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Rome, September 1644
As soon as Mia opened the door Donna Olimpia came straight in, looking side to side as if to check no-one could see her.
Mia extended a hand in greeting. ‘This way, honoured Signora.’
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Lavender, Signora. For making the linen smell sweet.’ She indicated the stairs and the woman went ahead of her, heavy feet and thick ankles under her richly embroidered black skirts. At the top Mia pointed to the door off the piano nobile and followed her client into the cooler room at the back of the house.
Donna Olimpia threw back her widow’s veil to survey the sala, which was probably much smaller and more humble than any she was used to. Mia examined her client in turn, for clues as to what might cause her headaches, even though she was no expert at all.
A determined face. Thick eyebrows over shrewd eyes, and a manner that meant business.
Seeming satisfied by the look of the place, Donna Olimpia took the chair opposite Mia’s. ‘My servants tell me you are the best in Rome for women’s ailments,’ she said. ‘But you look younger than I imagined. I’d got the impression you were older.’
‘How can I help you, Signora?’
‘I have these headaches – megrim, my physician calls them. But he is no use. All his bloodletting hasn’t changed them one iota. They start with my eyes blurring and the room starts to swim, and then the headache. Torture. Like iron bands around my head. When it comes, I can do nothing but lie down in a dark room. They make me weak, and I can’t afford weakness. Not now.’
‘And how long do they last?’
‘Days. Sometimes three days at a stretch. They are debilitating and nothing seems to help.’
‘You have no headache now?’
‘Only the cardinals and their demands.’ She gave a small smile.
‘We have several remedies for headaches, but I will go down to my store and bring you something that may soothe your excess humours. Would you like refreshment while you wait?’ Mia couldn’t help the tingle of excitement that the great lady was actually sitting in her sala.
‘Nothing, thank you. I mustn’t be away from the city long or my servants will wonder where I am.’
Mia gave a small curtsey, as was the custom, and hurried downstairs to where Giulia was waiting. Giulia raised her eyebrows in question.
‘She’s here, and she says it’s a megrim. Have you anything for that?’
Giulia reached up to a high shelf. ‘I’ll give her a simple mix of vervain and lemongrass. It won’t do her any good, but it won’t do her any harm either.’ Giulia took a corked bottle down and passed it over. ‘Now hurry. The sooner we can be rid of her, the sooner I’ll be able to breathe easy.’
Mia scurried back up the stairs, but was disconcerted to see Donna Olimpia had gone through the open door to her small workroom and was now snooping through the books turned to the wall. With a jolt, Mia saw she was studying one on astrology. Even worse, she recognised it as one of the treatises favouring Galileo, a man considered heretical by the last Pope.
Donna Olimpia turned when Mia entered, still holding the book, her finger acting as bookmark in the heavy leather volume.
‘Here, Signora.’ Mia said, holding out the bottle of milky liquid. ‘This preparation has proved to be very good in cases such as yours.’
Donna Olimpia didn’t take it. ‘You have expensive tastes. Many books on the stars, and some on medicine, I see. And charts.’ She indicated the parchments of the heavens that were pinned to the walls.
This was a conversation Mia didn’t want to have. ‘I have an interest, that is all. In how it relates to healing. My main work is simple remedies from the kitchen.’ She was sweating now, fearing Donna Olimpia would denounce her to the Inquisition.
‘These are not simple tracts for the average reader. They are written in some depth. And that is a costly globe of the night sky. Very impressive. You have knowledge of the stars?’
Mia floundered. ‘No.’ The only safe answer.
‘But I wager you can make an astrological chart and do a reading?’ Donna Olimpia pinned her with a steely gaze.
‘Only for myself, in private, not—’
‘Then you could draw one up for me, could you not? And I have a very precise question. I would pay you well if you did me this favour.’
‘But I’m just an amateur, I don’t know that—’
Donna Olimpia waved the book at her. ‘Don’t dissemble with me. These are not books for the beginner.’
‘My apologies, madam, I—’
‘You will draw up my chart. Guess if you must, but I must know how long I have.’
‘You mean how long will you live?’ It was an astonishing question that no-one had ever asked, let alone a woman who was the Pope’s sister-in-law, because it was a question that could be heresy against God.
‘No, no. Not how long will I live! I don’t care about that. How long will my brother-in-law live – what do the stars say about that? In other words, how much time do I have for my vision – my quest to turn this city around?’
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