‘Not such a cursed exile, then,’ I said.
‘Exile is always a curse,’ the elderly man next to Sophia cut in, with surprising vehemence. ‘A cruel fate to inflict on any man, do you not agree, Roger?’ Here he leaned around to glare at the man seated on the other side of Sophia, directly opposite me, a large, broad-featured man in his late forties, with a full beard just turning to grey and a ruddy complexion, who turned away uncomfortably. ‘Particularly on one’s friends,’ the old man added. A tense silence descended over the gathering.
‘My father was indeed fortunate in his patrons,’ Florio continued hastily, attempting to cover the interruption, ‘though we were exiled again from England when I was just an infant and Bloody Mary came to the throne.’
‘God rest her soul,’ interjected the elderly man, reverently. This time the rector moved to intervene.
‘Please, Doctor Bernard.’
‘Please what, Rector?’ Doctor Bernard gestured at me, his wild white hair fanning out around his head like the crest of a bird. ‘Must I guard my words for this renegade monk? Why – will he denounce me to the Earl of Leicester?’ He turned to look at me and I understood that, though he had few teeth left and must have been at least seventy, his rheumy eyes still saw shrewdly. The hollows of his face seemed more pronounced in the flickering shadows of the candlelight; it was a face to frighten children. ‘I was appointed by Queen Mary herself, thirty years ago now, when those of the new faith were almost purged altogether from the university, and here I have remained through the storms, though my friends are all long dead or deprived of office, and I have long since renounced the old ways.’ Here he laughed, as if in self-mockery, then pointed at me, suddenly grave. ‘But I think you are of the Catholic faith, are you not, Doctor Bruno?’
‘I am an Italian,’ I replied evenly, ‘raised in the church of Rome.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you will find no one to say the Roman Mass with you here, sir. There are no Catholics left in Oxford, oh no. No man here cleaves to the old faith.’ He shook his head solemnly, but his voice was filled with bitter sarcasm. ‘Here we all sign the Declaration of Belief to save our skins, and swear our oath to the English Church as we are commanded, for we are all obedient subjects, are we not, gentlemen?’
There was an awkward murmur of assent; I saw that the rector was growing agitated.
‘William, I beg you.’
‘So we all seem. But no man in Oxford is what he seems, Doctor Bruno, keep that in mind. Not even you, I suspect.’
I looked up and met Doctor William Bernard’s eye. This spiky and gnomic old man gave the distinct and alarming impression of being able to read the secret thoughts of others, and he was nearer to the truth than I liked, so I merely inclined my head and searched for a distraction as his pale grey eyes continued to bore into me. Fortunately, one was provided by the arrival of servants bearing plates laden with the first course: boiled capons with damsons and calves’-foot jelly accompanied by a good claret.
As they bustled around the table, heaping our plates from each dish, I leaned forward with the intention of engaging Sophia Underhill in conversation, but at the same moment the bearded man opposite addressed me, and I saw Florio take the opportunity to claim the girl’s attention.
‘Roger Mercer, Doctor of Divinity and sub-rector of the college,’ the bearded man said in a rich baritone, with an accent that I believed came from the west parts of England. He extended a hand across the table. ‘We are indeed glad to make your acquaintance, Doctor Bruno, and there has been much anticipation here for your disputation with the rector tomorrow night.’
‘Now, now, Roger,’ said the rector hastily, ‘there is to be no talk of any matter touching the disputation at table. My esteemed guest and I must preserve our arguments for the debating chamber, is that not so, Doctor Bruno? We must, as they say, keep our powder dry.’
I nodded my assent. Roger Mercer held up his hand in protest.
‘Fear not, Rector – I spoke only as a prelude to telling Doctor Bruno how I have been curious to meet him since I read his book, On the Shadows of Ideas, that was published in Paris last year.’
‘Did not the sorcerer Cecco d’Ascoli, who was burned for necromancy, make mention of a book with the same title, a book of forbidden magic which he attributed to Solomon?’ Doctor Bernard leaned around Sophia once more to make this interjection, his trembling extended finger pointing almost in her face, though aimed at me. She moved her chair backwards to accommodate him, flicking her hair over one shoulder while continuing her conversation with the irrepressibly enthusiastic Florio. From the odd phrase I could catch, he appeared to be treating her to further rhyming aphorisms. Reluctantly I turned my attention back to Bernard.
‘The book Cecco mentions has never been found,’ I said, raising my voice so that the old man might hear me clearly. ‘It seemed a shame to waste a good title, so I borrowed it. But mine is a treatise on the art of memory, based on the memory systems of the Greeks – no necromancy, gentlemen.’ I laughed, perhaps too hard.
Roger Mercer eyed me thoughtfully.
‘And yet, Doctor Bruno, your memory system makes use of images that seem to correspond precisely to the talismanic figures described by Agrippa in his De Occulta Philosophia, that he claims can be invoked in the rituals of celestial magic to draw down the powers of angels and demons.’
‘But these are images that correspond to the signs of the zodiac and the mansions of the moon, familiar to many mnemonic systems,’ I said, hoping not to betray my unease. ‘They are popular because they are based on regular numerical divisions, which aids in recall, but in the end they are merely images.’
‘Nothing is merely an image to the magician,’ Bernard snapped back. ‘All are signs pointing to hidden realities, as your title implies. Especially those images derived from the ancient astrology of the Egyptians – as Agrippa well knew, for he was quoting from his master, Hermes Trismegistus, who was condemned by St Augustine for summoning demons!’
His voice rose on this last word; a cold hand gripped the base of my spine. I drew myself up to answer, but before I could speak, Sophia Underhill pulled her chair nearer to the table, looked directly at me and asked, cutting off Florio in mid-sentence,
‘Who is Hermes Trismegistus?’
The company fell silent; all eyes turned to me.
‘I have read passing reference to his name in works of philosophy,’ she continued, with an innocence I did not quite believe, ‘but I can find none of his books in our library here, and I don’t have permission to enter the university libraries.’
‘Nor should you, since you are not a scholar,’ chided her father, looking around the table as if embarrassed by her boldness. ‘I permit you to improve your mind by reading in our library as long as you keep your studies to what is fit for a lady’s understanding.’
I felt he said this for the benefit of the company; Sophia appeared about to protest, but then swallowed her words into a petulant expression. Her mother tutted again, loudly.
‘You will find no works of Hermes the Thrice-Great in Oxford now,’ Bernard said in a sonorous voice, shaking his head. ‘Before, we had them – before the great purge of the libraries in ’69. Translated out of the Greek by the Florentine Ficino a century ago, at the dying request of Cosimo de’ Medici. You know Ficino’s version, Doctor Bruno?’
‘I have read Ficino’s translation,’ I said. ‘But I have also read the original Greek manuscripts, though the collection is incomplete. The fifteenth book was lost. Do you read Greek, Doctor Bernard?’
Bernard fixed me with those bright, accusing eyes.
‘Yes, I read Greek, young man, we are not all barbarians north of the Tiber. But