo. Tortured first, simply because the inquisitors assumed he was master of the printing house. In truth, he was, though in name only. Upon her husband’s death, his brother Massimo had taken on the business, ineptly as it turned out. Had they been thriving, as before, he would ne’er have insisted on printing the strange translation. And now his last bad decision would cost them both their lives.

Thank the Virgin that Anne was safe. At least that.

Finally the screaming stopped and Leonora fell into troubled sleep on the straw pallet. An hour later, she jerked back to wakefulness at the sound of the jailor’s key. She cowered again, her heart pounding. Was this her time on the rope?

But no. By the light of the jailor’s lantern, she could see he was smiling. Even better, she saw no attending priest. A good sign. He came into the cell, swaying slightly. He held something wide and flat. As he lurched, it dropped from his hand and fell against the cell wall.

How goes the lady on such a Carnival night? A great spectacle we’re missing. He leaned against the doorjamb to steady himself.

Well enough. What will you at this hour? Leonora answered coolly, waiting for him to explain why he had disturbed her. Then she saw the object he had brought. What’s that?

A gift, from your brother, the jailor said, slurring his words slightly. Will you have it? A favor for a favor, eh? He stepped toward her on uncertain feet and laid a hand on her breast.

Leonora recoiled, brushing his hand away, and was about to say, I don’t have a brother, then caught herself.

This is no place for airs, lady, and no hour for prudery. All of Venice is sunk in wine. Yet here we be, in a quiet, private place. And I’ve a present, two in truth. But one of them is here. He stroked his crotch. What say you, lady, we make a carnival of our own? He pulled her toward him, his breath foul.

What’s going on here? Another voice spoke from the cell doorway. The jailor sprang back as if stung. Nothing, Captain. A gentleman left a kindness for the prisoner and I’ve just delivered it.

Then be done with it. The jail captain continued down the corridor.

The jailor muttered something unintelligible and slid the object toward Leonora. A picture of the Savior, he grumbled. Your brother said to keep the image by your head that you see him when you wake.

What cruel jest was this? Had they set a trap for her? Silence seemed the wisest.

He further said to search the image well, for if redemption come, it will spring forth from this place. The jailor burped wetly. He also paid for an extra candle.

Thank you, she said, lowering her gaze as she accepted the gifts, not moving from the spot until the jailor had left and locked the door behind him. Then, still puzzled, she placed the candle inside the cell lantern and set it by the head of her pallet. Following the instructions of her mysterious brother, she propped the picture against the wall. Search the image, he’d said. How could she do that in the dim light? As she adjusted the frame, something sharp scraped her palm. She held the lantern to the bottom left corner of it to see what had pricked her. A piece of metal protruded from a split in the wood, and when she pried it out, she saw it was a small serrated blade. What was she supposed to do with it? The window bars were iron.

And what did Redemption from this place mean? She pressed her ear against the floor and heard a faint scrabbling noise. She flinched, thinking it was rats. But, no, she also detected the low rumble of a man’s voice. She tapped with her knuckle on the floor once and immediately received an answering tap. She tapped again, twice, and it was echoed back to her. Now she understood. Someone was chipping the wood from the other side, and she was to cut away at it from her side. It seemed that the grinding was coming from a spot a hand’s breadth away from the two adjoining walls. Fortunately, when she knelt and bent over the corner, the jailor would be able to see only her feet through the opening in the cell door. If she prayed, loudly and fervently as her brother had suggested, she might be able to conceal the sound of scraping away the wood.

So, redemption was coming after all. She set to work.

*

After eight hours and hundreds of prayers, her fingers were swollen and bleeding, but the ring she had marked out on the floor was now cut deep. She could even see light through a small spot on one side of the disk. But the hole she was cutting from the top was misaligned to the one below and, worse, was too small to slip through. She would need another night to enlarge it.

Too late. It was daylight. The jailors were moving about and she dared not draw their attention, so she positioned the picture over the hole and sat far away from it, dozing slightly.

The hours passed, and by noon she could hear the dull sound of the crowds on the San Marco Piazzetta below celebrating another day of Carnival. She dozed again, dreaming she was in Carnival mask and disguise in the great piazza. Miraculously, Anne was by her side, brightly costumed in something elaborate and silken. Seizing her hand, Leonora tried to run, but it was as if she were lame and all she could do was drag herself forward one laborious step at a time.

