She wondered if they would feed and water her, but countless hours passed before she heard the scrape of the lock and the grating of the opening door. Her heart leaped and raced with fear, but the huge bulk of Nicoletta filled the doorway, carrying a tray. Her smiles were enormous.
‘Well, my pet. ’Tis a sorry chamber you’ve descended to and no mistaking. But you’ve Nicoletta to look after ye.’
She banged down the pewter platter, spilling the jug of water, dousing the bread and wetting Egidio’s bloodstains, to make them red once more.
‘Santa Maria, but it’s dark in here. And you’ll not have heard the news about the contrada.’ The maid spoke conversationally, as if they were in a parlour, not a cell. ‘They’re talking about the Padovani heiress who turns thirteen this week – Eagle family, vintners, and the little mistress fair stuffed with coin.’ Nicoletta leaned into the cramped room, looking over both fat shoulders before whispering conspiratorially, as if they shared a confidence: ‘Mortal good match that’d be, for some lucky Eagle feller.’ The maid’s piggy eyes shone like beads in the dim and her smile stretched further.
So, Pia thought, her replacement had already been found.
Having delivered her message, Nicoletta turned to the door and spied the torch. ‘Mercy! What a poor little light they’ve given ye! ’Tis hardly worth having.’ She spat on her meaty hand and doused the light, the torch hissing in matching malice as the door closed again.
Plunged into the dark, Pia remembered how she had once told Riccardo Bruni that she could see in the dark, like the owlet, like Minerva. Why did everything bring her back to him? He was lost to her now, and she was blinded and afraid; shorn, in this blackness, of the little power she had ever had.
She had to feel for her bread and could not be sure, as she chewed it, that it had not been sopped in Egidio’s blood.
She digested her meal and Nicoletta’s news together. Nello would remarry when she was dead. They would keep her alive until the race was won, she thought, for even Salvatore would baulk at the murder of his daughter and Salvatore, the prior of the Civetta, was crucial to the Nine. But after that?
In the dark she began to talk to Egidio Albani, the only other person who’d felt what she felt now.
On the evening of the horse draw, Violante decided to challenge her brother-in-law. She entered Gian Gastone’s chamber without knocking and came across him as he was being assisted into his clothes by Dami. She did not turn her back to shield her eyes from the sight.
‘Why?’ she said, abruptly and without preamble.
‘But, sister, you asked me for help.’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.
She shook her head. She could not deny the truth of what he said.
Gian Gastone flicked at his cravat with irritation, and Dami, with the ease of long practice, untied it and began again.
‘My dear sister, that man – Faustino is it? – is a thug. He exists in another century. He needed to be faced down. Now he has met with the Medici there will be no further trouble, you may be sure of it. By the end of our meeting he seemed quite amenable. You asked me for help. I helped. There is an end on it.’
Violante did not believe a word of it. But she thought she understood him.
Gian Gastone had anticipated his dukedom. She knew he had been mouldering in his wife’s castle, unloved and with nothing to think on but the dukedom that was not yet his. She had conferred power upon him and he had jumped at the chance to rule, but he had done so wrongheadedly. He had given away any advantage they had; he had lost their chance to discover the identity of Romulus; they knew nothing more save that a coup was planned for the day of the Palio, not where or how this was to be achieved.
The only point upon which she could be glad was that Riccardo’s name was kept out of the affair; and unless his boldness in striding in and out of the palace that morning had been observed, Faustino and the Nine were ignorant of his part in the plot to save the city for the Medici. However, in the process of preserving his own secrecy, Pia’s presence in the hermit’s church – however she’d come to be there – had been revealed. Riccardo had neatly summed up her fate: Faustino thought he had a traitor in the family and could quite possibly act against Pia with the support of the law; or leave it to the vengeful Nello to punish his treacherous wife without it.
Violante went to the window to look down into the milling square. In seven days, the Palio would be run once more. In seven days, her own fate would be sealed. And in seven days – for surely Faustino would stay his hand until the race was safely won – Pia of the Tolomei would be dead.
