by Debbie Rix
They went up the steps into the garden and Sam saw the now familiar fig tree, the ragged box-edged beds, the gnarled olive trees.
‘Who lives here?’ asked Sam
‘No one has lived here for many months. It’s owned by a family who live in Switzerland now, the Manocci family. It’s been closed up since they left.’
Re-entering by the kitchen steps, they moved up through the house, the agent turning on lights and opening up shutters where necessary. On the second floor were a suite of bedrooms: two with interconnecting doors and a third smaller one that adjoined the first. As Sam walked into the little room, the agent said: ‘A dressing room… it could be converted to a bathroom, I think.’
Sam looked round the little room, taking in the small double bed against one wall, the somewhat decrepit wardrobe, the small high window.
‘Is there another floor?’ she asked. ‘Is it possible to get access to the galleries at the front?’
‘Yes, there is a wonderful view from the old tower above here. We need to climb up the circular staircase in the East Tower.’
Sam followed the young man up the winding staircase in the tower. At the very top, they came out into a loggia open on three sides, with stone arches framing the view to the north and south. Gazing out first towards the south, Sam surveyed the city stretching away towards the airport in the distance. As she turned to face the river, her eye caught a peeling fresco on one wall – the remains of pale terracotta paint, with a suggestion of blue at the base. The painting had virtually disappeared, but she could just make out the outline of what might have been an oar from a galley dipping into the water, but in truth was just a dark line. She looked out onto the river below, the Leaning Tower and the Duomo in the distance.
‘It’s a wonderful view. My goodness. It’s fabulous up here.’ She recalled the picture Signor Visalberghi had showed her of Calvo and his beautiful red-haired companion gazing across the river.
‘You say it was built around 1150,’ she said, ‘do we know who it was built for?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Maybe the Manoccis have done some research… they may know more than me.’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’
The agent led her once again down the steep, winding tower steps and out onto the landing at the top of the marble staircase.
At that moment, the bell to the house rang. Perplexed, the young man ran down the stairs.
Following him quickly behind, Sam was just in time to see an elegant woman standing on the steps and introducing herself as Signora Capelli. The agent turned to remonstrate with Sam, who ducked past him, shouting, ‘Grazie mille,’ before jumping down the stone steps and running back along the Arno towards the safety of the bridge.
Once across, she walked along the north bank of the Arno, until she stood opposite the palazzo. Her gaze wandered up to the East Tower. Whoever lived there certainly had an extraordinary view of the city. There was no doubt, whether it was Calvo and his lady or no, they had been people of substance.
Chapter Ten
August 1171
One afternoon in late August, some ten years after she had first noticed young Gerardo and his grandfather, Berta was sitting, as usual, at the edge of the Piazza, sketching the buildings and the men at work. She had shifted her attention from the Duomo – the latest phase of which was nearing completion, with most of the activity now taking place inside the vast grey and marble edifice – to the Baptistery, begun seventeen years earlier and designed by the brilliant capo magister Deotisalvi. The Baptistery, which lay to the west of the Duomo, was designed for the rich and influential citizens of Pisa to baptise their children. Deotisalvi was proud of his design, which had echoes of Buscheto’s earlier cathedral, with its delicate columns, but was circular in shape in order to prevent it sinking into the silty ground on which it would be built. Without corners, the architect reasoned, the weight of the vast building would be more evenly distributed and therefore less likely to sink or tilt.
Young Gerardo, now seventeen, had been employed as a mason on the Baptistery, and as it rose above ground level, he was developing his skills as a sculptor. Berta caught sight of him standing on the bamboo and raffia scaffolding that surrounded the building. He chatted easily with another young man as they carved and chiselled part of the architrave above the main door. She noted with pleasure how he tossed his head back as he laughed and joked, the shoulder-length dark hair, made wet with sweat, flicking back an arc of water glistening in the bright sunlight. She caught his eye and waved to him, and he, embarrassed, half-raised his hand to return her greeting before turning back to his friend.
He was tall now, taller than his grandfather, his chest and arms revealed well-developed muscles under the smooth skin made golden by the sun.
She lifted her basket, offering him something. Shyly he touched the arm of his friend as a parting gesture, and, jumping down from the scaffolding, came towards her.
He bowed when he reached her, and she patted the low wall next to her.
‘Sit, Gerardo. I have some figs today. Would you like one?’
Unable to refuse, he sat down and, wiping the dust from his hands, gratefully took the cool green fruit from her small pale fingers. As their flesh touched, they both felt the shock, the small electric charge of attraction. He took the fig and, delicately peeling off the outer casing, revealed the paler green inner skin. Then, watching her intently, his eyes locked with hers, he sank his mouth into the soft, ripe redness within, sucking and slurping. When he had finished, he grinned a wide happy smile… and she too laughed.
‘You must learn to eat them a little more elegantly,’ she scolded. ‘Try another.’ She handed him a fig. But he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, but I must go now. The lapicida will notice. We are busy.’
‘Of course,’ she said, surprised at her disappointment.
