The Orphan of Florence Read online

  I hobbled with him past the great palazzo, past empty stables, an abandoned kitchen garden, and a family chapel topped by a statue of the serene Virgin, her open arms draped fetchingly in stone. This property had once belonged to an extremely wealthy family; I couldn’t imagine why it had been abandoned, unless everyone inside had died from plague. Even then, some relative, however distant, should have appeared to claim it.

  We crossed a property as large as a public square, my bruised, aching knee grateful for the slower pace; the legging over it felt damp. It still didn’t have my full attention, as I was busy trying to figure out how to get to the keys around my captor’s neck. Preferably after I’d gotten my hands on the stiletto.

  We soon came to another wall much like the one we’d just passed. I figured we’d come to the end of the property, so I was puzzled when Ser Giovanni let go of my arm, and without holding the stiletto on me, lifted the vines and applied yet another key to a lock hidden in the rusticated stone. This time he pulled the door open—it swung outward—and gestured for me to limp ahead of him. I stepped into another unkempt walled landscape, this one smaller, with a withered kitchen garden covered in frost, a small pond, and a typical Florentine three-storied house—a stone and stucco rectangle with a flat roof—that had probably once served as the head gardener’s dwelling (a very well-paid head gardener on a very prestigious estate). Like the grand palazzo, the house was fairly new and in good shape, more than comfortable enough for the family of a successful merchant.

  But its windows, too, were distressingly black.

  Once again, Ser Giovanni pulled the gate shut, bolted it, and then locked it with one of the keys. I was doubly locked in now, with no hope of escape, which was no doubt why he slid his stiletto back into the gold-handled cane.

  He caught my shoulder again, this time lightly. “Watch your step,” he said, his tone more relaxed. “The moles have been at work here, too.”

  We made our way at a pace that allowed me to catch my breath and realize that the legging over my aching knee was damp with blood. A cut, however small, could kill a healthy person in a week if it wasn’t properly looked after. But I’d worry about that only if I survived the night.

  Despite myself, I had to lean heavily on him. Fortunately, the ground leveled out onto a path packed into the dirt beneath the dead and dying weeds. He headed straight toward the two-story house, but instead of approaching the front door, he took me around to the back, where tall evergreen shrubs half hid the servants’ entrance.

  This time, he turned his back to me as he unlocked the door. It was a solid arched door, its wooden center bound with a band of bronze, and as it swung outward I could see how very thick and sturdy it was.

  “Inside,” he said, gesturing for me to enter.

  I stepped inside and froze, disoriented; the place was as dark as death, so black I couldn’t see what lay in front of me. There was no moon in here to light the way.

  Behind me, Ser Giovanni’s boots sounded briefly against the stone floor; the door groaned faintly as he closed it.

  “Don’t move,” he said softly. “Stand right there.”

  I sensed that we were in a room, and not a very big one given that his words were muted by what were surely walls. For an instant, I thought to run because he could see no better than I, but I realized fast enough that he knew his way about and I didn’t. There might have been furniture to stumble over, or a torture rack, or wild dogs in the room, for all I knew.

  And so I stood there like a fool and listened for the third time to the sound of a bolt sliding to keep others out, and the key turning in the lock to keep me in. I listened, and in my mind saw sour old Sister Maria Ignatia at the orphanage, shaking her head and telling me I’d come to no good. Apparently she’d been right.

  * * *

  She’d often said it, and she’d repeated it the week before my fifteenth birthday—or more accurately, the fifteenth anniversary of my discovery—when I was going to be turned out. Boys were supposed to leave the orphanage at age eighteen and girls at fifteen, though really, the Abbess Sister Maria Ignatia bent the rules to suit herself, including the primary one of taking in all orphans.

