The Orphan of Florence Page 18

  Damned if I was going to help the coward. I couldn’t stop him from leaving, but damned if I was going to give him his talisman or the wheel. But I couldn’t leave them here. It was only a matter of time before Niccolo or his cohorts would come looking for me.

  I had to get to Tommaso and Cecilia as fast as I could, and somehow, somehow, we would need to flee north past the armies and away from the fighting. But we couldn’t leave without means to survive. The sense of purpose got me moving despite my shock and sorrow.

  I’d sewn large pockets into my new dark blue mantello shortly after Ser Abramo had given it to me, when I was still planning on nicking his treasures; I am, after all, a thief at heart. In went the wheel, the papers; I didn’t have time to destroy them now. I climbed down to the magical dungeon and took what small bars of gold I could carry.

  Leo was waiting for me when I crawled back up. “You have to come with me,” I told him. “You just have to.” His soft gray brow was deeply furrowed, and his pale eyes somber, but he seemed to understand.

  I added the pillaged gold to my pockets, which were getting very heavy. Leo shadowed me as I hurried into the sitting room. I meant to keep on going, but the goblets carved from gems glinted in the firelight, catching my eye.

  They were priceless, but I had little room in my pockets. I made a quick calculation and went for the ruby one. Somewhere between my hand grasping the goblet and putting it in my pocket, my mind went blank. Suddenly all the goblets were lying in front of me on the hearthstone—glittering faceted ruby, sapphire, emerald, and amethyst, all deep and clear—and me standing over them all, the iron poker held high in my hand, ready to strike.

  All the rage, all the hatred, all the grief I had ever swallowed rushed over me like ruthless floodwaters. I roared and brought the poker down with all my strength, smiting the crystalline colors, purple and green, dark blue and blood red lying against the hearthstone. Up again and down again, cursing God for giving me everything I’d thought I wanted and taking away the one thing I truly did. I could have wept with fury, but I would not give God the satisfaction, as if He’d been real, as if He’d been standing there in human form, mocking me.

  To have been in the presence of my father all this time and to have lost him before I knew it …

  “You bastard!” I screamed. “How dare you die? How dare you die without telling me who my mother was!”

  Shrieking, I kept pounding against the gems until Leo slunk away to cringe in a corner, until sweat streamed down my flushed cheeks, but the act brought no relief, only frustration. I could only put a solitary crack in the grape-colored amethyst, the faintest nick in the emerald, and not a scratch on the ruby or the sapphire.

  I lost all reason and sense of time until I glanced up to see Niccolo, his eyes murderous and wild, coming at me with a dagger.

  “You bastard!” he snarled, echoing me. “You vile lying little thief!”

  “Leo!” I shouted. “Get him!”

  The mastiff whined and stayed fast in his corner.

  Niccolo swiped at me with the dagger. He would have sliced me, too, but he’d taught me how to leap back gracefully from an oncoming attack. Luckily, the fireplace poker was near thrice as long as the dagger. I wielded it like a scythe cutting grain, and felt darkly gratified when it hit his hipbone with a solid thud. He staggered to one side and almost fell, but pressed his hand against a chaise longue and regained his balance.

  “Murderer!” he hissed.

  “Traitor!” I howled.

  Leo started barking, a confused entreaty for the violence to end.

  Niccolo advanced again, his dagger raised overhand. I turned the poker sideways, one hand at either end, and raised it to meet the sharp slender blade whistling toward my heart. The poker was thick, the blade not; its edge chipped when it struck the poker, with such force that the weapon went flying from Niccolo’s grip.

  He dove for it as I moved in; he rolled swiftly toward my feet and knocked me down. I scrambled for the poker on my belly, reaching for my weapon, when he pressed a foot firmly on my hand, and leaned down for the kill.

  I glared at him. I wouldn’t shrink from death or hell, wouldn’t close my eyes. Defiant to the end.

  Niccolo straightened and lowered his blade. He bent down and, lifting his foot off my hand, grasped my upper arm, and pulled.

  I used all my weight to resist.

  “Get up,” he said. His tone was no longer murderous, but implacable and very, very dark. His black hair fell forward, dripping sweat; he unconsciously wiped it away.