Unable to resist the young man, she visited the site as frequently as she could after that. Lorenzo was away on a long trip and Berta intended to make use of his absence. Whenever she and Gerardo met, they would mainly talk about architecture, discussing the work he was involved in, or a particular building or piece of sculpture that he had admired. She found herself impressed by his enthusiasm and knowledge, as well as his desire for self-improvement; and she encouraged and nurtured his ambition. She heard, too, how he had lost his parents – although the boy never went into too much detail, concentrating instead on his gratitude to his grandfather. And while she recognised the differences in their ages – at thirty-five she was twice his age – she felt it was of no importance. There was an easiness about their relationship that allowed her to forget her position: to be simply Berta in the company of a young sculptor.
For his part, Gerardo was amazed and delighted at Berta’s knowledge. He had never met a woman who was so well educated, or so interested in the details of his work. She brought her sketchbooks on most days, and he would sit happily looking at her drawings, marvelling at her ability to capture the likeness of a building or a piece of sculpture. He could see, too, that she had imaginative ideas of her own of how a building should be designed. He was aware that his own ambitions were limited by his lack of formal education; he could never become a capo magister. But she encouraged him and gave him confidence that he would one day be a fine lapicida, like his grandfather. And she was beautiful; there were days when he caught sight of the red hair as a strand escaped from her cap and marvelled at its colour. And although she dressed simply, he knew instinctively that her clothes belied her true position. There was something in her bearing, her confidence, that made it impossible that she was just an ordinary woman of Pisa.
The two of them met often during that late summer. Over time, Berta’s feelings for the young man changed, from simple friendship to something deeper. In bed at night, she found herself imagining him making love to her. As she sat at her toilette in the morning, arranging her hair, or putting on a brooch, he filled her th
oughts. And while she knew that there was no hope for any kind of relationship, she was powerless to put a stop to her feelings.
When she came to the Piazza, she often brought a picnic, hoping to tempt him to sit with her. A simple lunch of bread and ham, or a piece of fruit carefully wrapped in cloth to prevent bruising. One day, after they had eaten a small tart prepared by Maria, she searched at the bottom of her basket for some fruit. Taking a sharp knife she expertly carved a large white peach in two, offering half to the young man. He bit down on the white flesh and juice spurted out, running down his chin. As she moved to dab at his mouth with a cloth, he took her hand in his, and gently kissed the inside of her wrist. She flushed and instinctively looked anxiously around in case they had been observed. He, innocent, unknowing, smiled sweetly at her and she found herself yearning now to kiss his girlish lips. But she held back and the moment was lost. His friend called him back to work and he stood up awkwardly and hurried away, disappearing into the crowd of men at the site.
At the end of August, Lorenzo returned early from his trip, bringing an end to his wife’s site visits. He was tired and irritable; he had developed a bad fever on the outward journey and had returned home overland, leaving his second in command in charge of the fleet. He enquired, not quite as delicately as she would have wished, if, in his absence, she had perhaps found herself with child. And once again she had to disappoint him, making light of the revelation that despite her daily tisane there was, as yet, to be no heir to his great fortune. His annoyance was palpable, and she found herself struggling to please him. When he had eaten, and taken her to bed, he retreated, unusually, to his own room to sleep. Finding herself not a little relieved, Berta thought longingly of the young man with whom she had such an easy relationship. Curiously, she felt no guilt at this friendship, seeing no real harm in it. And each morning, when she woke, the sound of Lorenzo’s snoring drifting through from the room next door, she felt a frisson of excitement as she remembered Gerardo’s touch on her hand, the feel of his lips on her wrist. But although she felt no guilt, she was only too aware of the risks she had taken. And so, excited and scared in equal measure, she tried hard to push the young man to the back of her mind, concentrating instead on her wifely duties. She rose late with Lorenzo, and spent the mornings in her chamber studying her books, a habit he, fortunately, had no objection to. If he desired it, she made love with him in the afternoons. She organised parties and dinners that she knew would delight and impress him, while also establishing their household as among the most influential in the city.
But every day she thought of the handsome boy and wondered when she would be able to visit the Piazza.
Chapter Eleven
September 1171
Lorenzo was reluctant to leave the house and seemed keen for Berta to be at his side at all times. He had felt unwell since returning from the Middle East, suffering terrible night sweats, and demanded her constant attention to bring him back to health. Berta, frustrated, railed against this constraint on her freedom.
One morning, she cajoled him to take a little air down in the garden.
‘Lorenzo… you have been in this room for several days now, and the air is stale. You need to get outside into the garden and sit in the sunshine. Do that for me, caro, will you? It will make you feel so much better.’
Reluctantly, Lorenzo had done her bidding, leaving his wife to her toilette. Finally left alone, she was seized with desire for the young man at the Piazza del Duomo. Her new maid, Aurelia, was dressing her mistress’s hair – braiding it and coiling it on top of her head.
‘Aurelia,’ she tried hard to keep her voice calm as the girl twisted and teased her hair. ‘You know how delighted I am that you have come to work for me.’
‘Yes, signora – thank you, signora.’
‘You’ve done my hair so beautifully, thank you… but I need you to run a little errand for me.’
‘Yes, signora.’
‘I would like you to take a message to a young sculptor at the Piazza. Do you think you could do that for me?’