The iron key turning in the lock awakened her and she lurched to her feet. It was a different jailor this time, and behind him stood a Dominican, tonsured and grim. It is time, signora, the jailor said.

Wordlessly she went to the doorway, not daring to look back for fear they would discover the hole behind the picture. Then she realized it made no difference. Broken by the strappado, she would be sentenced to death immediately. She was lost.

With the jailor in front and the priest behind her, she descended the narrow wooden staircase to the torture chamber. Her legs were so weak from kneeling, and now from sheer terror at the sight of the rope, she collapsed at the doorway.

The jailor took one of her arms and a guard the other, and together they stood her up on a low platform. In front of her, three men sat behind a long table under a painted crucifix. The crucified man seemed a reminder of the suffering to come. She recognized two of the three men: the inquisitor, in the white robe and red mozzetta of a Dominican, and the doge, Girolamo Priuli. The man on the left, she assumed, was another member of the Council. At an adjacent table, a scribe sat with parchment, quill, and ink.

A winch creaked high overhead and something brushed against her back. The strappado rope. She trembled violently and closed her eyes to fight off nausea.

The voice of the inquisitor drew her attention as he dictated to the scribe. You may begin. This day, the eighth June, anno Domini 1560. Called before the Sacred Tribunal of the Holy Office, the widow Leonora Barotti, residing in the parish of S. Samuel.

He turned to the prisoner. What is your name?

Leonora Barotti, she managed, through chattering teeth.

Note that, being asked her name and surname, she replied correctly.

What is your profession? His voice was cool and businesslike.

She took a deep breath. A printer of books, my lord.

Know you the reasons you have been called here?

They were trying to get her to implicate herself. Should she pretend innocence and risk their wrath?

I think I am accused of publishing a heretical book.

Do you confess it?

Her heartbeat roared in her ears and she could scarcely hear him, but she knew what he had asked. What was the right thing to say? I confess I knew it not as heresy, only as a jest. A slight blasphemy like the songs the bravos sing in the streets. Such is my guilt, my lords. She took another deep breath to fight off the dizziness. If she had a gram of courage, this was the last moment to show it.

But I am the only one, signori. I alone made compact with the stranger and took him at his word. I alone knew the text and deemed it profitable to print. My printers, journeymen, all others in my employ were innocent of this knowledge. Curiously, she felt a sense of relief, knowing that she might still save Lucca and the others. Maybe even the foolish Massimo. If her hour had come, then so be it.

How many copies did you print?

Two hundred, my lord.

And what befell those books? I warn you, do not perjure.

A Jew named Hakim Yaakub fetched them erewhile they were completed. By cart, my lords. He asked the travel time and state of road of the highway to Milan.

The doge snorted. Selling to the Milanese. Of course. That scum will feed off anything for amusement.

Leonora was lying. During the long night of scratching a hole in her cell floor, she had brooded on who her rescuer might be. Only one person was likely, and if she was right, Hakim was surely fleeing the same way she was supposed to—by sea.

The inquisitor looked into her eyes and she knew he saw the lie. He signaled to someone behind her, and, with a few deft strokes, strong hands tied her elbows together.

Be you sure of this? Bethink you long and hard, my daughter, the doge said.

Her breathing became fast as she anticipated the pain. Yes, my lord. I am sure.

The creak of the winch came first, then the odd sensation of her arms being raised behind her, and finally the searing pain in her shoulders and ribs as she was slowly lifted off her feet. She writhed, trying uselessly to lift herself in the air, and cried out. The pain spread downward to her hips and back, then to her neck and up around her ears. Her shoulders were on fire. She dropped her head forward and drew up her knees, but the agony continued. Her head pounded with every heartbeat.

The inquisitor’s hand went up and suddenly Leonora’s feet touched the platform again. Her shoulders still throbbed, but the unbearable fire had ebbed, and she gulped for air.

Reflect again, Leonora Barotti, and remember you are a Christian. Whither did the Jew transport the books?