  Take Tommaso for instance: He’d been abandoned at the tender age of four when his mother died, right at the time the nuns were getting ready to kick me out. It had been a particularly bad summer for plague that year in Florence, and the nuns were terrified of an outbreak at the orphanage. So when Tommaso showed up crying near the front portico, next to the little basin where I and other abandoned babies had been left, Sister Maria Ignatia said he was too old and refused to let the other nuns bring him in. Technically, the Hospital for the Innocents had originally been intended for infants, but over the years, the nuns had begun to take in children of all ages without exception. I knew the abbess refused because she was afraid that Tommaso had come to us courtesy of the plague. It didn’t help that he was wearing rags and clearly from the poorest part of town, where the corpses were piling up the fastest.

  That was the week of my fifteenth birthday, according to the abbess. When boys were booted out, they could become an apprentice or find work at a shop or, if they were deemed of good character, could borrow money to open their own shop. A few of the smartest were sometimes taken in by wealthy benefactors to be educated. Girls had two choices: marriage or the cloister.

  Those were what Sister Maria Ignatia offered when she made her little speech to me, the way she did to all the girls who were about to be cast to the wolves. Of course, the nuns all knew that no convent would ever survive me—their nickname for me was the Terror. And I had no intention of marrying. So I nicked some summer clothes from one of the boys, a pair of scissors, and a blanket. I guess I was a natural-born thief even then.

  The very next day, after I’d wrapped up the stolen goods in the blanket and was waiting for lunch so that I could run away on a full belly, Sister Maria Ignatia came and told me she had a man who wanted to marry me.

  First off, he was a tanner. You could smell the stink on him before he took his first step into the room. He held his cap in hands that were stained dark brown; his equally stained tunic was patched in several places, and his leggings bore holes. He was poor and bald as a baby, with big floppy ears that were hairier than a cat’s. And he was old, twice a widower. No surprise there: He’d made his wives work “hard,” he said, “at least as hard as I did. It’s a difficult life, which is why I need someone young and strong. Someone to bear me more children”—he had five still at home, and five dead of plague—“while helping me run the business.”

  And he smiled at me with big brown rabbit teeth. What was left of them, anyway.

  Now I have nothing against tanners. I just don’t want that life for myself. I don’t ever want to get used to that smell.

  And I was spoiled, I admit. The orphanage was large and airy and fairly new, its façade an architectural masterpiece, and we were all well fed and clothed and taught the basics of running a household. Going to the tannery would be a far more miserable life than the one I knew.

  I stared daggers at Sister Maria Ignatia. She’d always hated me, and I her; at first I thought it was because of what the other girls whispered, that I was a witch because of my different colored eyes—one brown, one green. But it hadn’t taken me long to realize that I was also the brightest girl in the orphanage and a hundred times smarter than she was. It wasn’t my fault that the fact became apparent in front of the other children, because I don’t keep my mouth shut when someone does something stupid or unkind. Like beating children who didn’t deserve it, which Sister Maria Ignatia did often. She had another reason to hate me: No matter how often she punished me, I always managed to stay one up on her, to make a cheeky comment to or about her that made the other girls giggle.

  The day I turned fifteen, Sister Maria Ignatia was smiling. A pursed little smile on her wrinkled face, and gloating in her eyes.

  There were richer men who came to the orphanage offering far bett
er marriage proposals to us girls. In fact, most were merchants and shopkeepers, because the Ospedale generally produced well-mannered young women. But Sister Maria Ignatia had saved the tanner for me.

  I was the only one in the room who was scowling.

  The tanner noticed, and asked tentatively, “But you’re a good Christian, I hope, of virtuous character. Will you work hard for me, bear my children, and obey me faithfully?”

  I looked straight into Sister Maria Ignatia’s eyes as I answered.

  “The hell I will!”

  I didn’t wait for her response or permission to leave. I stalked out of the office, went into the room I shared with twenty other girls, and for the first time ever hung my precious silver amulet around my neck for all the world to see. I took my blanket with its stolen booty tied inside and slung it over my shoulder.

  No one stopped me from leaving, although by the time I was stomping toward the front door, Sister Maria Ignatia was leaning against the wall, smiling, her hands hidden beneath her white summer apron.

  “You’ll come to no good,” the abbess whispered triumphantly as I passed. I knew what she meant—a lot of the orphans, boys and girls, who took to the street wound up as prostitutes—and for once, I was too mad to think of a proper retort.

