The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany (41 page)

C
HAPTER
86

Tuscany, Poggio a Cajano

M
AY
1589

Thousands of burning candles lit up the Poggio a Cajano, illuminating the sumptuous wedding festivities of Granduca Ferdinando and Christina of Lorraine.

“After the mock sea battle in the Pitti Palace, Poggio a Cajano seems quite rustic,” Ercole Cortile said to the ambassador from Venice. He sighed, quite content to have come out of diplomatic retirement for the de’ Medici marriage festivities. The House of d’Este was closely aligned with the French by marriage.

“I find it strange that the granduca chose Poggio a Cajano as the location for such festivities,” grumbled the Venetian. “Is this not where the late granduca and Granduchessa Bianca
. . .
um
. . .
breathed their last?”

Ercole Cortile lowered his voice. “It is, ambassador. But I think you would be wise not to bring the subject up at this celebration.”

The Spanish ambassador leaned over to join the quiet conversation. “Granduca Francesco is surely cursing in his grave. His brother marrying Catherine de’ Medici’s granddaughter, aligning Tuscany with France—and after Spain gave Siena to Florence following the siege? Loyalty? Ha!”

Both Cortile and the Venetian ambassador cast a worried look at the Spaniard. He was getting far too drunk for diplomacy’s sake.

The Spanish ambassador drained his glass. “At least the wine is favorable.”

“Compared to the swill they drink in Madrid,” Ercole Cortile murmured to the Venetian ambassador, “I should think so!”

The Venetian ambassador laughed. Before the Spaniard could react, Cortile rose to toast the marriage of the Tuscany and France, leaving the enraged Madrileño sputtering.

Ferdinando shot up in bed, gasping. His shoulders and back were soaked in perspiration.

The damp smell of lovemaking mixed with rosemary strewn—and now crushed—in the bed linens gave off a heady scent. He breathed deeply, trying to ground himself in the real world beyond his nightmare’s reach.

“It was a nightmare, my darling, you are safe,” said Christina, stroking her new husband’s shoulder.

“Did you dream of your brother?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. The granduca grasped his wife’s hand. “But
. . .
but there was also a Jewess. From Naples. A friend of my mother.”

“A Jewess? Friend of a de’ Medici?”

“Benvegnita Abravanel. She came to visit us in Florence when I was a child.”

The duca’s breathing regained its calm. “Benvegnita fled Naples shortly after my parents married. She was welcomed by my father, Cosimo. I remember the delight on my mother’s face whenever she entered the Palazzo Vecchio.”

Christina continued to stroke her husband’s back. She could feel his muscles relax under her touch.

“What happened in your dream?”

“I was in the Pitti Palace gardens. Francesco had caught a fish. A beautiful fish, gold with fanned fins. He set it on a rock, watching it gasp for breath.”

“And that frightened you?”

Ferdinando closed his eyes.

“It was dying. Its mouth opening and closing. Francesco watched it so carefully, doing nothing. Nothing at all. I said, ‘Throw it back into the water, so that it might breathe!
’”

“Did he?”

“He turned to me and said, ‘Do you really care? Here you are. You watch it die and do nothing. That is your way, little brother.
’”

“But darling, it was just a fish!”

“No, it was something more. With every gasp, I felt a pain in my heart. I felt
. . .
sin. Incredible guilt. I began to cry
. . .
I was just a child. Francesco was laughing.”

He started breathing more rapidly again.

“And then Benvegnita came. She struck Francesco’s fingers hard with a cane. ‘Jew!’ he cried. ‘My father will have your head.’

“She turned to me. ‘Toss the fish back into the water, Ferdinando. You have much work to do. Start with the fish.’

“And, though the fish was half-dead, I threw it back into the pond. It floated to the top, stunned. Then it swam away. And it swam up into the air and it turned into a black horse. It reared, its hooves slashing high above my head.”

“No wonder you screamed out,” said Christina. Her fingers toyed with a ribbon at the neck of her nightdress.

Ferdinando pulled his wife close to him.

“I have many sins to atone for, dear wife,” he whispered.

