their famiglia, those tried and trusted servants who would keep an eagle eye on their property in Naples to make sure it didn’t wander off, and on their lives to make sure they weren’t snuffed out. Romans believed that the Neapolitans were the most thieving, murderous wretches in the world.
It wasn’t entirely the Neapolitans’ fault that so many of them were thieving, murderous wretches. For some two thousand years Naples— and the other half of the kingdom, the island of Sicily—had been ruled by a succession of foreign invaders. The Greeks, Romans, Goths, Byz-antines, Normans, Germans, French, and Spanish had governed the
N
M i s t r e s s o f t h e Vat i c a n
area, each conqueror squeezing the locals dry by brutal taxation and stomping them down with cruel repression. When the rich stole from and murdered the poor with impunity, this was called justice. When the poor, out of fury and desperation, stole from and murdered the rich, this was called stealing and murder. Over time, it would be called something else—the Mafia.
All male servants, walking or riding, would have been heavily armed with loaded pistols and knives. Bandits on the road between Rome and Naples were notorious, and the convoy of the new papal nuncio with his trunkloads of silver platters would have offered rich booty. As Olimpia and her family neared the city of Naples, they would have traveled under trees adorned with the bodies and body parts of bandits, hung there by the government as a warning to anybody so inclined as to rob travelers.
On April 3, 1621, the Pamphilis arrived in Naples unscathed and took up residence in the palazzo bought by Sixtus V in the 1580s to house the papal nuncio. But Gianbattista disliked the residence. “It is too small for the family of a prelate who will be situated in an indecent place,” he wrote. 1 He wanted the pope to sell it and buy another palazzo, roomier, with better air. It is not known if the pope did so.
When Olimpia had settled into her new home, she would have had the chance to look around the city. Naples had three times as many inhabitants as Rome—some 300,000—most of them crowded in slum apartment buildings in a rabbit warren of narrow medieval streets climbing the volcanic hills. Laundry was strung across the street from every floor. Rubbish and night soil were flung out the windows onto the pedestrians below. Children, often without a stitch of clothing, scavenged among heaps of ordure, competing for food with dogs, cats, and rats.
Hygiene aside, the natural setting of Naples was infinitely more beautiful than that of Rome. At the city’s feet spread out a sparkling carpet of sapphire blue, the Bay of Naples. Behind the city rose the peaks of Mount Vesuvius, trembling now and then and belching sulfu-ric fumes. In the harbor, connected to land by a narrow causeway, sat the square yellow Egg Castle, the Castel d’Ovo, named such, it was said, because the ancient Roman poet Virgil had hung an egg from the ceiling of a cave deep below the castle. When the egg broke, Naples
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Eleanor Herman
would be destroyed. And whenever Vesuvius rumbled, many Neapoli-tans remembered the egg and crossed themselves.
When traveling in the city, even going to church, the Pamphilis would have been accompanied by an armed guard. Kidnappers could capture them and hold them for ransom or simply rob and murder them in broad daylight. Going out at night was a form of suicide. Once dusk fell, everyone but the criminals stayed inside and bolted their doors. A dinner party or ball naturally included an invitation to spend the night and return home in the morning.
Bristling with thousands of Spanish soldiers, its harbor stuffed with Spanish warships, Naples posed a constant low-level threat to the sovereignty of the Papal States to the north. The pope had only the tiniest standing army, relying on a sudden rush of volunteers or the hiring of mercenaries if invasion threatened. The papal navy
It wasn’t entirely the Neapolitans’ fault that so many of them were thieving, murderous wretches. For some two thousand years Naples— and the other half of the kingdom, the island of Sicily—had been ruled by a succession of foreign invaders. The Greeks, Romans, Goths, Byz-antines, Normans, Germans, French, and Spanish had governed the
N
M i s t r e s s o f t h e Vat i c a n
area, each conqueror squeezing the locals dry by brutal taxation and stomping them down with cruel repression. When the rich stole from and murdered the poor with impunity, this was called justice. When the poor, out of fury and desperation, stole from and murdered the rich, this was called stealing and murder. Over time, it would be called something else—the Mafia.
All male servants, walking or riding, would have been heavily armed with loaded pistols and knives. Bandits on the road between Rome and Naples were notorious, and the convoy of the new papal nuncio with his trunkloads of silver platters would have offered rich booty. As Olimpia and her family neared the city of Naples, they would have traveled under trees adorned with the bodies and body parts of bandits, hung there by the government as a warning to anybody so inclined as to rob travelers.
On April 3, 1621, the Pamphilis arrived in Naples unscathed and took up residence in the palazzo bought by Sixtus V in the 1580s to house the papal nuncio. But Gianbattista disliked the residence. “It is too small for the family of a prelate who will be situated in an indecent place,” he wrote. 1 He wanted the pope to sell it and buy another palazzo, roomier, with better air. It is not known if the pope did so.
When Olimpia had settled into her new home, she would have had the chance to look around the city. Naples had three times as many inhabitants as Rome—some 300,000—most of them crowded in slum apartment buildings in a rabbit warren of narrow medieval streets climbing the volcanic hills. Laundry was strung across the street from every floor. Rubbish and night soil were flung out the windows onto the pedestrians below. Children, often without a stitch of clothing, scavenged among heaps of ordure, competing for food with dogs, cats, and rats.
Hygiene aside, the natural setting of Naples was infinitely more beautiful than that of Rome. At the city’s feet spread out a sparkling carpet of sapphire blue, the Bay of Naples. Behind the city rose the peaks of Mount Vesuvius, trembling now and then and belching sulfu-ric fumes. In the harbor, connected to land by a narrow causeway, sat the square yellow Egg Castle, the Castel d’Ovo, named such, it was said, because the ancient Roman poet Virgil had hung an egg from the ceiling of a cave deep below the castle. When the egg broke, Naples
[ 67 ]
Eleanor Herman
would be destroyed. And whenever Vesuvius rumbled, many Neapoli-tans remembered the egg and crossed themselves.
When traveling in the city, even going to church, the Pamphilis would have been accompanied by an armed guard. Kidnappers could capture them and hold them for ransom or simply rob and murder them in broad daylight. Going out at night was a form of suicide. Once dusk fell, everyone but the criminals stayed inside and bolted their doors. A dinner party or ball naturally included an invitation to spend the night and return home in the morning.
Bristling with thousands of Spanish soldiers, its harbor stuffed with Spanish warships, Naples posed a constant low-level threat to the sovereignty of the Papal States to the north. The pope had only the tiniest standing army, relying on a sudden rush of volunteers or the hiring of mercenaries if invasion threatened. The papal navy
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