Then it came to her. She knew how she could save Pia from imprisonment and condemnation. The ancient city statutes stated that on the day of each Palio the governor of Siena could free one prisoner in the city – just one – from incarceration, no matter what their crime. If she read Pia’s name at the finish of the race, the girl would have the city’s protection from her husband and his father.
Violante turned from the window. She must see Riccardo. She would have Gretchen send for Zebra at once.
‘Sister?’ Gian Gastone broke in on her reverie.
Violante focused on her errant brother-in-law once again. Dami had dressed him in his finest, with a snowwhite wig and a black coat and breeches of silk. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, with a chill of foreboding.
‘Dami instructs me that there is a quaint local event taking place today. Somewhat to do with drawing lots – no – horses to be ridden in the little race that they have here in a week or so. I thought that it would be good for us to appear for the people. A united front.’
Violante saw the sense in this and followed him as he led the way, not up the stairs to the balcony, but down the steps, heading for the great doors. Before she could question the wisdom of mingling with the populace in this way, Gian Gastone had shuffled off into the piazza. Violante hurried after him, hoping that in the mêlée she might get a chance to see Riccardo, but she was steered by Gian Gastone’s men to a sort of loge they had constructed, set a little above the gathering crowd. The guards began to applaud loudly until some sections of the crowd joined in, but only the citizens nearest to the loge gave any notice to the Medici contingent. The rest were too busy taking note of the real business of the day.
Riccardo skulked in the dark heart of the crowd, fidgeting, craning to see the gathering of the contrade. He could see his own contrada, bristling with the burgundy-and-blue flags of the Tower, featuring, in the centre, an elephant carrying a tower on his back. Domenico was there, too, holding his flag high, casting his eyes about for his son.
Riccardo narrowed his eyes. The elephant on his father’s banner was carrying the city and he experienced a great fellow feeling for the creature. He, too, had the stones of the city pressing down on his shoulders, the weight of his duty pressing down upon him. His heart had shrivelled to a bean, but he knew where his duty lay. He began to push though the populace to his father.
Domenico was more than usually nervous. In the strange rhythms of his year, he had reached almost the zenith of his excitement. His son was about to ride in the second Palio of the year, and today, the day of the horse draw, was crucially important to his success.
Domenico had never told Riccardo how much he had suffered when his son had, not one month ago, given up his chance to win the Palio, in order to try to save another man’s life. Alongside the fierce pride he felt in his son’s humanity, he had to cope, too, with his own shame that he would rather Riccardo had ridden past Vicenzo’s broken body and let him die, than have leaped from his horse to save him. It was so, important that Riccardo should win this time, more so because of the strange and wholly unwelcome visitor Domenico had received in their house two nights before.
With sudden urgency he raised his head, straining to see Riccardo beyond the knot of the ten selected horses. He’d been amazed when Riccardo’s Leocorno had been chosen by the comune – such a stubborn creature, but Riccardo said he was fast, and horse and master
had fitted together well. Leocorno had been duly collected from his stables this morning. Ideally, of course, the Torre contrada would draw the fabled Berio, that fastest of horses, but Domenico could not see last month’s winner among the group of ten eligible mounts. Suddenly Riccardo was at his side and Domenico, steeped in relief, clasped his son to his shoulder as if he would never let go.
Riccardo started in surprise at this unaccustomed affection. His father could not keep still, and the whites showed around his eyes. If Riccardo had not been so preoccupied with the events of last night, he might have wondered why his father was so pent up. But Riccardo could not bring himself to be interested in the proceedings. For one thing, he knew that the draw had, somehow, been fixed by the Nine and that Leocorno would be drawn for him and the Tower. For another, he cared only for Pia’s fate. He had said no more than a cursory farewell to Leocorno this morning, the horse flicking his ear once as he passed. He knew he did not need to take long leave of a horse that he suspected would be back in the Torre stable that very night.