C
HAPTER
87

Siena, Palazzo Dei

D
ECEMBER
1590

Giacomo di Torreforte had lived a careless life gambling, drinking, and painting. But now his father had developed a racking cough that shook his old body, rattling the wattles on his throat. With the specter of death in his near future, Signor di Torreforte turned a stern eye to his eldest son, demanding he start paying attention to the matters of the banking business of Monte dei Paschi.

“Your brothers have learned the banking business. Now it is your turn.”

“But father, I am an artist! I have no head for figures, you know as much. And as eldest son, I am heir to your fortune—”

The older man winced. “Yes, you are heir to my fortune, but you will also become head of our family. Our fortunes are in Monte dei Paschi. I have neglected my duty as a father. You are spoiled and unfit to take the reins after my death. You will now make up for the time you have lost.”

And so di Torreforte began rising early in the mornings alongside his brothers. Grudgingly, he learned the rules of investments and loans, to assess risks, to capitalize on good ventures. His brothers complained bitterly behind his back at his ineptitude with mathematics, his mistakes with the ledger, the inkblots and corrections requiring a scribe to rework his figures on new parchment.

They mocked his mistakes, and they feared his fondness for making loans to his friends and social contacts.

It became evident that Giacomo’s father would not survive much longer. His ragged cough worsened with the winter rains, and when snow blanketed the red terra-cotta rooftops of Siena and whitened Il Campo, old Signor di Torreforte was confined to bed by his doctor.

One bitterly cold afternoon, he summoned his eldest son to his bedside.

“We have a serious issue to discuss,” said the sick man. “One that pertains to your character. Rumors I have heard.”

Di Torreforte looked at the glassy eyes of his father.

“Father, you are not well. The fever has seized you. We should speak of serious issues when you—”

“No!” shouted Signor di Torreforte, triggering another spasm of coughing. “We should have spoken of these matters years ago. I have spoiled you as my heir and firstborn. Now I am on my deathbed. We will speak!”

Di Torreforte bowed his head, fingering his silk scarf.

“You were challenged to a duel by Riccardo De’ Luca. But you did not respond. You refused to accept.”

“The scoundrel was arrested, you know that,” sputtered Giacomo. “Banished from the city! It is against the law of Siena to—”

“You acted the coward!” said his father. “In front of all Siena.”

He broke off, racked by coughing again. His son wondered if the old man was going to die right then, right before him. But the coughing subsided, and the elder di Torreforte gathered his strength to speak again.

“The cowardice is shameful. But there is still worse that we must confront. I hear ugly rumors that you know the whereabouts of the villanella. That somehow you arranged for her to be spirited away from Vignano.”

Signor di Torreforte locked eyes with his son.

And the son did not answer. He dropped his eyes to the carpet.

“That girl belongs to Siena, to no one else,” said the old man, beginning to cough again. His thrashing wound the bed linens tight around his arms. He slumped against the pillows, gasping.

Giacomo took his father’s arm, supporting him.

“Father, you should rest. Do not trouble yourself with—”

“Let me speak, damn you! I want that girl returned to her birthplace. I can see now that the rumors are true. Yes, I will die. Soon. But if you do not remove this blasphemous stain from our family name, I will haunt you from my grave.”

Giacomo’s eyes widened.

“And that grave shall be here in Siena. I will be buried as a Senese,” said Signor di Torreforte. “My coffin shall be taken to Il Campo and nod its respect to the Torre del Mangia in the city I love. Not Florence, do you hear me! Here! My bones will rest under the floors of San Domenico until our Lord shall come to raise them.”

He focused a cold eye on his heir.

“But wherever I may be buried, you will not avoid my specter if you do not bring the villanella back to Siena.”

Giacomo di Torreforte shuddered.

C
HAPTER
88

Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio

D
ECEMBER
1590

I raked the dirty straw from the donkey’s stall into a heap. Because my arm had never healed properly, I was slow and clumsy at my task. Even then, my arm ached. The mother superior would say it was God’s just punishment for my disobedience.