  “Kiss the devil’s arse,” I said.

  He saw I meant business, but didn’t let go of my arm. He pressed the tip of the chipped blade against my throat, and I shrugged. Kill me.

  His eyes narrowed. He was mightily tempted to oblige.

  “Bloody traitor!” I spat on him, goading him. “Murderer! Liar!”

  His lips drew back and he showed me his teeth, but he said nothing. Instead, he yanked my arm and half pulled me to my feet. I was kicking, mindless of his blade.

  “Leo!” I screamed, as if Niccolo was murdering me. “Leo, help!”

  Leo sprang from his corner and, barking, threw his powerful bulk against both of us.

  We both fell onto our backs. Niccolo rolled to his side and grabbed me. His fingers found my soft breast, and he drew his hands back as if he’d been stung; his face bloomed red and he gaped at me in shock for only an instant, but it was enough. I had the poker and was on my feet.

  He snatched his dagger, but didn’t wield it. Instead, he sat staring up at me, suddenly unwilling to fight.

  “You’re a girl,” he said, marveling to himself.

  “And you’re an ass!” I snapped, abruptly afire at his touch despite all my sorrow, all my rage, and bent down to kiss him full on the lips. He pushed himself toward me, toward the embrace, and slipped his arm around my ribs, drawing me gently, urgently to him. I melted only an instant. With a start, I came to myself, pulled away, and struck him with the poker. It made contact with his skull, though not with as much strength as I’d intended because Leo had wormed his huge bulk between us.

  Niccolo fell back, stunned. I should have kept hitting him until he fell unconscious, until I saw blood and brains, but I couldn’t make myself. Even if I’d wanted to, Leo pushed me back and, like my victim, showed me his teeth. His body became still and taut; he let go the low, threatening growl that I’d prayed never to hear.

  “Leo,” I said softly, not daring to move a muscle. “You have to come with me, boy.”

  The mastiff sank onto his haunches beside Niccolo’s still form, his amber eyes gone feral, his stark gaze focused intently on mine.

  “Leo,” I said. There were tears in my voice, but I wouldn’t shed them. “I can’t leave you here with him. Please, come.” I reach gently toward him.

  Leo snarled, the twitching muzzle beneath his nose lifting fully to expose his upper teeth.

  I put my face in my hands, stricken. Ser Abramo wanted me to take care of the dog, but I couldn’t even do that. Defeated, I walked out of the sitting room toward the kitchen and then outside. I left the goblets where they were; I didn’t ever want to see them again.

  I wasn’t sure where I was ultimately headed, not sure what to do with the cipher wheel and talisman. I staggered over the Magician’s threshold and out into the blinding day.

  Twelve

  I ran off the estate, the cipher wheel and heavy gold bars in my deep pockets banging against my thighs and knees, the keys jangling wildly against my chest. Pain and outrage propelled me; if the weight slowed me down, I did not notice. The two hidden gates to Ser Abramo’s house were unlocked, and I paused at each one just long enough to lock them behind me. I pushed the wagon next to the outer gate, hoping to prevent my guilty victim from escaping.

  I cursed the whole way, furious at Niccolo’s betrayal of his mentor, furious at Ser Abramo for taking my place and dying, furious at him for being my father. Most of all, I was furious
because I hadn’t killed Niccolo. I was determined to remedy that as soon as possible, when Leo was out of the picture.

  At the same time, I felt I finally understood why God had abandoned me, why He had singled me out to become a miserable thief and murderer.

  Someone had to kill Niccolo, to avenge Abramo’s death. And it might as well be someone who was already bound for hell. At least I could go there knowing that my eternal suffering would now be for a noble cause.

  For now, though, I’d managed to inflict a wound that gave me a good head start over Niccolo. My job was to live long enough to seek revenge.

  As I careened, gasping, twisting my ankle once, twice on the uneven hole-pocked ground in the forest, my reason returned. I began to realize I was doing more than just running away from Niccolo until I could figure out how to lure Leo away from him. I was running toward the city—toward Tommaso and Cecilia. If I were killed or captured, they would have no one to provide for them. Cecilia would have to work the streets again, and Tommaso … he’d never last long, playing the Game alone.