To Milan, my lord, she forced herself to say again, though it came out a murmur.

The inquisitor shook his head slowly in disappointment, as if before an incorrigible child, and the rope behind her tightened again. This time she was lifted more quickly, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck threatened to rip. A jolt of intolerable pain shot through her, like sheet lightning, and she blacked out.

*

Leonora awoke in her cell on her pallet. Her arms stretched out on both sides of her were aching, and her fingers were numb. She clenched and unclenched her hands, trying to restore sensation. She was certain they had left her alone because they knew that fear of the same torture the next day would cause her to confess. They were right. Her courage was spent.

She pulled herself up with effort, trying not to put weight on her arms. It was still day, for though her window looked onto a corridor, afternoon light still spilled through an outside window farther down the hall.

A plate of dark bread and a flask of water were nearby on the floor, and when she could control her hands, she lifted the flask and drank gratefully. She used her chamber pot and set it at the opposite end of the cell. Turning back to her pallet, she noted that the picture of the Savior was undisturbed.

She sat down again and rested against the cell wall, waiting for darkness and for strength to return to her hands.

Oh! Leonora awoke with a start. She must have fallen asleep, for it was full night. Her arms ached less now, and she was able to fumble toward the painting and uncover the hole. She felt its ragged edges with her fingertips, then groped along the picture’s frame to retrieve the tiny blade.

This was her only chance for life. Ignoring the pain in her fingertips, her ravaged back, and, increasingly, in her knees, she worked furiously, scoring an ever-deepening cut in the floor. Soon a whisper came from below, then the brief flash of a lantern. Only a little more, signora. Over here. Fingers guided her to a jagged piece of wood that they hacked at, from both above and below.

Push now, the stranger whispered, and she put all her weight on one knee at the center of the carved ring. Finally, with a frighteningly loud rip, the wooden disk gave way.

Wait, someone growled, and she heard the breaking of splinters around the periphery of the hole.

Now, he ordered. She gathered her skirt and plunged feet first in the darkness through the hole, the jagged wood tearing her clothing and bruising her hips. The circle they had cut was still smaller than it needed to be, but nothing could stop her now. She would have broken bones to get through.

Finally, with a soft grunt, she forced her hips past the cutting rim, and rough hands caught her as she dropped into a cell on the lower level. She did not recognize the lantern-lit face. Who be you? she whispered.

Shh, he hissed, then added, barely audibly, Piero.

The empty cell opened to a corridor that led to the same stairwell she had walked that morning. She shuddered as they passed the torture chamber and descended to a floor below.

Her rescuer had a black cloth wrapped around his hand and held a tiny lantern. Something scrabbled in the wall and he dropped the cloth over the light, leaving them in darkness. But their alarm proved unnecessary; it was probably a mouse. He uncovered the lantern, and they crept along a second corridor to another hall.

It was cavernous, and their little light did not reach to the far end. Only the gilt on the ceiling directly overhead revealed where they were. Leonora gasped softly. It was the majestic Council Chamber where the thousand nobles of the Gran Consiglio gathered to rule Venice. She sensed the residue of their power as she groped along the wall toward the door.

A moment later they were in the palace courtyard, and as they approached the gateway that opened to the piazzetta, Piero drew her back behind a column. From the darkness, she saw four officers of the Council marching past. Two of them carried a ladder.

Soon the men were out of sight, and she and her rescuer slipped through the gate, turning left to flee under the arcaded walkway toward the water. The sun was just rising; its first rays shone along the water of the bay and into the arcade, shooting a glistening path between the horizon and themselves. When they reached the end of the arcade, Leonora glanced to the right, toward the first pillar, and stumbled in shock. Now she understood the presence of the Council officers and their ladder.

At the top of the pillar stood the familiar winged lion of Saint Mark, but on a gibbet at its foot hung the body of Massimo, a lesson to heretics.

Leonora followed blindly now, with the single thought of escape. She stepped heavily into the shallow sàndolo behind its oars and crouched, shivering as Piero shoved off from the bank. The rising sun afforded light for them to navigate to the center of the canal, and though they would be visible from shore, as yet, no one was looking for them.