I wiped the sweat from my face, knowing my white scarf would be stained with dirt and perspiration by the end of the day. The conversa Margherita would have to pound the cloth hard against the rocks of the Po to clean it to the strict standards of the abbess.

“God bless you,” said Suor Loretta, entering the little shed. “You keep Fedele’s shed clean and smelling sweet with fresh straw.”

“It is good straw, Sorella Loretta. It smells of heavenly fields and summer sunshine.”

The suora laughed. “You notice even the little things. Yes, we procure the best from the duca’s stables—”

She clamped her mouth shut like a turtle, but not before I noticed her consternation.

“The d’Estes give us this straw?” I asked. I pitched a forkful onto the ground, spreading it around. “That is an unusual contribution to a convent, is it not?”

“Duca Alfonso is generous to the convent,” she said. “A donkey is a religious symbol. For the Holy Bible says both Christ and the Madonna were carried on an ass.”

She was fumbling for an answer, though I could not imagine why.

“I will leave you to your labor, Silvia. I have been summoned to speak with the abbess.”

“Oh?” I said, stopping. “Is everything all right?”

“It is a small matter,” answered the suora, waving her hand. “I will see you before Vespers, I am sure. Make sure you scrub out Fedele’s bucket. There is green scum forming on the sides of the wood.”

“Sì
,
Sorella Loretta. I shall do so.”

She turned and left the shed. I watched her black robes retreating toward the abbess’s office.

“I am sorry, but there is no alternative,” said the abbess. “The family promised a dowry of a hundred ducats a year. They have not sent payment in nearly two years now.”

“But, Madonna, the postulant Silvia is a godsend!” said Suor Loretta. “She works the skin off her hands caring for Fedele—”

“A financial arrangement was settled upon. The family has not kept their bargain. And she refuses to take the veil. She can be transferred to another convent—”

“No!”
said Suor Loretta.

The abbess stiffened her back but said nothing.

“You cannot send the girl away,” said the old suora. “She has suffered enough! And I think you are well aware of the depth of that suffering, Madre.”

The abbess worked her mouth.

“The hundred ducats—”

“You know, of course, that I will procure them,” said Suor Loretta. “Send parchment and fresh ink to my cell. My supplies have dwindled. I will write to my family immediately.”

Suor Loretta pressed down hard on both carved armrests to raise herself from the chair.

“And do not dare breathe a word of this to our
. . .
Silvia,” she said. Without asking permission, the suora walked to the door, turning her back on the abbess.

C
HAPTER
89

Siena

J
ANUARY
1591

Giacomo di Torreforte winced in the cold wind that blew through the little passage leading to Il Campo. The black hearse descended the narrow vicolo into the great piazza, the black satin coverings fluttering in the wind.

How could my father insist on being buried in Siena? Florence is our ancestral home, the root of our fortunes. The grandeur, the legacy of Florence—

He accompanied his father’s horse-drawn hearse to the center of the piazza. His youngest sister, walking behind, began to sob as the coffin was removed.

He moved to comfort her, but his brother Giovanni had already thrown an arm around her, pressing her face to his breast. He whispered words of comfort. They turned their backs to him.

Di Torreforte felt inexorably alone. The raw wind bit his skin, playing capriciously with his silk scarf.

He felt all the eyes of Siena were on the coffin
. . .
and on him. His hand seized his scarf, tucking the foolish ends under his woolen cloak. He cringed, thinking about the Florentines’ opinion. His father’s funeral was a tribute to Siena’s traditions.

He watched the pallbearers as they removed the coffin from the hearse and stood it on end. His father’s last wish was sacred: He would show respect to the city in the Senese fashion. As the bells at the top of the Torre del Mangia rang, the pallbearers tipped the head of the coffin in respect, a last nod to Siena.

Both the Florentines and the Senese bowed their heads to the man who had been the head of the most powerful bank in Tuscany. Many charities had profited from Monte dei Paschi’s generosity and the open hand of Signor di Torreforte. The nuns escorted the children of the orphanages to Il Campo dressed in warm clothes the dead signore had provided, their little bellies full of bread and warm soup paid for by Monte dei Paschi.

