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

young woman’s eyes had been closed and her body decently covered, her distraught husband was being led away; the exhausted Sofia had handed the baby, wrapped in a length of grimy blanket, to a pale young woman who wearily offered him her shriveled breast.
    Do not ask if the child lived; I have no idea. But in keeping with my new policy of honesty, let us admit that his chances were slim.
    Half an hour later, I sat at the table in the back room across from Sofia Montefiore and told her that she could take the help I offered or she could face the wrath of the Cardinal, the choice was hers. I was not certain at first that she understood me, so withdrawn was she from the world into the place we go when life becomes too much. It was a place I knew well, having inhabited it myself after my father’s death and been tempted back toward it after I was beaten. In kindness, I might have let her stay there a little while, but kindness was not in me then.
    “You must decide,” I insisted. “I can help you with medicines and with food, but in return, you must tell me everything my father said and give me anything he left with you.”
    Sofia looked up, her eyes sunken and her lips ashen. So softly that I had to bend closer to hear her, she said, “I told you, he left nothing.”
    That much, at least, I knew might be true. My father had ever been a careful man, and besides, such was my vanity that I did not want to believe he could have trusted anyone more than me.
    However, I was also certain she was not telling me everything.
    “This,” I said, indicating the medicine chest, “is only a small sample of what you can have. I will bring you—”
    “I will tell you what you will bring,” Sofia said. Her voice remained very low yet her strength was unmistakable. “Most of what is called medicine is useless. I will give you a list of what I require.”
    When I nodded, she said, “Once you have what you want, why should I believe that you will keep your part of the bargain?”
    “I will give you my word—”
    Her laugh was hoarse and strained, as though it did not get much use. “Your word? The only Christian I ever knew who cared about keeping his word to a Jew was your father, and I do not see him here.”
    That stung. While it is true that I do not resemble my father—he was darker than I am and of stouter build—I like to think that I have his nature. That stands to reason as he raised me.
    “He may not be here,” I said coldly, “but I would never betray his memory.”
    Sofia thought about that for several moments, long enough for me to begin to believe that she would reject my assurances. Finally she nodded.
    “We must speak alone,” she said, and looked at Vittoro. “Entirely alone.”
    “I will be right outside,” he told me. With a warning glare at her, he left, taking Benjamin with him.
    Silence hovered in the small room where the scent of herbs hanging from the rafters fought a futile battle against the stench of sickness and death. I heard the creaking of a cart in the lane beyond and a muted shout from far away.
    Finally, Sofia said, “I last saw your father in March, right before the festival of Purim. Do you know what that is?”
    I shook my head. Apart from the charge that they had killed Christ, I knew nothing of the Jews.
    “It is when we celebrate our salvation from the one called Haman, who served the mighty emperor of Persia and who sought the annihilation of the Jewish people.”
    Despite myself, I was curious. That, too, is a part of my father in me. “Why did he do that?”
    Sofia pretended to look surprised. “Isn’t it enough that we are Jews? Does anyone need another reason to kill us?”
    When I merely stared at her, not knowing how to respond, she took pity on me. “As it happens,” she said, “we were saved by a woman. Her name was Esther and her story is told in your Bible, but I take it you are not familiar with it?”
    I shook my head, resenting the need to respond to so foolish