The chefs secret, p.17
The Chef's Secret, page 17
And many cardinali did fall ill. On the fourth of December, Cardinale Veruli was carried out of the conclave to the Castel Sant’Angelo, where he died two weeks later. On the twentieth, Cardinale Santa Croce emerged, ill. And on the first of January of the new year 1550, Cardinale Bologna left the conclave in tremendous pain from gallstones.
Toward the end of January, as dictated by tradition, the process changed to encourage a swifter decision. Bartolomeo oversaw the reduction of rations to the conclave. Gone were the meat pies and sumptuous desserts. In their place was barley soup and a little bread and cheese. The upper-story windows of the Cappella Sistina were closed to reduce the natural lighting and fresh air. When Cardinale Niccolò Ridolfi left the conclave on January 20, dying soon after, it was rumored the poison air within the chapel was to blame.
Every time a cardinale left the conclave, Bartolomeo’s gut clenched. And every time it wasn’t Cardinale d’Este, he fell into a dark rage that sent the kitchen hands scurrying out of his way.
Exhaustion was Bartolomeo’s closest companion during the two months of the conclave. He did not see Stella, nor was he able to send messages to her.
A little after ten o’clock on February 7, just as Bartolomeo was putting his knives away for the night, the bells rang through the chapel, signifying a new pontiff had been selected.
Bartolomeo dismissed the remainder of the kitchen hands and returned to his room to contemplate the news. The new pope would not be announced until late the next morning. The thought of Ippolito d’Este becoming pope was one he could hardly imagine. Over the years he had successfully dodged encountering him face-to-face despite Cardinale d’Este’s inquiries at various banquets about the mysterious chef who made such delectable meals. Bartolomeo always had an excuse to prevent him from meeting the man who had once crushed all his eggs in the Rialto market. To imagine he might end up employed by his enemy seemed unfathomable.
He thought about leaving, going back to Venezia, or looking for employment somewhere else, perhaps in France. When the morning sunlight peeked into the room, he was still awake, considering his options. But he could not bear to be away from Stella. Reluctantly, he dressed, tied on his apron, and went to see how his world was going to change.
It was a long morning. The official ceremony to announce the new pope could not occur until the cardinali had completed their preparatory rituals, which allegedly included the ritual of the sedes stercoraria. Bartolomeo had heard clergy say it was to guard against the extreme aesthetics of self-castration. But everyone knew it really had to do with the mysterious Pope Joan from three hundred years past, whom the church never spoke of. She was rumored to have dressed as a man during her tenure as clergy, but when she took on a lover, she was exposed as a fraud when she gave birth. To ensure no woman would ever take the papal throne again, each prospective pope had to sit on a special keyhole chair and let a junior cardinale fondle his testicles and then exclaim for all to hear: “Duos habet et bene pendentes.” He has two, and they hang well. Bartolomeo shuddered to think of it.
As mace bearer to Pope Paolo, Bartolomeo was expected to be present when the new pope was announced to the hundreds of faithful who waited in the church of Saint Peter’s. He walked in the procession and knelt with the other mace bearers when the doors to the Cappella Sistina opened and a rush of stale air streamed forth.
Senior Cardinale Cibo stepped across the threshold, the cross in his hand. The many cardinali who made up il collegio cardinalizio milled about behind him, anxious to leave the confines of the chapel, but held back by protocol and tradition.
“I announce to you a wondrous joy,” Cardinale Cibo said, his voice ringing across the crowd of family members and nobles who had been granted access to the inner confines of the Vaticano to hear the announcement. Bartolomeo’s heart pounded. He wanted to reach up and wipe the bead of sweat from his forehead, but dared not break the frozen stance he shared with the other mace bearers.
“Habemus papam! We have a pope! The Most Eminent and Reverend Lord, Lord Giovanni, Cardinale of the Holy Roman Church Maria Ciocchi del Monte, who takes to himself the name Julius III!”