Riccardo had dispatched Zebra that morning to the house of the Eagles, to try to find out what he could about Pia’s whereabouts. Zebra reported that the whole family were back in the city and had risen late. Faustino and Nello had taken breakfast in the piano nobile, but Pia was nowhere to be seen. Then Zebra, hanging around the kitchens for a biscuit, had seen the fat maid Nicoletta place a water jug and a loaf on a pewter tray, and disappear down the stairs.
Riccardo had shivered at this piece of news. He knew that Pia, as a traitor to her family and, worse, to her contrada, had been imprisoned with the full support of the law. He suspected she was being kept in the underground cellar where he had seen the dead Panther: cold, windowless and still stained with Egidio’s blood. Knowing what he did of Pia’s courage and resolve, he thought she would keep his secret at whatever cost to herself.
He glanced across to the Aquila party. Faustino, grinning, urbane and well rested, was looking confident of the day’s proceedings. The horse draw was performed by Francesco Maria Conti, a smooth fellow in a black suit of clothes, carrying a silver cane and sporting a white halfperiwig. Conti was a resident of the Giraffa contrada but considered to be neutral by reason of his being the chief of the Sienese council under Violante. Riccardo knew different. The moment Conti spoke, Riccardo recognized the voice from last night’s meeting; he was the cowled figure who had spoken about the fixed mechanism for the horse draw, and the one who knew the most about Romulus.
Brooding over this, Riccardo listened dispassionately as ten jockeys were called out, coupled with horses. He barely even listened to his own name, teamed, unsurprisingly, with Leocorno. He hardly felt the conciliatory clasp of his father’s arm or the cheers of his fellows, who knew that the handsome Lipizzaner stallion was incredibly fast. He missed the strange fact that Berio, last month’s victor and the best horse in Tuscany, was not called, was not assigned to anyone. Instead, he was busy looking at Nello, who had been drawn with Cervio, his fine black stallion. Nello, pale beneath his strange black mop of hair, had two stripes of blood on his face, long scratches where a struggling woman’s nails had laid his cheek open.
Riccardo wanted to push his way though the crowds and lay open Nello’s other cheek to match, to march him back to his house and force him to unlock his Pia from her cell. He might have thrown everything away, along with his life, had the crowd not parted at that moment, trapping him. Municipal guards, in tight formation, approached on order. Riccardo stood stock-still, waiting for hands to fall on his arms, but the guards passed him by and advanced on the ducal loge. They came to a halt before his vast nemesis, Gian Gastone.
As Riccardo craned forward to hear what would be said, the heir of Tuscany’s lower jaw fell into his many chins, leaving him gaping like a fish as he turned to his companion on the dais.
The square had gone completely quiet; not even a starling sang. The captain of the guard called: ‘Giuliano Dami, you are arrested on charges of sodomy, in accordance with the duchess’s own laws.’
In the company of the guards was a young blond man, with velvet eyes and full lips, pointing his finger to identify his seducer. It was Fabio Caprimulgo, Faustino’s nephew.
Riccardo looked at Violante, who sat with her mouth as wide open as her brother-in-law’s.
‘How dare you—’ Gian Gastone started to bluster, but Dami had been chained and dragged across the square towards the comune’s jail before he could get his words out.
Riccardo looked across at Faustino. So this was how he had chosen to deal with Gian Gastone; this was the ‘insurance’ that Pia had said Faustino had laid down against interference from the duchy’s heir. If Faustino could deal with the Medici so ruthlessly, what chance did Pia have?
Had Riccardo spared even a moment to look at his father, he might have been astonished at the expression on the old man’s face as he watched Dami being dragged across the square to jail. It was relief, naked relief.
15
The Porcupine
In 1559, Cosimo the Great, the first and finest Cosimo de’ Medici to rule Florence, turned his greedy eyes toward Siena. He besieged the helpless city for fifteen long months. The Sienese were on their knees, diseased, starving, and reduced to eating the rats that had been too slow to leave their sinking ship.