  And they’d be alone in a city abandoned by its first citizen and de facto ruler, Lorenzo de’ Medici, to the mercy of Roman and Neapolitan invaders. Florence didn’t stand a chance.

  I was so obsessed by all that I needed to accomplish in the next few hours that my feet hit paved ground before I knew it. I pulled up my mantello to hide my face and slowed to a trot in order to blend in with others milling in the street. The busy Oltrarno looked disquietingly normal: everyone was going about their business, as if nothing terrible had happened. People were laughing, drivers cursing at horses and donkeys, street merchants were singing of their wares. Even as I made my way to the archway over the entrance to the Old Bridge and arrived at the place where Ser Abramo had died, there were no guards standing watch, no blood staining the street, nothing to mark the solemnity of what had transpired here. Pedestrians and animals casually trampled over the very spot, desecrating it in their ignorance.

  I couldn’t bear to stay. I sidled quickly through the crowd, desperate to escape the pain of the fact that Ser Abramo had died and none of it mattered. Soon I was pulled along with the tide of people crossing the Old Bridge.

  I don’t remember moving down the broad Via de’ Calzaiuoli, don’t remember seeing the landmarks of the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria, or the great orange-brick cupola of the Duomo. I don’t remember turning down the little side street or opening the door to the pottery shop, or moving past the potter and his wife to take the narrow creaking stairs to Cecilia’s door.

  I do remember the door opening, and Cecilia’s fleeting smile, which turned immediately to a deeply worried frown. I remember Tommaso’s face—so clean and pink beneath white-gold hair that had grown a bit longer during our time apart, his eyes so bright and blue. Without a sound, he threw himself against me, all anger forgotten, burying his face hard into my waist and wrapping his arms tightly around my upper thighs, so that I rocked, trying to keep my balance. I put my madly trembling hand upon his head—his hair was so clean and so soft—and the warmth and realness of his presence brought me back to myself.

  Back to the pain, and I had to swallow mightily to hold back tears. It was weak and maudlin of me, but I felt a pang at the thought I might never see him, or Cecilia, again.

  I looked up at Cecilia’s pale face, at her golden eyebrows and lashes and her too-small nose on her beautiful face.

  That face reflected such alarm that I wondered what my own looked like—but I was in such a state that I couldn’t have feigned cheer or normalcy if I’d tried; the weight of all that had happened had made my features feel heavy, immobile.

  She said nothing, simply took my hand gently and drew me inside, Tommaso still clinging to me so that walking was awkward, and closed the door behind us. And then she waited.

  For the longest moment, I couldn’t make a sound, could only stand with my hand still resting on Tommaso’s crown. I knew that once I opened my mouth, everything would be different from that moment on; the wheel of fate would turn, and there would be nothing I could do to hold it back.

  But I couldn’t stand there forever pretending things hadn’t inexorably changed.

  “You have to pack,” I said. “Everything. We have to leave Florence. Today. Now.”

  Tommaso released his grip on me. Normally, he would have started whining and arguing and finally crying at this point, but this time, he took a step back and stared up at my face, his eyes owlish, his pink cherub’s lips parted in surprise.

  “Why?” he piped.

  I didn’t answer.

  Cecilia said nothing. She half turned to look back at baby Ginevra, so heavily asleep on the bed beside us that she hadn’t stirred at our entrance. And then Cecilia turned back and gazed solemnly at me.

  “I have more than enough money for us,” I said. “We could head north, find a little town, buy a house and property. Away from the war. Away from the fighting.” Even as I said it, I realized what shock had caused me to forget: Cecilia would be suspect the minute she tried to buy anything with a pure gold bar, which would immediately make her prey to robbers. I’d forgotten to exchange the bars for coins—something I needed to do fast.

  “You pack now,” I repeated. “I have some errands to run, and then I’ll be back. Right back.”

  But I knew, once I had given them the coins, we’d have to part; I couldn’t go with them. I had things to do, things that would put them in danger if they were seen with me.

  “Why do we have to go?” Tommaso asked again. He didn’t whine; he didn’t try to play on my sympathy, but his little voice was pitiful all the same, and honest, unshed tears shone in his eyes.