Bartolomeo thought his legs might give way, his relief was so great.
The sea of red parted and the new Pope Julius came forth, his long gray beard freshly combed and the red velvet cape and hood framing his long face. His eyes glittered as he scanned the crowd and raised his hand to give a blessing. Then Cardinale Cibo led him away, the people moving aside as they headed for the balcony to give the news to the citizens of Roma who waited in the dusty piazza outside Saint Peter’s.
The cardinali poured out of the chapel, brushing past the mace bearers and into the arms of their friends and family. Bartolomeo found Ippolito d’Este in the throng and was pleased to see he appeared haggard and unkempt from his two months in confinement. He scowled and stormed past the cardinali walking too slowly, the force of his movement throwing more than one of the older men off-balance.
Bartolomeo stared at him, daring the defeated cardinale to look him in the eye, but the man brushed past him, his elbow sending the elaborate mace in Bartolomeo’s hand flying. It clattered to the ground with a loud clang, loosening several pearls that flew across the Vaticano tiles.
Cardinale Ippolito d’Este never looked back.
* * *
Twelve days before his crowning ceremony, the new pope-elect came to the kitchen to survey the staff. Betto, in a rare gesture of kindness, had alerted Bartolomeo to the visit that morning, giving the cook a chance to make sure each of the servants was dressed in their cleanest aprons and that everyone’s station was even more orderly than normal.
Pope Julius III allowed Bartolomeo to kiss his ring, then greeted him warmly. “We are pleased to hear the finest cuoco in the land will be at Our disposal,” he said, already comfortable with the plural denoting the pope together with God. Bartolomeo hoped the pope did not notice his hand shaking when he bent to kiss the ring.
“We enjoyed one of your meals for His Holiness Pope Paolo a year past,” the pontiff continued. “We expect you will continue to employ your talents in Our kitchen during Our reign. You will be allowed to keep your title of mace bearer if you so desire.”
Bartolomeo felt lighter at the pope’s words. He had not known how much worry had rested upon his shoulders until that moment. “I would be honored, Your Holiness.” He bowed his head, grateful for his continued employment.
“Excellent. You will begin preparing the coronation feast. We are expecting exceptional things from you, Maestro Scappi. Do not disappoint.” Pope Julius was out the door before Bartolomeo could blink.
He began to sort through the lists in his head, of the pigs and cows to be slaughtered, the bread to be made, the vegetables and fruits to be purchased. He made a mental note to stop at the spice merchant first thing in the morning. And to send a note to Stella.
My Stella, he wrote in his head as he worked. We will meet soon, after this feast, after this pope and all the cardinali see and taste the glory that is only mine to give.
CHAPTER 18
Giovanni
Roma, July 1577
Twenty days passed, and I had heard nothing from Romoli. I had taken Francesco’s advice and, at great expense, hired two condottieri to escort me to and from the Vaticano and to watch over the house. I dismissed the mercenaries at the end of the three weeks. They were bored and overpaid, and I could find no reason to keep them. I kept a close eye on my surroundings, but there was still no disturbance to my daily routine.
The same day I let the condottieri go, a letter in memory of Bartolomeo arrived from a woman. The flowery script said little other than that she had loved his meals very much and she was enormously saddened by the news of his passing. It was signed by Sofia Pisani, a Venetian name. I interrogated everyone I could about Signora Pisani, but no one knew who she was.
* * *
In mid-July I received a message from Caterina that she and Cesare wanted me to come to dinner. She hated that her sons were not speaking and wanted to mend the divide. I recalled Cesare’s curses and knew it was an impossible hope. Still, I responded with an invitation for them to visit on the coming Sunday, a day I rarely worked because Pope Gregory tended to fast and he liked the clergy to follow suit.
I also asked Isabetta to join us, hoping that her presence would keep my brother civil. As it was a formal meal, I suggested Rolando accompany her, which he graciously agreed to do.