Cosimo sent an outrider to invite the Sienese to surrender. The outrider was admitted into the city at the Camollia gate, in the contrada of the Porcupine. In less than an hour the Nine sent the outrider back to Cosimo, dead, bound and flung over his horse’s back. When his companions tried to lift the corpse from the stallion, they could not take hold of the body, for the fellow was absolutely bristling with arrows. They could, however, read the piece of parchment tied to one of the shafts.
‘You sent us a white flag. We send you a porcupine.’
Thus the Nine sent their message to the Medici: that they would not accept an overlord, now or ever.
Without Dami, Gian Gastone collapsed. He roared and cried, ripped down tapestries, broke furniture and sent every servant in the palace running to the apothecary’s in the Panther contrada, at all hours of the day and night, for any and every kind of physick that would mend his broken heart.
How clever Faustino had been, thought Violante. He could not attack Gian Gastone directly but he could attack his beloved. By revealing himself at the round church, by getting in the Nine’s way, Gian Gastone had opened himself up to Faustino’s cunning vengeance and there was nothing she could do. Violante’s own guards had acted according to the laws of morality she herself had tightened – she had even personally written several decrees against sodomy. Dami had been caught in a lobster pot of Violante’s own making.
She had not imagined that she would have the city thrust back into her care so soon. Even more worryingly, Gian Gastone showed no interest in providing the assistance he had promised. He could think of nothing but Dami. He sent to the jailhouse with missives every hour. At first he sent authoritative letters, dictated to Violante’s scribe, then impassioned pleadings scrawled in his own hand and sealed with his own ring, all demanding Dami’s release. These were returned by terrified messengers who informed the duke apparent that Dami was to be indicted on the incontrovertible evidence of a reliable witness.
Violante felt a mixture of guilt and gladness as she faced her brother’s wrath. She was glad Dami had gone from her sight; she felt he was a malign presence, and her world had lightened without him. But even Violante could not have wished for what followed. The decrees she had written against sodomy made the act, if proven, punishable by death. When it became clear that Fabio Caprimulgo had been singing like a lark to the judiciary, things began to look very grim for Dami indeed. Judgment was passed in open court, presided over by none other than Francesco Maria Conti, in the presence of a weeping Gian Gastone and with a silent, white Dami staring at his impotent master with pleading purple eyes. He was to be hanged in a week.
Gian Gastone locked himself in th
e library. He stayed there, either staring from the window with eyes of glass, or poring through the city’s statutes, desperately trying to find a legal loophole. He could, he discovered, institute a change in the law – easily done for, as the Tuscan saying went, a Sienese statute may last a day – but it would not be ratified in time to save Dami, and he had no philanthropic interest in saving sodomites in the future. No one mattered but Dami.
But Violante knew that she held Dami’s life in her hands. If Gian Gastone discovered the statute she intended to employ to release Pia Tolomei, if he knew that she had the power to free Dami, he would petition, bully and plead day and night. She could not take the risk. She waited until her brother-in-law, exhausted by tears, had fallen into a snoring sleep in his chamber, then took a candle to the law library, where the city’s statutes slept in their ranks of stacked rolls until called upon. It was the work of a moment to locate the statute roll that she’d written in her own hand. Without ceremony she broke the waxen Medici seal on the document roll and slid the parchment from the slim cylinder. Placing the scratchy paper firmly in her bodice, she snuffed the candle and let herself out of the dark library unseen. As she mounted the stair to her chamber she reflected on how small a thing it was, this law, a little screw of paper that could save a woman from the gallows.
As the day of the Palio drew closer, Gian Gastone sent to the jail every day, requesting to see Dami. Although he had not discovered any statute that might permit Dami’s release, he had learned that a condemned prisoner could receive one visitor of his choice before his sentence was carried out. He sent repeatedly to the jail, to tell Dami that he could request to see his love. Once he was there, in the cell, Gian Gastone was sure he could carry Dami out of there with the force of his name and figure alone. Every day he awaited the answer from Dami, but when it came, the instruction was wholly unexpected. Dami asked not to see his lover and master, but the Duchess Violante.
The Daughter of Siena: A Novel Page 23