Dread slowly left her as they moved eastward to the creaking of the oarlocks and the screeching of the first gulls coming from the lagoon. A gondola passed them, its gondolier rowing drunkenly with long lethargic pulls on his oar. His passengers were a man in a tricorne hat with a wide black tabarro around his shoulders and a woman wearing an elaborately ruffled blue costume with puff sleeves and deep décolleté.

Both were masked, he in a chalk white face with a menacing chin, and she in a feathered eye mask, yet they managed nonetheless to exchange intimacies. His hand draped over her shoulder had hold of her breast, while her hand rested between his spread thighs.

Leonora looked away and watched the palazzi of the Genovese and the Barbarigi slide by. She could identify all the great homes of the old nobility, but now their names rang hollow. Her days in Venice under their rule were over. That is, if her savior could manage her escape from them. The authorities would certainly be watching for her throughout the city and at every exit from it. Her life depended on the skill and will of her rescuer to evade them.

She had an idea who Piero’s master might be, and though she was too spent to ask, it soon became apparent she was right. As the Grand Canal curved north, crossing first the Rio di Trovaso and then the Rio Malpaga, Piero brought the boat gradually closer to the left bank. Then, just before the corner where the Rio Foscari flowed into the Grand Canal, Piero swung the craft alongside a wide water entrance to a palazzo. In the half-light of dawn she could see it was majestic, with a double row of balconies, each with an arcade of carved stone. She recognized the huge iron lamp that hung over the water at the corner where the large and the small canal intersected.

The Ca’ Foscari, she said, unnecessarily, as the iron water gates swung open.

Inside the corridor, where dank water plashed softly against stone, the dull morning light was augmented by a torch thrust into an iron loop on the wall. Under the torch, a stone platform received boat passengers and led to several doorways, presumably to storerooms. Piero tied the sàndolo to the mooring pole inside, and as the gates swung shut behind them, a man strode down the stone steps to meet them. He helped Leonora to her feet, and in a moment, she stood on the platform beside him.

Maffeo Foscari. I thought it might be you.

By the flickering torchlight his features were rendered stark and two-toned, bronze where lit and black in the hollows. Yet she knew he was a vigorously handsome man.

Yes, but forgive me if I do not waste precious time on greetings. None of my house know of you but these two good men, Piero and Rico. They will bring you food whilst you stay sequestered. He guided her into a room just off the water entrance where building materials, tools, and miscellaneous bales and boxes were piled. Behind a wall of crates was a bed and some candles.

Yes, thank you, but what then?

"The Grazie Dei sets sail in two days. You must forthwith make a list of goods, urgent for your travel, that will fit into a single crate. Lucca will bring them hence. I will see to your passage."

Signor Foscari, you have plundered the doge’s prison of me at your peril, for which I am grateful. But how think you to abscond with me? There is no place to hide a woman on shipboard.

With those. He pointed to a bundle at the foot of her bed. There’s a looking glass, as well. You do well to begin today to craft your newer person. And now I beg your pardon, lady. I have a visitor who already puzzles at my absence. Be assured you are safe for now. None but Piero or Rico will disturb you in this place. Rico will be back shortly with water for your ablutions. With that he strode back the way he had come, with the two men behind him.

Leonora sat down on the makeshift bed, more a padded platform, but blissful compared to her jail-cell pallet. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but the excitement of escape and the sounds of morning activity outside the high window, kept her nervously awake. She lit a second candle and examined what lay folded on her bed.

She held up a woolen outer garment, a cassock in the English style. Lined with fur, it had clearly belonged to someone prosperous. Under it were doublet, breeches, hose, and hat. Now she understood. She was to travel as a young Englishman.

After a moment’s consternation, she saw the logic of it. Dressing in the clothing of the opposite sex was punishable, she knew, but the best way to guarantee her safety while in the company of men. Fortunately, she was tall for a woman; perhaps she could pull it off.

By your leave, madama. It was Piero again, with a basin of steaming water and a tailor’s shears. He set the basin down on one of the crates. Rico followed him with a wooden bowl of bread and cheese and a ewer of wine. The signor said this is for your preparations. I will leave you now and lock both the water gates and the door from the house. None shall enter here and you may rest safely. At day’s end, one of us will bring you supper.

