She pulled away. “I don’t need an escort,” she said, suddenly realizing how loud her voice sounded. People turned to stare. She spoke more softly. “I just want to go home and make sure my father has not taken ill as a result of this morning’s excitement.”
Signor Morpurgo’s eyebrows rose. “I understand, child. But I’m walking your way. You won’t object to my walking with you, will you?”
Dolce’s eyebrows rose and her face hardened. “I need you at home, Papa,” she snapped. “Uncle can take her.”
“I’m walking that way anyway. I have business to attend to.” Signor Morpurgo sounded annoyed.
Dolce looked from one to the other, finally fixing her eyes on her friend. “Very well. Mira, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then, not waiting for Mirelle to protest, she turned away.
The walk home was only a few minutes. Mirelle felt ashamed of having made a fuss. Dolce’s father led her through the narrow streets, adjusting his quick stride to her slower gait.
“I’ve been honored by the general’s confidence in me,” he told her. “It’s been a whirlwind, has it not?”
Mirelle nodded. “So much has happened since the riots. One moment everything is ordinary, the way it always was. And the next . . .” Her voice broke.
Signor Morpurgo took her arm in his. “This is the first sorrow ever to come into your young life. I wish I could tell you that it would be the last. Unfortunately, I can’t make that promise, though I’d give my heart’s blood to be able to do so.”
Mirelle glanced at him from under her eyelashes. The tenderness in his tones made her uncomfortable. But she told herself she was being ridiculous. He was her friend’s father, that was all. “You’re too kind,” she murmured. “You’ve suffered yourself, I know. I was only a child, but I still remember how upset you were when Dolce’s mother died.”
Signor Morpurgo squeezed her arm. “Thank you, my dear. Missing her as I did, I never wanted to marry again. Dolce certainly did her best to dissuade me when there was even the remotest chance. But now, with this political appointment—and with Dolce being your dearest friend, and you both nearing marriage age . . .”
Mirelle’s heart skipped a beat. “I hope you find someone who will make you as happy as Dolce’s mother,” she stammered.
Was she imagining the lingering caress on her arm? “You’re a dear, dear girl,” he said, his voice throaty. “A dear girl. I must tell you . . .”
They turned the corner and stood in front of her house. Mirelle stopped in surprise. A pile of chests and suitcases was lined up at the doorway. “Someone’s here,” she said. “My aunt and cousin must have arrived from Rome.”
Morpurgo’s lips thinned. “So it seems. But if you could give me just one more moment.”
Mirelle looked at the baggage, glad to change the subject from whatever it might have become. “They’re certainly here for a long stay.”
“So it seems. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that the religious nature of the work means you can’t inherit yourself. You, Piccola, would certainly have been worthy.”
Mirelle couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, futile though it was. Unlike his daughter or her mother, Signor Morpurgo didn’t just dismiss how she felt. How rare to have someone understand her! “Thank you,” she murmured. Then, with another glance at the crowded porch, she added, “I’d better go help Anna.”
Signor Morpurgo nodded. “I’m sorry, child, it doesn’t look like we’ll have time to talk more. Not today, anyway.”
Mirelle slipped her arm out of his. “Thank you for your escort, Signor Morpurgo, and for bringing the general to visit the ketubah manufactory.” Without waiting for a response, she mounted the stairs, stepping between the boxes and chests piled high on the stone steps, and headed inside.
27
Mirelle followed the sound of voices in the parlor. There, sitting with her parents, was a fashionable older woman, her traveling gown a deep lilac, her velvet hat swathed in black net. Black gloves lay on her lap. Next to her, sprawled on the sofa, was a boy who looked younger than his eight years. He was dressed in rich clothing, but nothing seemed to fit; his pantaloons were too full, his jacket too short.
“Ah, Mirelle,” Papa said, rising with some difficulty from his chair, “your aunt Prudenzia and cousin Beniamino have just arrived from Rome. My dear sister-in-law, this is our daughter, the joy of our house.”