  “Because Florence isn’t safe for us anymore.”

  “Stay here, Tommaso,” Cecilia told him gently. She glanced at me, then nodded at the door, her expression troubled but set.

  We stepped outside, and she closed the door over the two children.

  And then Cecilia folded her arms over her chest; I knew the gesture. I’ve never seen her angry, but I have seen her grow stubborn, so amazingly so that my thick-skulled determination couldn’t match hers.

  “What’s in your pockets?” she asked, with a vehemence I’d never heard coming from her lips. Her tone left me unable to do anything except comply.

  It wasn’t the question I’d expected at all, but I reached deep into one pocket and produced one of the bright gold bars. “It’s not the only one.”

  She stared at it a long moment without reacting a whit. When she finally looked up at me, she whispered, “Giuli, tell me the truth. Did you kill someone to get this?”

  I shook my head, even though Niccolo might well have died. “Not yet,” I said. Because I wanted to do more than ensure Niccolo was indeed well and murdered; I wanted to find the men who’d been with him, dangerous spies or not, and kill them, too.

  “You can’t do it,” she answered. “I beg you … Just come with us.”

  I knew what she thought; that I’d decided to risk my life by stealing from my kind mentor.

  “They killed him,” I said, my voice catching despite myself. I couldn’t explain everything. I knew if I began to talk, I’d break down, and I didn’t have time for that. “He was a good man. He … trusted someone, someone who killed him. The money is rightfully mine, Celia. He gave it to me.”

  She paled. “Is this person after you, too?”

  I nodded even though I wasn’t sure it was true … yet. But it was only a matter of time before someone discovered what I’d done.

  “It’s not just that. It’s the war. The city’s being abandoned to the enemy. You and Tommaso can’t be here when that happens.”

  She unfolded her arms and put a hand upon my forearm. “Don’t leave, Giuli. Please. Worry about the coins later, and come with us now.”

  “I … I have to do this … and one other thing. I’ll be quick. I promise.” I turned and walked away as quickly as I could, half running down the stairs so she, in her ski
rts, couldn’t catch me.

  As I left, she called my name, so plaintively that it echoed in my ears for days.

  * * *

  It was all I could do to keep from breaking into my fastest run, but it would have aroused suspicion; I held myself to a steady jog instead and headed south of the Duomo, then swung to the east, ignoring the grim toothy tower of the Bargello to my right. I ran down the busy Via Ghibellina to the bells of Santa Croce, the church supposedly founded by Saint Francis. One block north, and I was on the Via dell’Agnolo, peppered with all manner of shops, including the famed workshop of one of the finest painters, sculptors, goldsmiths, and all-around artisans of Florence.

  Verrocchio wasn’t his real name, of course, but people had called him that for so long that they’d forgotten what the real one was. As a boy, he’d been apprenticed to a goldsmith who had been dubbed Verrocchio—true eye—because of his incredible talent. The boy grew to be the equal of his teacher, even greater, according to some, and out of respect, he’d taken on his master’s name as his own. Everyone in town used it, because there were few eyes as keen and perceptive as Andrea del Verrocchio’s.

  His bottega stood on a prominent corner; like so many Florentine buildings, it was an unimpressive rectangle of whitewashed stone. In warmer weather, its front portico was open to street so that all passersby, including pigs and chickens, were free to wander up and see what the students were working on that day—the best form of advertisement, aimed at common folk, because Verrocchio was not too proud to accept the humblest commission, be it adding a bit of gilt to a frame or decorating a teapot. But today, in recognition of the cold, the portico was draped in heavy awning, to which a few less expensive paintings had been fastened, a hint as to what lay inside.

  I pushed through the open seam in the awning and walked through the chilly portico to the front door. The minute I opened it, warmth and the fragrance of oil and solvent and heated metal rushed out. Inside, the single large room, comprising the entire ground floor, was crammed to capacity. The walls were covered with the equipment of the artisan’s trade: engraving tools, blank strips of unmounted canvas scented with bleach beside willow sticks, chisels, feathers, bundles of various types of animal fur. Near the large hearth stood a small kiln and a grindstone.