Holding up her candle, she studied Piero for the first time. He was slightly stooped, but robust, his forearms knotty with muscles. A powerful oarsman. His thin dark hair was long and tied behind his neck. The sparse beard that covered his cheeks and neck made it difficult to tell his age, but she guessed him to be older than his master. Thank you, Piero. And thank you for all your labor last night. I hope God in heaven rewards you for it.

My reward is to serve a man like Maffeo Foscari, signora. I will leave you to your labor now.

Then he was gone, and the sound of the door locking at the top of the stairs relieved her. Feeling safe, she set about undressing. She could barely lift her arms for the damage she still felt in her back from the strappado. Her whole body ached, and her fingertips were swollen and rubbed raw. But the quiet joy that came over her at being free and in trusted hands lent her strength to finally pull off her dress. After a week in prison it was torn and rank, and she was happy to be rid of it. She washed luxuriously with the warm water and looked down at herself. She was pale, from so many days without sunlight, but nothing took away from her stature as a tall, still-robust woman who had just passed her fortieth year. Her breasts were still firm, her legs strong, and her arms, unbroken by the torture, would soon be strong again too. She could work as many hours as a man. But could she pass for one?

The men’s undergarments were clean and soft against her skin. The linen shirt was wide and long, and did much to conceal her breasts. The breeches also were a trifle long, but she folded them at the waist and improved the fit. The hose looked quite smart as she gartered them at the knee under the breeches. As she expected, the shoes were too large, but she could stuff a bit of straw into the toes. The ochre-colored doublet fit remarkably well, even after she attached the sleeves, and when it was fully buttoned, it flattened the swell of her breasts to suggest a wide male chest.

She stepped before the mirror and, with some amusement, saw a rather handsome, fine-boned English gentleman. Only one thing was still amiss, and she understood now why Foscari had sent a tailor’s shears. With a sigh, she took them up and began to cut her hair. While she did so, she ran men’s names through her mind, pronouncing each one to see if it suited her. As she lopped off the last hank of hair, she finally settled on one.

Standing with her hands on her hips before the mirror, she addressed her image, uttering the few English phrases she had learned from Anne.

Good day to you. I am Lawrence Bolde, merchant from London. Thank you very much.

Chapter One

New York City, June 1969

Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro played on the stereo as Tadzio Falier prepared for a night out. The mezzo-soprano was just singing Cherubino’s entrance, and Tadzio sang with her an octave lower in Italian.

He pulled on his favorite green shirt and ran his hands over his breasts, wishing they were larger. They lay like warm apples in his palms and stood out nicely under the silk fabric, but they weren’t quite full enough to produce cleavage. Nonetheless, years of electrolysis had made his face and neck hairless, and the estrogen had cushioned his skin, so his opened shirt revealed a softly feminized upper body.

"Non so più cosa son, cosa faccio…" He sang the long-familiar words along with the mezzo-soprano, bemoaning Cherubino’s amorous confusion and his feverous hunger for all the women in the palace.

Bending toward the mirror, he examined his carefully plucked eyebrows and applied a hint of pencil to emphasize their curve. He needed only a thin layer of foundation and the faintest hint of blush to add warmth to his cheeks. With equal delicacy, he added a touch of iridescent blue-green shadow to his upper lids. A curve of eyeliner along his eyelids and a quick swipe of the mascara brush over the lashes drew attention to his already-intense blue eyes.

"Un desìo ch’io non posso spiegar," Cherubino’s desire that I cannot explain seemed to comment lyrically.

Tadzio chose a soft pink shade of lipstick, blotted it on a tissue, then tested a slightly open-mouthed smile. Yes, that was the look he wanted.

His frosted gold-blond hair curled nicely over his ears and neck but was still not quite long enough to be womanly, so even with his two small gold earrings, he left people uncertain of his sex. Renaissance princeling, he muttered to himself. In fact, he did rather look like some of the beautiful lads he’d seen in sixteenth-century Italian paintings. Donatello’s slender boys and the young men of Bellini and Titian. Except for the breasts, of course.

Cherubino ended his aria as Tadzio stood up from the table and surveyed himself in profile. His leather pants,