Mirelle curtsied. Prudenzia smiled serenely, extending two fingers in greeting. Then she seemed to think better of it and brushed Mirelle’s cheek with her lips, a butterfly kiss Mirelle barely felt. Not bothering to rise, Beniamino nodded.
“She’s lovely, Pinina,” Prudenzia said. “You say you’ve found her a good match?”
As Mirelle’s head spun from her aunt toward her mother, she noticed the shocked look on her father’s face.
Mama flushed, shaking her head at her sister-in-law. “Nothing is certain yet,” she said. Then she turned to her daughter. “Is Dolce’s father outside? Does he wish to speak with your father?”
“Dolce’s father?” Mirelle heard her voice rise in surprise. Or was it trepidation?
“He did accompany you home, didn’t he?” Mama persisted. “He said he would.”
“Yes, but he saw we had company and left me at the doorstep.”
“I see you’re right, Pinina. Nothing is certain.” Prudenzia’s laugh was like tinkling crystal.
Simone looked from his wife to his sister-in-law, forehead furrowing. “I don’t understand.”
“Later,” Mama said.
Heat crept up Mirelle’s cheeks.
“Mirelle, perhaps you should show your cousin his room.” Mama gestured toward the boy still lounging on the divan. “He looks tired. He will sleep in . . . in . . .”
“In poor Cousin Jacopo’s room, yes, Aunt?” Beniamino chimed in, his round face fixed on hers. “Mama says she’ll share Mirelle’s room.”
Mirelle looked at her mother’s flustered face. “Of course, Mama,” she said carefully. The boy couldn’t possibly understand how his thoughtlessness hurt her parents. “Come with me, Beniamino. What do they call you at home? Ben? Or Mino?”
“Beniamino,” her aunt said sharply.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the boy’s face. He kept his silence until they were halfway up the stairs, then blurted, “You can call me Mino if you’d like. And I’ll call you Elle. They can be our secret names for one another.”
Mirelle laughed. “All right. Do you have lots of secrets from your mama?”
Mino blinked at Mirelle and she noticed that his eyes were large, dark, and nearly lashless. Like a doll’s marble eyes, she thought. Something about them disquieted her.
“Oh, I do,” he said, laughing. “Lots and lots of secrets.”
28
An agitated crowd stood grumbling outside the cathedral, clustered in the stone courtyard beyond the narrow flight of steps to the portico. A pair of red marble lions guarded the entranceway, powerless in the face of the French troops. Daniel knew the citizens of Ancona were desperate to block the looting of the church. He had seen this in every other Italian city they had occupied: a mob of angry Catholics surrounding the steps of the church, shouting in bitter protest. Once again he brushed away the commandment that always perturbed him when pillaging the Italians: Thou shalt not steal.
Bonaparte had anticipated the demonstration. A squad of artillerymen lined up outside the cathedral, ready to fire upon the crowd. Foot soldiers loaded carts with gold and silver chalices, ivory and gem-encrusted crosses, and exquisite works of holy art. Bonaparte’s catalogers, Monge and Berthollet, stood by making notes in their memorandum books, attributing a value to every piece. The men, by now well-practiced in the art of confiscation, passed valuables hand to hand from deep inside the sanctuary. The precious metals twinkled and gleamed in the bright sunshine, their lustrous beauty infuriating the faithful.
A clergyman, his purple sash marking him as cardinal, stood at the church entrance in
effectively blocking the soldiers, arms clutched across his chest. The moment Bonaparte arrived, he stalked down the steps. “I protest,” he cried. “This is an outrage!”
Bonaparte smiled tightly, not bothering to bow. “You are Cardinal . . . ?”
“Ranuzzi,” the portly, red-faced man spat out. “I’ve served as spiritual leader of the San Ciriaco Cathedral for many years. And what you do here—I repeat—is an outrage!”