  As I stormed away from the orphanage where I’d spent my entire life—away from the graceful arched colonnades that made it look more like a Roman monument than a foundling hospital—Tommaso was still sitting in the hot sun near the basin by the portico, begging pitifully for coins from passersby. He was such a timid creature then, too stunned and frightened to stray far from his place in front of the orphanage and easy prey for those with bad intentions. I marched up to him and when he looked up, grateful that someone had come to make a contribution, I grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet.

  “You’re coming with me now,” I said.

  * * *

  So Sister Maria Ignatia had been right: Here I was, headed for no good end, stark blind beside a one-eyed man who’d kidnapped me at knifepoint. I thought of how Tommaso would wind up dying sooner rather than later on the streets and wondered whether he had enough sense to go stay with my friend Cecilia. I couldn’t help wondering whether my fate would have been different if I’d been the one wearing the talisman.

  My captor took my arm again and slowly led me through the darkened room. I inched forward haltingly, my free hand out in front of me searching for objects. The room was cool, but not as cold as outside, and as we took a few more steps, I felt the temperature rise. Ser Giovanni squeezed my arm and I paused, listening to the sound of heavy cloth being drawn back—dark drapes, I realized, as sudden slivers of light revealed the outline of a doorway.

  He pushed open the door. I squinted at the sudden appearance of yellow lamplight; my body shuddered at the rush of warm air. We stepped into a kitchen where coals glowed beneath the andirons in the cooking hearth, still uncovered for the night as if awaiting our arrival. There was a lit sconce by the door and one over the long working table across from the hearth. A cauldron perfumed with rabbit and rosemary hung on a hook in the hearth, high enough so that the contents would stay hot but not scorch on the bottom. An upper shelf on the hearth held two fragrant rounds of bread on a wooden peel.

  Whatever I’d expected to find, it hadn’t been this drool-inducing kitchen. We passed through it into a large windowless sitting room, where another hearth held glowing coals. My attendant ignored me and heaped fresh kindling onto them and gave it all a stir with the iron poker. The fire leapt with a whoosh, and he stared into the flames for a few seconds, his face glowing coral.

  I gauged my chances of snatching the poker and beaning him with it—but I knew they were nil, and I cursed myself for not carrying a second razor. In lieu of one, I took in my surroundings, well lit by more sconces, and looked for a way out. There was a door to the left of a wall pocked with niches, but it was bolted; I wouldn’t be able to slide the bolt fast enough before I was caught. I glanced around and spied two large tapestries on the walls, one of a group of women picking oranges, glistening with real thread of gold, and one of a unicorn and stag drinking from a fountain while men spied on them from behind a wall. There were oil paintings, too, from the very best artists in town, of battles and nymphs and Abraham about to slaughter his son Isaac. A candelabrum sat on the high dark mantel—a very odd candelabrum, with eight holders that formed four concentric Us, and a straight one that bisected the center of all the Us; on either side of it stood goblets carved from precious stones: purple, blue, an emerald one swirled with darker green and a glittering red one that had to be ruby. Niches built into the opposite wall held marble busts of Roman emperors and Athenian philosophers, all crumbling with age, and a modern bronze bust of Mars. Beneath my filthy boots lay an exotic carpet covered in vaguely floral vines in scarlet, evergreen, and gold.

  All works of the finest artisans, tucked into this deserted house. All just sitting there for the taking, a pickpocket’s dream. But given the circumstance, one with a nightmarish cast. I promised myself that if I made it out alive, as much of that treasure as I could carry was going with me.

  My host set the poker down and turned from the fire. “Sit,” he said, gesturing at a cluster of four daybeds covered in green silk and gold brocade. I sat on the very edge of one nearest the hearth and the kitchen, unwilling to lie back against the velvet pillows, even though my knee was aching.

  The stirred fire cast off marvelous heat, but I couldn’t relax and enjoy it. There was a reason this man had a home tucked in a secret a place, one no one could find on his own, and a reason he had pretended to be old and feeble, tricking me. Most of all, there was a reason he handled his stiletto like a professional assassin.