The bell tolled.

The coffin was carefully returned to the hearse. Slowly the horses walked back toward the northwest of the city, where Signor di Torreforte’s body would be laid to rest in sacred ground, under the floors of San Domenico in the Contrada del Drago.

His father’s bones would rest deep below the mummified head of Santa Caterina of Siena.

Giacomo di Torreforte worked alongside his brothers, still struggling to learn the banking profession. As he battled with the ciphers, he raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end—and leaving him looking like a madman.

As heir, he commanded respect from his younger siblings. The family house on Via di Giglio in Contrada della Giraffa belonged to Giacomo now, and most of the family lived under the same palazzo roof.

But it was clear to everyone that di Torreforte was dismal at figures, poor at calculating risks, tight-fisted with charities, and wretched at cultivating alliances both in the banking community and within the cities of Siena and Florence.

The next oldest brother, Simone, had gracefully taken over most of the tasks that should have fallen to di Torreforte. Simone’s head digested figures in the ledger book easily and instantly. His hand was open to charities, especially to Maria della Scala’s orphanage, just as his father’s had been.

One day, bent over figures in a ledger, Giacomo di Torreforte realized he had made a great error—thousands of scudi—on the parchment. He flung his pen, dripping with ink, across the room. The deep indigo splattered against the white plaster, the impact leaving a radiant star.

He stared moodily at the thin spokes emanating from the heart of dark color.

A perfect starburst of passion.

Di Torreforte had not picked up his paintbrush since weeks before the death of his father. He felt unmoored. His family treated him with the respect owed to him, but nothing more. They did not seek his companionship. His sisters avoided him altogether, rarely speaking at the dinner table unless a question was directed to them. They did not love him. They were afraid of him.

Only a small boy named Gregorio, a scabby-headed kitchen urchin who slept on a heap of rags on the stones at the corner of the kitchen, always smiled when he saw the master.

One early spring day just before dawn, di Torreforte walked the halls of the palazzo, unable to sleep. He spied a figure struggling with a burden in the dim light of a single lantern. Gregorio was toting two buckets of vegetable peelings to be boiled into a broth for the workers. Crossing paths with his master, Gregorio beamed.

“What do you have to smile about?” snapped di Torreforte.

“Why, it is the day of the birth of Santa Caterina!” answered the boy, putting down a bucket to scratch his head with his dirty fingernails. “March 25th. All Siena is light of heart on this day. Only the devil himself would not find joy in his soul.”

The devil himself be damned!

“Might I be excused, signore? Otherwise the cook will box my ears,” asked the boy, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Go, get out my sight, you little beggar!” snapped di Torreforte. “Santa Caterina’s birthday indeed!”

It does not change the fact that you were born in rags and will die in rags. You still exist only because of my father’s misguided hand on his purse strings, adopting ragamuffins as kitchen workers.

Di Torreforte’s anger fed an urge to get out of the palazzo.

My father let too many scudi fall from his hand to these orphans. That money could have been used for paints, art, brocades, velvets. A new carriage, horses. What was he thinking? And now my brother Simone argues to do the same!

He let the metal-covered door slam behind him. He walked the streets of Siena, his father’s silver-tipped walking stick in his hand. He was not sure why he had adopted this habit of carrying the stick. But in the days after his father’s death, when he saw the familiar
bastone da passeggio
leaning forlornly in the corner of the front hall of the palazzo, his hand had reached for it. Now it was always with him.

It had rained hard the night before, and the gray stones of pietra serena gleamed in the sunlight. A pigeon dipped its beak in a puddle and threw back its head, letting the water dribble down its throat. The winding streets filled with voices as the Senese opened their shutters into the early morning sunlight.

“Buongiorno!” cried one servant to one another, sweeping the entrance to a palazzo with the stiff branches of her
granata
. The shopkeeper at the end of the street whistled a tune. The wine merchant joined in, rolling kegs off a wagon.