I helped Dea do most of the cooking. I did not want to give Cesare any cause to complain about the meal, and I had to admit there was a certain pride that overtook me. I always thought I had to prove myself to Cesare, and now that he had decided I was not his brother, it somehow strangely seemed even more important to validate my worth in his eyes. There had always been a part of me that craved his love and approval.
I decided to serve him even more luxurious versions of the foods he had loved when we were young. The centerpiece of the meal would be braised beef shank, flavored with fennel pollen, cinnamon, ginger, and a hint of rose vinegar. I stewed it with plums and cherries and doused it with a little malmsey for good measure. Then I made a casserole of eggplant and cheese, ray fish in pastry wraps, capon meatballs, and a blackberry tourte. Dea finally put her foot down when she saw I was going to make a pizza as well.
“We’ll be eating this food for a week, signore! Please, no more.”
I looked at the array of dishes before me and had to admit, maybe Dea was right. Salvi had flour in his auburn hair, and butter smears and cherry juice on his apron. I had been delighted to discover that he loved to work alongside me in the kitchen. Dea had begun to enlist him for help in the kitchen when I was too busy to instruct him, and she said he took to it like a bishop to a jug of wine. It was exciting to see how quickly his skills had progressed. At eight years old, he was still so young, but already he was better than I had been at fourteen.
“Salvi, make sure to clean up a bit before our guests arrive. You look like you got in a fight with a flour sack.” I flicked the dough on the end of my knife in his direction and the glob landed on his hand. He stared at it for a second and before I knew it, I had streaks of flour across my face. Laughing, I reached for him, but he lunged and hid behind Dea.
“Enough, boys!” she said sternly, but the smile on her face belied her mood. “Hand me your aprons, then run along and clean yourselves up. I’ll finish here.”
“You indulge that child too much,” Dea said to me after Salvi had gone to change his clothes.
“Don’t worry so much, Dea. I suspect few have ever indulged him in his life. So, if we do a little bit, what harm could there be?”
She looked at me thoughtfully, then waved a hand. “You are a good man, Signor Scappi. Now go, get cleaned up.”
I hurried out of the kitchen. My guests would arrive soon.
While I looked forward to entertaining the Palones, I dreaded seeing my own family. I knew Caterina would do her best to keep the peace, but I could not get Cesare’s words from his last visit out of my head. What would he say once he was seated across the table from me? My stomach was in knots by the time the knock sounded on the door.
I was surprised at the greeting I did receive. Caterina hugged me warmly, as always, and Cesare acted as though there had never been strife between us. He clasped my arm with a smile and clapped me on the back with his free hand. “Giovanni! It has been a long while since I’ve had one of your feasts.”
I debated whether I should bring up his last visit. I was suspect about his motives for attending after his outburst, but the appearance of Isabetta and Rolando quickly pushed the thought from my mind and I made introductions.
“So, this is your brother,” Isabetta said, her tone neutral. I knew that underneath her calm exterior she had strong opinions of Cesare—his display of emotion on his last visit had soured her impression of him.
“I see my reputation precedes me,” Cesare said, bowing and gallantly taking up Isabetta’s hand for a kiss.
“It does,” she said simply. She retrieved her hand and curtsied, but the tension did not dissipate until my mother swooped in to give Isabetta a hug. After greeting Rolando, the two women moved off to the dining room to warm themselves by the fire and gossip a little before dinner.
“I understand you are likely to become a father-in-law to my brother?” Cesare said to Rolando as we walked down the hall toward the dining room.
I thought my heart might stop. Behind his jovial facade Cesare had clearly not changed. He always tried to embarrass me or make me look small in a situation.
Rolando didn’t pause, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “That may be true, yes. And I welcome it, for Isabetta’s heart sings whenever she is around your brother.”
Isabetta had surely told her father about Cesare, and Rolando, being the gentleman he was, would not shame me or give in to my brother’s goading. But his words meant more than that. It was a message to me he fully approved of our union—and he was waiting for me to ask for his daughter’s hand. My mouth went dry.