Aurelia nodded, and once she had been furnished with the boy’s name and description, and some indication of where she was likely to find him, she left her mistress, only mildly surprised by the errand she was to run, for she was wont to be sent out into the town to invite young artists and sculptors to dine with the household.
She had to walk the mile or so to the Piazza, a route she was not unfamiliar with, as it took her past her mother’s house. She had been in Berta’s service for just over two months and, true to her word, she was released by her mistress to visit her family one Sunday in four, taking home her wages and a large basket full of produce from the palazzo’s gardens. Her mother missed her terribly and was excited to see her beloved daughter and keen to hear about Aurelia’s life, and relieved to find her happy and enthusiastic about her new position. Berta had been kind to the girl and, it seemed, was encouraging her to read and even to play a lute. ‘Play to me, Aurelia,’ the girl mimicked her employer, ‘it soothes me.’ Her mother had laughed, but also gave her daughter wise counsel: ‘Be respectful, Aurelia… she’s a good woman. I didn’t see it at first, but she has been true to her word. She looks after you well, and the money she pays you makes a big difference.’
Berta had also provided Aurelia with paints and paper, and together they would sit in the garden painting the flowers that grew there, the mistress guiding the hand of the maid as she taught her how to mix pigments to just the right shade. She even allowed the girl to take her pictures home to show her mother.
‘Your father would have been proud of you, Aurelia,’ her mother told her, ‘you have his gift for art.’
Aurelia had grown used to her duties and, in truth, she found it quite enjoyable work. She was required to help her mistress bathe and dress, to take care of her clothes, delivering washing to the maids downstairs, folding gowns neatly and laying them carefully in the chests with lavender and cedar to protect them from moths and other insects. Every few weeks, her mistress would require a bath, or her hair to be washed, and then the girl, along with one of the kitchen maids, would have to carry the pails of water heated in the basement kitchens up the many steps to the top of the tower where her mistress had her chamber. The washing complete, she would comb the long red hair, taking care not to pinch, pull or squeeze. For if she did, her mistress was wont to be short-tempered and even to slap her wrist. But the job was less arduous and boring than helping her mother to run their own household, where she had to tend the fires, collect the water and cook the food while her mother was busy preparing the potions and tonics that brought customers to the house.
When she finally arrived at the Piazza, Aurelia found it teeming with activity. Berta had given her a little money to spend as she chose – a reward for her silence. Being a young girl, little older than a child, she chose to spend it on a honey cake that she had spotted being arranged on a stall next to the hospital of Santa Chiara. To eat one would be a rare pleasure; she handed over the coin eagerly and took possession of the cake, holding it carefully in both hands. As she wandered the vast building site searching for the young man, she ate the cake, luxuriating in its sweetness. Everywhere she looked, men worked – the masons stripped to the waist, sweat glistening on their bodies, mixed with marble dust; painters and gilders hurrying to their work, their tools and brushes in leather bags slung over their shoulders.
The Duomo was nearing completion, but the interior still required decoration. Armies of artists and craftsmen had been drafted in from other towns to complete the work – from Siena and Florence, and even from towns and cities further afield, like Bruges. Living two or three to a room, they spent their nights in little hostelries dotted about the town and their days working from dawn to dusk.
Aurelia wondered how she would recognise the young man amongst so many, and had begun to worry what her mistress would say if she returned empty-handed. She repeated the message over and over again, for fear of forgetting it, a
lternating the words spoken out loud with little nibbling bites at the cake. She had only enough money for one, and she was anxious to eke it out as long as possible.
As she neared the Baptistery, she stood looking up at the men working from the wooden scaffolding that covered the newly built walls. Raffia ‘roofs’ had been erected at various levels to provide shade from the late summer sunshine. A young man shouted instructions to a colleague standing below him. Between them was a rope tied around what appeared to be a statue wrapped in sack cloth, which they were attempting to winch into position. The young man with dark curls pulled the rope with great care, and finally brought the statue up to the gallery where he was standing. He shouted acknowledgement to the man below and began to unwrap the statue. As he did so, he sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden platform. He seemed perfectly at ease, some twenty or thirty feet above the ground. At one moment, he leapt to his feet, still holding the statue in one hand, and reached across to place it in position, standing back to admire his work.
Aurelia found herself spellbound by the boy, and gasped as he leant this way and that, terrified that he would fall. The boy, who appeared quite unconcerned, stood back at last, satisfied by his work; he looked down for the first time and caught sight of the watching girl. He smiled at her, a wide happy grin, and made as if to fall from the scaffold. With a whoop, he leapt through the air onto a ladder that connected to the level below. The girl cried out in fear and covered her mouth with her hand as she did so, dropping what was left of her little cake. The boy laughed, pointing to the ground where her cake now lay, the crumbs already being eaten by an opportunistic starling. The girl looked down and began to cry, her hands now flapping madly as she tried to shoo away the bird and rescue what was left of her cake. Within moments, as she stood up, the young man was there with her, helping to gather up the remaining crumbs. He handed them to her and she saw at once that this must be the young man she had been searching for… his eyes the colour of the sea on a warm summer’s day.