Immortal (6 page)

“I remember you only from the streets, Luca. It seemed you were always there, though you look more finely built than the other ragamuffins. The color of your hair is unusual; perhaps you are the son of foreigners. Ask in the Oltrarno, you might find someone who remembers something.” He sighed. “I must go back to sweeping the walk, else the abbot will think I can’t even do that right. He will use it as an excuse to blame me for how people give more money to the Franciscans and the Dominicans than to our order. Go along,” he said. “A street mouse like you has a lot to keep himself busy with. Not that way, idiot,” he called up to a novitiate polishing the incense box at the altar. “You’ll damage the finish! The abbot will hold me responsible!” He bustled away. I sat for a while, thinking about perfect circles and moments of opportunity that change the direction of a life. I wondered if I would ever have a moment like that, or if my great moment would come at the sharp edge of Silvano’s knife.

I walked along the Arno on my way back to Silvano’s and stopped at a shop near the Ponte alle Grazie to buy some candied figs for the little blond girl. If I didn’t grieve for Massimo, I could at least feel pity for the little girl, who did not deserve the fate we shared. The door to her room was closed when I arrived, muffling the noises from within. My arms and the back of my neck were smooth, my stomach calm, so I knew that Silvano wasn’t looking for me. I waited behind some draperies that made me itch until a prosperous wool merchant emerged from the girl’s room. He was yawning and grinning and didn’t bother to shut the door as he left. I slipped inside. The little girl stood beside her bed. Her cheek was freshly bruised and a thin line of blood snaked down out of her nose.

“I brought you this,” I said, and tossed her the little packet of figs. Her expression remained blank as one hand reached for the figs. The other arm wiped her nose, smearing blood. She popped a fig into her mouth. I said, “My name is Luca. What’s yours?”

Her little face brightened, like a candle being lit inside her. “I know you, you held my hand when I was scared and helped me. You are very good. I am Ingrid.” She smiled and spoke softly, with an accent I didn’t recognize.

“Ingrid,” I repeated, smiling back at her. I felt fierce pride that she remembered me, that she thought of me as someone who helped her, as someone who was
good.
She smiled as she took a bite from another fig. I was transfixed by the sweetness with which she admitted to fear. She was like one of the heavenly figures from Giotto’s fresco: holy. I couldn’t stop myself from approaching her and wiping the blood from her face. We are all so hurt here, I thought, aching. I promised myself I would never let anyone else hurt her, then I felt foolish, because, after all, I was a slave here, too. With that came the familiar prickle on my forearms. I slipped out of her room and ran back to my own. I made it inside only a minute before a patron stalked in.

Later Simonetta came to lead me to the bath. Her pale face seemed more tired than usual.

“Why so tired, Simonetta?” I asked.

“Don’t fret about me, Luca,” she responded, stroking my hair. “Look at you, is that lice I see again? How is it you keep getting into trouble?”

“That girl Ingrid, where is she from?” I asked, after Simonetta had lathered my head.

“I wouldn’t get too close to her.” Simonetta frowned. Her long braid lay over one shoulder and I reached up to finger it.

“Why not? What’s wrong with her?”

“What’s wrong with any of us here?” Simonetta asked, with a rare bitterness. “I overheard Silvano. He’s going to sell her to some rich cardinal for a kill.”

“A kill?”

“Some patrons like to take a life. If they pay enough, a fortune, Silvano agrees.”

I slid down into the warm water, struggling with nausea. It was hard to believe, after all that had been done to me, that something could still shock me. “Why would a cardinal want to kill a little girl?”

“The cardinal feels God wants him to punish women for Eve’s sin. He is cleansing the world. He makes the girl suffer the agonies that Eve visited upon mankind. He takes his time, makes it slow and thorough, so it will be holy. He uses fire and blades. The girl must be young and innocent in order to be a proper offering for atonement. He has requested a virgin.”

I was sickened. “Ingrid’s not that.”

“There are ways.” Simonetta lowered her voice. She pulled me from the tub and dried me with a large rough cloth. “There’s a surgeon who sews a little bit, and an apothecary who provides a wash to tighten the parts…today is Ingrid’s last day working. The surgeon is coming tomorrow, so there is time for her to heal before the cardinal arrives.” Simonetta’s big face sagged. “She’ll be bathed every day in the apothecary’s solution, in preparation.”