Salvi caught up to us, sparing me from a response. “Dinner is ready to be served,” he announced with a little bow, then he disappeared down the corridor toward the kitchen.
Grateful, I ushered Cesare and Rolando into the dining room where Caterina and Isabetta were taking their places at the long table. I faltered a moment when I saw Isabetta and her eyes met mine. She smiled and the air grew warm around me.
I took my place at the head of the table, Caterina to my right and Isabetta to my left. Before the guests had arrived, I had Dea place a display of flowers at the opposite end of the table, which meant Cesare couldn’t claim the spot. He settled in next to Caterina and Rolando sat next to his daughter. We had barely found our seats when Dea and Salvi swept into the room with the first course. My guests wasted no time at digging in.
The mealtime conversation was genial, ranging from Roman politics to the comet, which only seemed to get brighter day by day. After the beef shank was served, I managed to forget my animosity toward Cesare and began to truly enjoy myself. The food was perfect, the wine was lush and full, and the conversation was friendly and punctuated with laughter. I thought it was all too good to be true.
“Our uncle taught you well,” Cesare said as he finished off the last of his blackberry tourte. I was surprised; he seemed to mean what he said.
“I could have eaten a hundred of those,” Isabetta agreed.
“I’m happy to share the recipe,” I told her, beaming with pride.
“Yes, you must,” Caterina said, touching my arm. “Cesare and I were talking about that earlier tonight, about all the things Barto would make for you boys when you were young.”
“You must have hundreds of our uncle’s recipes squirreled away,” Cesare noted.
I glanced in the direction of the kitchen, thinking about the long recipe box on the shelf near the door. “I have a few,” I conceded.
“I have one of his recipes for strawberry pie somewhere at home,” Caterina said, lifting her wine to take another sip. “I wish we could get strawberries this time of year.”
The conversation turned to trade and how difficult it was to import foods from afar, particularly when growing seasons for some fruits and vegetables were longer in other parts of the world. Rolando was, as ever, a fount of knowledge and I hung on his every word.
“I need the privy. I’ll be right back,” Cesare said. I returned my attention to Rolando, who continued with his story.
A few minutes later, I heard a cry from Salvi, followed by a crash in the kitchen.
Stunned, we looked at each other for the barest of moments, then the table erupted as chairs flew backward and we all raced toward the sound.
Dea was on the floor, a trickle of blood running down her neck. She cradled her head in her hands. Rolando rushed to her side. The kitchen door stood open. I moved past Dea and Rolando to look out.
The privy and the courtyard were empty. The gate in the far wall banged in the wind. Neither my brother nor Salvi were anywhere to be seen.
I went back inside and found Caterina on the floor, cradling Dea’s head in her lap. Isabetta wet a rag from the jug at the washbowl.
“She’s just had a bad scare. The scratch did not go deep,” Rolando said. His voice held an edge I had not heard before. “Your brother—why would he do this? Where would he have gone?”
My gaze flew to Caterina, hoping she might know. She only looked at me, despair in her eyes, and shook her head.
I lifted a hand to my head in response to the deep headache that made my temple throb. I scanned the room, wondering what my brother wanted so badly he assaulted my housekeeper.
“He took Barto’s recipes,” Dea said weakly. “He had just tucked the box under his arm when I came up from the cellar.”
I looked at the shelf near the door for the red and black painted two-foot-square box, the one that contained all of Bartolomeo’s recipes. It was gone. A great panic swept through me when I thought about Bartolomeo’s knife, which I kept on top of the recipe box. Then I saw it on the floor, a few feet away from Dea. I wanted to collapse to the floor, my relief was so great. I could hardly bear to think about losing the recipes, but there are not enough words to describe how I would have felt if I had lost the knife.
Then I remembered the journal I had stowed away in the recipe box.
“I have to get that box back.” Heat rose to my face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
