Cecchi said that a merchant in Firenze had told him that the scent of herbs such as fennel, mint, and basil, and spices like cardamom, cinnamon, saffron, cloves, aniseed, and nutmeg, prevented the evil odors from affecting the brain. The next day Emilia's garden was picked clean. Christ! The whole hillside behind the palace was picked clean. The spices in the kitchen were stolen. None of it helped. Potero, Federico's cup bearer, covered himself in spices and died the same day.
Spring slid into summer and the heat increased daily. Dogs and servants fought one another for shade. Federico and Bianca seldom left their chambers and I had to taste Federico's food while he watched me from the doorway. 'You are still well?' he would say to me.
'Yes, My Lord. I am well.'
He grunted, 'Me and the food taster.'
Another time when he opened the door, I could see all the way into his bedroom. Bianca was kneeling naked on the bed, her head bowed down, her culo in the air. She was wearing a mask and sobbing softly. Federico did not care if I saw or not. He just wanted to know if I had caught the plague.
One day Septivus wore a bag around his neck which contained snake venom. He had read in the Decameron that such bags had been worn to ward off the plague in earlier times so he had gone into the woods and killed a snake. He offered to sell other bags filled with snake venom. Those who were old or sick bought them, but everyone else went into the woods to hunt for snakes for themselves. Several people were bitten, including Raffaello, Federico's oldest son, and one man died in a fight with another over a snake that had no venom. Then Septivus was accused of putting ordinary ointment into the bags to make money.
Servants left the palace under cover of night for the countryside, but within days they returned, saying that wherever they had gone they had seen suffering and that it was the end of the world. I pleaded with God to forgive my sins and if He could not, not to avenge Himself by taking Miranda. I do not know why I bothered. God did not care who prayed and who did not! Most of the dead were children who had not lived long enough to harm a fly and did not know what a sin was. How can a merciful God snatch children from their mothers' arms?
One evening, Federico called some of us into the main hall. We were ragged and weary with fear, afraid of our shadows, afraid of ourselves. Federico said, 'I never won a battle by being afraid. We have cowered too long and if I am going to die it will be on my feet.'
He ordered food and drink and called whores from the city. He told the stable boys to paint their faces, Ercole to clown, and the musicians to bang drums and blow trumpets as loud as they liked. We cheered him as if he had delivered us. We ate and drank till we were sick, then ate and drank some more. Septivus leaped onto the table and recited obscene verses of Aretino. Federico told crude jokes and Bianca did a wild dance she had learned from a Turk. The Carnevale masks were brought out. I wore a bull's head. When Bernardo crept away with a whore, we threw open the door and cheered them on.
As the night came upon us, we pushed the food onto the floor and screwed on the tables. Soon we were all so drunk that men copulated with men, women with women, all of us grunting like wild beasts. Two boys were on their knees in front of Federico. I was crazed with drink and desire. I grabbed a woman with large breasts and a hawk's mask and pulled her into an empty room.
'Ugo,' Bianca laughed.
Even though Federico was in the next room, I did not care. Bianca threw herself across the bed on her back and spread her legs. 'Taste me,' she yelled, and when I hesitated, she laughed, 'I am not poisonous.'
I was right, she had tried to kill Federico. But I liked her spirit. 'I always wanted to screw you,' she said.
She had big lips the color of ripe cherries. She kissed my face, pulled my shirt off, and licked my body. I ripped open her bodice, and buried my face in her big breasts. One hour passed into another, one day into the next. Corpses rotted in the hallways while our lovemaking grew fiercer and fiercer as if it would help us outlast Death. The whores brought wooden falli and showed us how nuns entertained themselves. I wanted to sodomize Bianca, but she pleaded, 'No, Federico makes me do it. I do not like it.'
There were cries from the main hall. I ran in as the painted boys stumbled out weeping. The tables had been overturned and dogs were gobbling up the food. A boy lay bleeding on the ground, a sword stuck in his belly. Federico sat on the floor covered in sweat. His clothes were torn and in disarray, revealing his huge white belly. 'Piss,' he said, through parched, cracked lips. 'We must drink piss. That will save us.'
The few of us who were there looked at one another and laughed. Federico crawled across the table, overturned a bowl of food, took out his great fat snake, and pissed a dark yellow stream into it. He turned to me. 'Taste it.'
'But you just pissed it,' I laughed. 'How can anything be wrong?'
'You are my taster. Taste it.'
'Duke Federico, why do you not taste Bianca's piss and then she can taste yours?'
Federico pulled the sword out of the dead boy. It dripped with blood and guts. 'Are you forgetting who I am?' he said.
I had forgotten. In the madness which had seized us I no longer thought of him as our prince, but as just another man driven mad with fear. I picked up the bowl and looked at the dark yellow liquid. The odor was sharp and stung my nostrils. I said to myself — I need only drink a little and since I have trained myself not to taste anything, what harm can there be? I raised the bowl to my mouth, but my lips would not open.
What lies we tell ourselves! For over two years I had believed that although I could tell the ingredients of a meal, the taste meant nothing to me. But if that was true then why could I not drink this? Federico's sword pushed against my ribs. Big, fat bitter drops of Federico's urine sat on my lips. I wanted to swallow them quickly, but once inside my mouth they ran everywhere like a naughty child, between my teeth, up the sides of my mouth, under my gums, over my tongue. I was going to be sick, but then the point of Federico's sword broke my skin and blood trickled down my stomach. My throat had closed up. I could feel the piss burning on the back of my tongue, waiting to plunge into my stomach.