  Ser Giovanni held out his hand. “Your cloak, please.”

  His tone was polite and faintly businesslike, as though he were speaking to a colleague come for a financial transaction, not someone he’d kidnaped by force. I decided he was being nice now simply because he didn’t want a struggle. Less work to have a willing victim—but he’d soon discover that I wasn’t going to let him have an easy time of it.

  I slipped off my short cloak and handed it to him, oddly ashamed of the grease stains on my patched rumpled tunic and of the smell of my own body. It’d been so cold lately that Tommaso and I had skipped three of our monthly baths so far; I’m usually a stickler for cleanliness, to keep down the fleas and lice, but they’re not bad in winter. Still, there are always some, because I keep the room warm enough and Tommaso is always bringing home stray kittens.

  I thought my man was going to make me strip naked on the spot—not that I would—but instead he draped the cloak over his arm and said, “That cut on your knee needs cleaning.”

  I followed his gaze. My legging had split right over the center of my knee and the torn wool edges were stuck to the skin beneath by drying blood.

  “Hmm,” he said noncommittally. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  My daybed was the closest one to the fire, and I held my now gloveless hands out toward the hearth, feeling my nose and thighs and fingers tingle as they warmed. Meanwhile, he went off into another room. I was astounded that he left the poker propped against the brick wall by the hearth—had he left it there intentionally? Was it some sort of trick? Or was he really that careless?

  It didn’t matter; I had to take the chance. I took two silent steps over to the hearth, picked up the poker, and suddenly realized that where there was a kitchen, there were bound to be knives. I tiptoed into the other room, poker in hand, to take quick inventory. No weapons on the long wooden table or on the wall, just a second poker by the oven. There were several cupboards against the wall opposite the hearth and a closet.

  Just as I chose the cabinet nearest the oven, a door in one of the rooms opened and closed, followed by approaching tread. The poker would have to serve. I hurried back into the sitting room to retake my seat, clutching my weapon low next to the chaise longue, on the side my captor cou
ldn’t see as he entered.

  His steps, muted by carpet, came nearer, accompanied by another’s lighter tread. “Steady, Leo,” he murmured. “I know; I can smell him, too.”

  So. I had more than one captor to deal with. I gripped the poker harder and tried to keep breathing as I readied myself to spring.

  Ser Giovanni appeared in the archway. His cap, cloak, gloves, cane, and stiletto were gone. So was the fringe of white hair. His head had been shaved a week or two ago, and salt and pepper stubble had started to grow back, revealing a hairline that receded at each temple. The deep creases on either side of his thin lips were real, as was the silk eyepatch and the bags under his uncovered eye: He was still old enough to be my grandfather, if a hale and hearty one. A gleaming gray tunic hung to his mid-thigh, covering fine black woolen leggings. The satiny silk draped closely over the skin, hinting at thick muscles as powerful as a blacksmith’s on his chest and arms. A round talisman of bright gold on a black thong hung shamelessly over his heart.

  He held an empty basin in his hands and a folded towel over one forearm.

  Next to him, at the level of his hip, stood a gray velvet giant of a dog, with a broad muscular chest like its owner, a handsome square muzzle, and close-docked ears. Its eyes were clear amber, expressionless and intensely focused on me. And I was intensely focused on the fact that the animal was unleashed.

  Living on the street as I do along with all the other strays, I’ve learned to read dogs and befriend even the ones who first act as if they’d like to sink their teeth into my leg. But the one breed I’ve always feared is the Neapolitan mastiff, which is not just smart, suspicious, and protective by nature, but larger and much heavier than I am. People keep them when they’re looking for a guard animal that will defend them and their property—to the death.

  And I don’t mean the mastiff’s death. On the street, they still talk about a young thief who made the mistake of trying to cut the purse of a rich man with a Neapolitan mastiff in the cathedral plaza. The dog tore the boy open and ate his intestines as if they were sausages.