“When?” I whispered.

“A fortnight, maybe two.” Simonetta shrugged. “The cardinal is coming from Avignon.”

I couldn’t stop myself from remembering Ingrid’s soft hand in mine, and how she’d taken comfort from me. Then I imagined her bloody and contorted in pain, like Marco when Silvano cut him. I couldn’t help Marco, but I have to help Ingrid, I thought, stumbling back to my room. I could barely see the way through the fog of my fear.

“Don’t think about it,” Simonetta whispered, tucking my hand into her heart. We stopped in front of my room. She put a soft plump hand on my shoulder. “Luca…”

“What?” I asked, breathlessly.

“Silvano wants me to ask if you enjoyed your old friend Friar Pietro’s lecture on Giotto.”

My mouth dropped open. “He knows—how?”

“He knows everything,” she cautioned, her birthmark turning dark red on her round face. “Don’t forget that,
caro.
You must not endanger yourself the way Marco did.” She squeezed my shoulder and was gone, and I went into my room wondering who Silvano’s spies were. I promised myself that I would extend my senses until I could perceive Silvano’s minions as well as I could perceive him, and that promise almost stilled the quiver of fear in my gut.

TEN DAYS LATER I ROCKED BACK AND FORTH
on my heels in front of St. John the Evangelist at Santa Croce. I was trying to figure out how to save Ingrid. Time was growing short. I had no plan. I was desperate and sought answers in what I knew was wondrous: Giotto’s paintings. If there was anything real in the stories that had inspired them, if there was any truth to the tenderness of color and line and expression, if there was a real saint who basked in the glory of these paintings, then surely that saint would help me. I had seldom prayed before, would curse at God more often than pray over the long years of my life, but I was praying at that moment. “It’s not for myself, St. John,” I murmured to the ascending figure.

“What’s not?” an amused voice inquired. I whirled around.

“Master Giotto!” I exclaimed, so happy to see his short, stout form in the flesh. I learned later that people often had that reaction to him. Though he wasn’t beautiful in the way beauty is thought of, and, in fact, his features were decidedly homely, Giotto had such a lively intelligence and such an expansive and humane spirit that he was a joy to behold.

“If it isn’t the young pup, wagging his tail in front of my fresco, right where I left him,” Giotto teased. His gray brows wiggled at me.

“I’ve been learning about your work,” I said, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ve been asking the monks—”

“Be careful, you’ll educate yourself out of an aesthetic appreciation.” One corner of his mouth lifted in irony. “There’s something about the natural response that doesn’t mediate the truth. I thought I’d find you here. I brought something for you.” He held out a small package.

No one had ever given me a gift before—except Marco, who had given me sweets—and I didn’t know what to do. This thing was obviously not edible. It was wrapped in glossy, finely woven linen and tied with a red ribbon.

“It won’t bite.” Giotto gestured with the package. I took it and held it up. “Go on,” he encouraged me. So I inhaled deeply and then untied the ribbon. The cloth fell open, revealing a square wooden panel. I stuffed the fabric into my shirt and ran my finger over the panel, realized it was actually two small panels, facing in toward each other. I opened them out and held them side by side. Each painting was about the size of two of my hands in length and width. A luminous Madonna in her starry blue cloak stared out at me from one. On the other stood the Evangelist, and next to him a small young dog, his adoring gaze on the saint.

I dropped to my knees. “Master, I don’t deserve these.”

“But they are your family,” he said, flushing. “If my paintings are going to be that for you, you must have some to take with you wherever you go. I can’t get away from my relatives; they adhere to me like tempera on wood, especially when they’re broke.”

“I have nothing to give you in return,” I said, bewildered by his generosity.

“Your admiration is enough,” he said, turning toward the large frescoes that graced the chapel. “They are valuable. See that you take care of them.”

“I will!” I vowed. Slowly I stood and clutched the two panels to my chest. I was too dazed to say anything, even to stammer out the gratitude that rushed over me in waves as powerful as the Arno when it turns silvery gray and sweeps out of its banks.

“So what was not for yourself?” Giotto asked, his tone mild.