One of Bonaparte’s aides whispered in his ear. A look of astonishment flickered across his face, followed by a withering glare. “From what I am told,” he said in Italian between clenched teeth, “you are leader of more than this sumptuously adorned cathedral. You are the head of an insurgency called the Catholic Fellowship—the group that led a deadly attack against the Jews of this city, as well as ambushed a contingent of my men. We are holding one of your rogues—”
“Mio marito!” cried a woman, darting out of the crowd. She kneeled before Bonaparte, her forehead on his boots, hands gripping them as she wept.
He stared down at her from over his aquiline nose. “What does she want?” he growled.
One of his officers stepped forward and saluted briskly. “It’s her husband you are holding, sir.”
“Get her off my feet,” Bonaparte snapped. “Woman!” he barked in Italian. “If I have imprisoned your husband, he deserves his fate.”
An impassioned flurry of words from both the cardinal and the woman followed. Daniel, though his Italian was improving daily, couldn’t follow what they were saying after the first few sentences. But Bonaparte, who was born on the island of Corsica and whose mother tongue was Italian, had no such difficulty.
He finally kicked out, flinging the woman off his boots. “I’m going inside,” he said, ignoring the pleas from both woman and cardinal. He turned to his aide. “Send some men in with me as a bodyguard.”
“You, you, and you,” said the aide, pointing at Daniel, Sebastian, and one other artilleryman. “Accompany the general.”
They walked up the cathedral’s worn stone steps, passing a deep portal formed of four columned arches. The air grew musty and cool as they entered the sanctuary.
The cardinal followed on their heels, still protesting. “It is a crime, an injustice against the faithful of Ancona, a—”
Bonaparte turned and glowered at him, stopping him mid-sentence. “Shut your mouth or I’ll have you shot,” he snapped.
Ranuzzi, turning white, subsided. But he still kept pace, dark eyes flashing in frustration. Daniel reluctantly admired the man, who, unlike many of his fellow countrymen, did not cower at the general’s bullying.
The church was nearly empty except for the looting soldiers. In a side chapel not yet touched by the French, a cluster of women kneeled, praying and crying, before a portrait. Daniel had had little contact with Catholics before coming to Italy, aside from Christophe and his mother, and had only once set foot in the famous Notre Dame Cathedral. But there was no escaping the images of the Virgin Mother and her son, even when they had been forced underground in Revolutionary France—and here in Italy, their likenesses dotted every street corner and crowded every church.
The portrait was small and glowed in the dim light of the cathedral. Under its heavy, gold-painted frame, Mary looked pale and weary, her eyes downcast. Her gown, a delicate red, draped at the neck, and a blue-gray headdress was thrown over her head and shoulders. Her mantle was topped by a magnificent gold crown that was studded with painted gemstones and had an elaborate cross at its peak. Around her neck she wore a string of actual pearls and other rare jewels.
Bonaparte whirled, turning on the cardinal. “Is that the portrait that’s caused so much fuss?” he asked. “The one that’s supposed to prevent me from conquering Ancona?”
The cardinal swallowed hard. “You’ve heard about that, then?”
“The whole of Italy has heard about it—and about the other Madonna portraits in Rome, Ascoli, and Frascati that are reportedly repeating the miracle, much to the delight of you Catholics. Doesn’t seem to have worked, though, does it?”
“The ways of the Lord and His blessed mother are not given to us to understand fully,” the cardinal said, folding his hands piously. “And who can say that we know what the future holds—for you, General, or for Italy? But yes, that is indeed the miraculous portrait.”
Sebastian, cupping a hand, murmured to Daniel, “Some of the men want to burn the damned thing.”
His whisper carried through the chapel. The women sank to their knees, praying to Mary to smite the unfaithful.
Bonaparte looked from his soldiers to the women, lips curling in sardonic amusement. “No one’s burning it,” he declared, first in French and then in Italian. He stepped into the chapel, scattering the kneeling women. They retreated to the back of the room, muttering angrily. Their murmurs reverberated around the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Quiet!” Bonaparte bellowed. “Silenzio!”
Reluctantly, the women quieted. Bonaparte turned to address them.