The lively chatter in Via di Giglio, the bright ring of horses’ hooves on the stones, only made di Torreforte wind his scarf tighter and turn his collar up. He hunched his shoulders and walked on.

He found himself winding his way up through the Contrada della Giraffa into Piazza Matteotti and the Contrada del Drago. He hurried from the open piazza into the descending streets, narrow and confining.

The street broadened. He looked up to the rose-colored bricks of San Domenico. He entered, blinking. He was not sure why he was there. He had avoided the great church since his boyhood, returning only for his father’s burial.

A bright shaft of sunlight pierced the stained glass windows, illuminating a Dominican priest looking at di Torreforte through the bright color in a haze of spinning dust.

The old man spoke to him from the sunbeam.

“Have you come to see her?”

“Who?”

“Saint Caterina, of course. Have you come so early this morning to have her grant you peace and blessing?”

Di Torreforte’s mouth twisted into a sneer. The priest’s expression did not change, the milky blue eyes staring back.

The sneer melted. The holy man was blind. Di Torreforte stared back at the priest, bathed in light.

“Well, my son?”

“Yes,” mumbled di Torreforte. “I wish to see her.”

“Come,” said the old priest. “This early, you will have a chance to be alone with our saint.”

He beckoned blindly, listening for the approach of the visitor. “She is sheltered in the crystalline case just there, of course.”

Di Torreforte knelt at a pew in the darkened chapel. Two candles glowed, their flames dancing in the cold draught of the church.

Santa Caterina’s head, uncannily preserved, stared out at him. He looked at her sunken eyes, her sharp cheekbones, her gray-white skin. Words of prayer would not come.

The head of a nun! What is so holy about an empty skull and broken teeth? Charlatans pawn off splinters from the true cross of Jesus, the hem of the Virgin Mary, the hair of St. Paul, a peg from Noah’s Ark—

“You are a good son to come and pray to our Saint,” said the priest. “You are Signor di Torreforte, sì?”

Giacomo looked at the priest, startled.

“You recognize me? But—”

“But I am blind? I recognize much more now than I did when I could see. I remember you as a little boy, signore. Your voice gives you away. You come to pray for your father’s soul, no doubt, and for the benediction of our patron saint. A good son. I will leave you here to receive her blessings in solitary peace.”

Di Torreforte looked down at his feet.

The crypt is just below this floor, I tread above my father’s body.

He kneeled on the stone floor, clasping his gloved hands in prayer.

Father, I—

The candlelight leapt—a door must have opened somewhere in the church. The illumination shone bright on the eyes of Santa Caterina.

Father, I am not the son you wanted me to be.

She stared at him from her sunken eye sockets. Her eyes were blue. Unmistakably blue.

Di Torreforte did not cry out, he did not move.

He stared back. He waited for her to speak. She said nothing, but looked at him unblinking. Accusing.

And in the fierce gaze of those impossible blue eyes, Giacomo di Torreforte felt something within him shift—perhaps slightly, perhaps forever.

But his mind could not accommodate what his heart felt.

As he left, he saw the blind priest mumbling a prayer. The old man made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingertips.

The priest turned. “Is someone there?”

“It is I, Father.”

“Ah, yes, Signor di Torreforte. Did you find peace, my son?”

The light streaming through the rosette window blinded him. He put up a hand to shade his eyes.

Peace?

“You know, she never took the holy orders,” said the priest. “She was a laywoman, a tertiary, and worked amongst the poor, the lepers, the afflicted. Her letters convinced the Pope in Avignon to return to Rome, the gaping schism of our great church healed.”

“Letters? She was literate?”

“Some people say it was Caterina’s scribe who wrote the letters, but others insist she did learn to read and write. She was the poor daughter of a Senese dyer, one of twenty children her poor mother bore. Humble beginnings. But she became educated in order to help others.”

The priest smiled, his unseeing eyes staring into the distance.

“Such a simple Senese woman. And yet she healed us all.”

Di Torreforte’s hand reached for his scarf. He savagely untied the precious silk from his neck and placed it in the priest’s hands.