I was holding the panels in trembling hands, taking in every line, every color, every curve. The Madonna’s radiant face was so delicately limned as to show both a real woman and a celestial being who could truly be the Mother of Christ. Her eyes were wells of compassion and love. I thought I could fall into them forever. I would have to hide these treasures from Silvano and his all-seeing eyes, find some safe spot in the palazzo to store them. I would have to search hard to find even a tiny inviolate zone in that place.

“Well?” Giotto’s curious voice roused me from my reverie. I looked up.

“Freedom.”

“You’re asking the Evangelist for freedom for someone else? Because you’re so free?”

I shook my head. “I have no freedom. But I have a friend who needs, well, freedom and kindness. A great kindness I don’t know how to give.”

“So you were praying.” He nodded. “I see.” He fell silent and I went back to the panels, devouring them with my eyes. Giotto said, “My friend Dante would have said that the greatest freedom is love, particularly the love of God. It’s what moves the orbs in their spheres. We don’t find it in this body. We find it when we surrender the things of the flesh for the will of God.”

I thought about the men who came to my room and of Silvano, who did anything they wanted, even committing murder with impunity. I myself had killed a friend, and the only consequence of that act was my own guilt and sadness. God’s will appeared to have nothing to do with love, only with pain. I doubted Giotto’s words, but he was Giotto, so I took him seriously. I said, “Someone told me that death would give him freedom.”

“That’s an extreme case,” Giotto said, in a somber tone. “Sometimes it’s the only way, I suppose. This life on earth can be cruel like that, full of forces beyond our control and our understanding, until death releases us into heaven. I like to think my old friend is free now. But there are other ways to achieve freedom. Devotion, for one.”

“What if devotion isn’t the answer?” I asked, shuddering. It was the cardinal’s devotions that were going to torment Ingrid.

“Then you’re right, there’s always death.” Voices called out and a pair of men beckoned to him from the nave of the church. Giotto turned, sighing, and lifted his hand to acknowledge them. “Duty pursues me. I take leave of you, pup, you and your weighty questions.”

“Will I see you again?” I whispered.

“I make my way back to Florence, despite the rich nobles who would have me always painting their portraits and tombs,” he said dryly. He trudged toward the men, calling out hearty greetings and embracing them. I turned back to the two incredible paintings that had been so generously gifted to me. My gaze fell on the little dog staring up at St. John. I raced after Giotto.

“Master! Master!” I called. Then I noticed how richly dressed his friends were, and I was overcome with shame. I could not imagine what impression I made on them.

Giotto was unconcerned. “Excuse me, I must speak with my young friend,” he said, clapping his companions on their backs. He stepped back toward me and raised an eyebrow.

I swallowed. “The dog…”

A sly, pleased smile spread over Giotto’s face. “Yes?”

“It’s, ah, blond. Like me. Its fur is dark blond with a little orange, like my hair!”

“So this young whelp they call Luca Bastardo is no fool,” Giotto said, approving. “You’ll find a way to help your friend, don’t worry.”

I drew myself up and held aloft the two panels. “Thank you,” I told him, with all the dignity I had. He winked at me and rejoined his friends.

THE NEXT DAY,
as I was working and my spirit was winging into the blue heavens with Giotto’s Evangelist, it suddenly came together for me. Perhaps it was another mote of grace from the Laughing God, the deity whose hand was set upon me, alternately squeezing me and flicking me away like a piece of garbage. And like most of the moments of grace that came to me in my long life, it was laced with sorrow. But I suddenly knew how to protect Ingrid from the cardinal’s ministrations: as I had freed Marco. But not by the river’s auspices. I had to find a way so she didn’t suffer, so she didn’t even know, so her little heart wouldn’t struggle in terror’s vicious jaws. And I had to protect myself, as well; Silvano wouldn’t forgive the loss of a fortune.

When the patron was done and Simonetta had cleaned me, I was free to go out. I went back to the loose floorboard behind the drapery where I had stashed one of Giotto’s panels. I stored them in separate hiding places, in case Silvano discovered one. I touched my forehead reverently to the Madonna’s beautiful face. I didn’t know if there had been a virgin who had sinlessly borne a child; I didn’t believe in anything immaculate. This earth was too tainted for anything pure to have existed upon it. But the beauty with which Giotto had painted her deserved my veneration. I slipped the panel into my tunic and left the palazzo. I hid in a nearby alley and watched to see if anyone had followed me, and when I was certain that none of Silvano’s minions had tailed me, I sped on my way.