Chapter 5
June 1635
Bologna
The next day, after being fed by Clara the cook and then being provided with a bath and fresh clothing, Gregorio found himself back in Jachobe’s office with Davit and his father.
“Where do you wish to go?” Jachobe asked.
“North,” Gregorio said.
“Modena? Parma? Mantova? Milano?”
“Farther.” Gregorio’s mouth quirked a little as he recalled his conversation with Saint Jerome in the vision.
“Innsbruck? Salzburg? Vienna? Leipzig?”
“Father,” Davit interjected, “he follows a dream.”
Jachobe sat back in his chair. “Ah. Why did you not say so earlier, Davit? A vision. A dream he is, then.” The old man nodded his head. “Of course, a dream. So, you will know your destination when you get there.” That last statement wasn’t a question.
“I hope so,” Gregorio murmured. “If it is a dream indeed, and not just the wanderings of a fevered mind.” At the moment, he was none too certain of that.
Jachobe looked to Davit. “So, if you are going to aid our mystic, here, what are your plans?”
Davit’s forehead furrowed. “I thought to take him to Verona by way of Modena and Mantova. From there, he can follow the Adige River road up to the Brenner Pass and on to Innsbruck. After that,” Davit shrugged, “his dream would have to tell him.”
Jachobe pursed his lips and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Recall,” he said, eyes still closed, “that Mantova has twice been devastated in the last few years: once by the plague, and once by the sack of Ferdinand II’s landsknecht army that laid siege to the city and eventually sacked it. Yes, there was a treaty, but a treaty and peace are only as strong as the lords who sign it. The Gonzagas have wasted away and their Gonzaga-Nevers successors are weak.” He opened his eyes. “I suggest you go northeast to Ferrara and from there to Rovigno near where the Adige River reaches the sea. Follow the river road from there to Verona, and then as you say. It’s a bit longer journey, but safer in more than one respect. You will take him to Innsbruck.”
“What?” Davit demanded. “Father, I must take that one package to Venezia. We cannot delay that.”
“Davit, you will do this,” Jachobe pronounced. “Take Gregorio to Innsbruck, then go to Vienna. We have somewhat that must go to Shlomo Marburger there, and this will be a good time to accomplish that. You can return by way of Trieste and Venezia to deliver the other. I will send a missive to our Venetian brother. He will understand.”
Davit shook his head, and sighed. “As you will have it, Father.” He looked to Gregorio. “So, I had hoped to leave tomorrow. Now it will more likely be in two days, on Mercoledi—Wednesday, you would call it in Innsbruck.”
Gregorio nodded. “I will be ready. And thank you,” he said with bows to both men, “thanks to both of you.”
“Bear your charge safely until your vision reveals your destiny,” Jachobe said. “That is thanks enough.” He waved a hand loosely before him, and Davit gave a slight bow to his father before turning to urge Gregorio out the door.
***
Gregorio spent the rest of Monday and most of Tuesday resting in the small room he had been given. He wasn’t exhausted by any means, but he also hadn’t fully regained his strength from his recent bout of marsh fever—mal aria, Doctor Loria had called it.
Tuesday morning a servant brought his original clothing to him, freshly laundered, and late that afternoon Bartolomeo brought him a capacious oiled leather knapsack. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Gregorio’s hands. “Davit says to put your package in the bottom, and put your clothes and other stuff on top. Be ready to leave in the morning.”
He didn’t sleep well that night. He kept waking it seemed like every few minutes, and harsh dreams punctuated the waking episodes, including several that showed him the bodies he’d seen in the Vatican—Messer Giustiniani and the unknown messenger in the library, and those he had seen as he skulked along the outer halls and through the palace grounds until he was able to escape into the city of Roma proper—victims of the Spaniards’ murderous ferocity, all.
At some point, battered by exhaustion and the dreams, Gregorio felt that he cried out, after which he had a brief glimpse of the face of Saint Jerome as he had seen it so many weeks ago. At that, his mind calmed, and he dropped into a deep slumber, only to be awoken what seemed like bare moments later by Bartolomeo knocking on the door of the chamber.
“Rise, friend Gregorio, if you want anything to eat before we leave.”
With that warning ringing in his ears, Gregorio rolled from his cot, grabbed the knapsack from where it had served as his pillow, and stumbled down the hallway after the other man. He emerged in the kitchen, where he found Davit and Sansone munching on rolls. Two more waited on the table. Bartolomeo took one, so Gregorio took the last and sank his teeth into it. It was still warm from baking, and he was surprised to find that it was a wheaten roll rather than the cheaper barley. He savored the taste and the softness as he chewed his first bite.
Clara the cook appeared with four flagons in hand, which she thumped on the table. Gregorio waited on the others to take their choices, and again appropriated the last one for himself. Taking a swig of the liquid it contained, he found it to be a somewhat better than passable beer.
The others were almost done, so Gregorio took huge bites of his roll, washing them down with large drafts of the beer. He managed to swallow his last bite and set his empty flagon on the table just at the same time as Bartolomeo, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked at Davit.
The merchant quirked his mouth for a moment, nodded at Gregorio, and said, “Time to mount up and roll. We don’t want to waste daylight.”
Gregorio trailed after the others as they headed toward the door.