“You have been prey to a massive fraud,” he said, taking the portrait off the wall and holding it in his hands, disregarding their cries of horror. “Your clergymen have manufactured this miracle to convince you that I am your enemy. I am not your enemy, and I will prove this foolishness wrong by staring down this Mother Mary. You will see: the painting will not respond.”
He stared at the portrait. The tension in the chamber mounted as the seconds ticked past. Something about the silence unnerved Daniel; he reached for his saber and lightly curled his fingers about its hilt.
Finally, Bonaparte looked up. “There! No moving eyes, no tears, no smiles—nothing but canvas and paint. I’ve given your Madonna a chance to confront her enemy, but she has not engaged me.” He placed the portrait on the lectern, nodding at the huddled women in the chapel corner. “You have been told that we are despoiling your churches. But these valuables should serve the people, not lie here useless while your countrymen hunger for a simple crust of bread.”
The cardinal, who had remained silent for a time, now seemed unable to stop himself. “Everything you are seizing—and sending back to enrich France’s coffers—is dedicated to God’s glory,” he announced. “These women know that these artifacts serve God’s Holy Church!”
Bonaparte looked at him, amused. “Good cardinal, I have nothing but respect for the Catholic Church. My own uncle was a priest before the Revolution. But why should you pile up riches here in God’s house when so many people starve in your streets?”
He stepped toward the portrait. The women drew in an audible breath; Ranuzzi hissed in protest. Sebastian moved between him and the general, his saber half drawn from its scabbard.
“Your Lady wears a veritable treasure about her neck,” Bonaparte said. “While most of what we take is destined for France as war booty, I’ve heard of a local hospice in urgent need of funds. These gemstones can supply that.” He touched the necklace. “Think of the men and women who, nearing their final reward, will bless the residents of Ancona for giving up these precious—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his face drained of color. He drew in a deep breath and let the string of gems fall back against the Madonna’s chest. He grabbed an embroidered gold cloth from the lectern and dropped it so it completely hid the portrait.
“Everyone out! Now!” he cried, gripping the lectern with both hands, his knuckles white.
Daniel and Sebastian jumped into action, waving their sabers and pushing the women out the door. The cardinal was about to follow them when Bonaparte bellowed, “Not him! He stays!”
“You! Tell me more about this portrait,” Bonaparte demanded, grabbing the cardinal’s hassock, pulling him so they faced one another.
“What do you want to know, Cittadino General?” Ranuzzi asked.
“Who first saw it? When did it happen? How did it first appear?”
The cardinal’s face crinkled. “The woman hanging on your boots outside? The one you nearly kicked in the fac
e? She saw the miracle first. Francesca Marotti.”
Bonaparte turned to Daniel. “Go,” he barked. “Bring her here.”
Daniel saluted and headed out of the cathedral, wondering as the sound of his boots reverberated through the near-empty church what the general had seen that upset him so. Had the miracle portrait really stared back at him? Cried? Smiled?
He hoped he’d recognize the Marotti woman from the others in the crowd. They were all dressed alike, in black dresses and modest head coverings. Daniel realized that his own mother would fit in well with these women. The thought made his stomach twist.
“Francesca Marotti!” he called, standing on the steps. “Lei dov’è?”
“Who wants her?” someone demanded. An older woman stepped out of the huddle of women and stood with fists at her waist.
Daniel thought quickly. “The cardinal wants her. Is she here?”
“I’m here,” came a low-pitched voice. Francesca Marotti moved toward the steps, gently patting the older woman’s shoulder as she passed by.
Daniel regarded her. The woman looked worn: her eyes were shadowed, her lips pale in a sallow face. Her dark hair was bound in a bun at the nape of her neck, covered by a kerchief. Daniel put out a hand and she grasped it, fingers rough and knotted against his palm. He led her up the stairs.
They walked through the cathedral, footsteps echoing. Francesca looked pained to see the soldiers dispersed throughout the church. They entered the chapel, where Bonaparte stood at the podium, eyes fixed upon the gold cloth draped over the portrait, frowning blackly. Ranuzzi leaned against the stone wall in a corner, hands folded in prayer. Francesca started toward him.
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