'Look at his face,' Federico laughed. 'Swallow it!'
The bastard! He knew his piss was not poisoned. I thought — if I am to die, then I will spit it in his face. I gathered the liquid in my mouth, when a scream froze me. A door swung open so hard it smashed against the wall and bounced back again. Bianca stood in the doorway. She was not wearing her mask. She was not wearing anything.
I thought she was going to tell Federico we had made love. I wanted to run, but something about her stopped me. It was not her full, heavy breasts with their huge pink nipples which I could still feel in my mouth. Nor was it her soft round belly, or her fleshy thighs, or dainty feet. Nor was it her eyes which were wide with fear, nor her mouth forever shaped by the agonizing scream which had been torn from it. Nor her hair which fell around her head like the pictures I had seen of Medusa.
It was the mole on her forehead. It looked like a large round plum, and far from being ugly, it was so big and beautiful, like everything else about her, that it was a shame she had hidden it for so long.
'Look!' she screamed. Her right hand was pointing to her groin and there, protruding from her blonde hair, was a huge black boil. She lifted one arm and then the other and in her armpits were two more boils as large as eggs. I swear had I not seen this I would not be writing it down, but as we looked more boils appeared on her body in front of our very eyes! First on her stomach. Now on her thighs, her ankle, her belly. An evil spirit had laid its eggs inside of her and its young were hatching all at once. More boils appeared. We backed away in horror. She opened her mouth and shouted in a strangled voice, as if something in her throat was growing there, 'Help me!'
Federico stepped toward her — I thought to take her in his arms and comfort her. Instead, he stabbed her through the heart with his sword, the thrust pushing her back into the room and onto the floor. Then he closed the door, leaned on it and wept.
&
nbsp; We tiptoed out of the hall and fled as far away as we could. I never saw Bianca again. Nor did I want to. I was terrified that because I had lain with her, I, too, had caught the plague. It was not till much, much later that I realized I had swallowed Federico's piss.
CHAPTER 19
The deaths in the city slowed and when I had not fallen ill after two months I stopped worrying that I would die. The plague had spent itself. Federico, Piero, Bernardo and his infernal fennel seeds, Cecchi, and Federico's son, Raffaello, were also spared although Raffaello was affected in the head and had to be looked after day and night from then on. Nearly a quarter of all those living in Corsoli died and many more in the palace. I feared I would never see Miranda again and I was planning to ride to my father's house when Tommaso entered the courtyard leading a lame horse on which Miranda was sitting.
I ran to her, but Tommaso, who had an angry wound across his right cheek, would not let me near until he had gently lifted her down. I covered her face with kisses and told her how much I missed her. Then I embraced Tommaso like a long-lost son and thanked him for returning Miranda safely to me. He listened, never taking his eyes from Miranda and, from his tender expression, I guessed that much had happened between them. I led Miranda to our room where I arranged water for her to bathe and oils and scents with which to freshen herself.
'Do you have a screen?' she asked.
'A screen? Why?' We did not have one and had never needed one even when she had her monthly courses. Bernardo saw his daughter naked and she was seventeen.
'I want a screen,' she repeated.
I borrowed one from Cecchi, and while Miranda bathed I sat on the other side and told her of the sorrows that had overtaken the palace in her absence. She listened quietly, only interrupting once to ask about her friends. I told her that several of them had died, Bianca, too, although I did not say how. Miranda sobbed softly. I wanted to comfort her, but because of the screen I stayed where I was. The anguish of her weeping made me weep, too. Death had become so common I was sure my tears had dried up, but now we sat on either side of the screen mourning for all we had seen and for those we had lost.
Eventually, Miranda emerged, her dark brown hair resting gently on her shoulders. Her eyes seemed older, her lips fuller, her body more formed. In short, if she was not yet a woman, she was no longer a girl. I asked her if she had seen my father. She shook her head, showering droplets of water onto her shoulders like golden sunbeams. 'He left with his neighbors.' She screwed her face up with disgust. 'We could not stay in his house. It was disgusting.'
'Did you stay with the abbot Tottorini?'
She snorted, the same way Tommaso did. 'With that fat pig? If all priests are like him, then God is in trouble!'
'God is good despite man.'
She stared at herself in her little mirror, examining her hair, her eyes, her mouth, first from one side and then the other. 'All we wanted was some bread and cheese, but when we said we were from Corsoli he shut the door in our faces.'
'The bastard!' I cried.
Miranda began to brush her hair. 'So we kept on riding.'
'To Gubbio?'
She shrugged. 'I suppose. We just rode.' She looked down at her feet. There was a scar across the top of her left foot. 'A piece of burning wood fell on it,' she said. 'The plague was everywhere. Men and women were lying in the fields, on the paths, in their houses. I saw a man and woman who had hanged themselves and their baby next to them. The birds had plucked their eyes out.' She stopped brushing her hair as if the memory had suddenly appeared in front of her. 'I did not know so many people could be dead at the same time.' Her lips trembled and her body began to shake.
'What is it?'
'And then . . . then ...'
I knelt beside her, grasping her hands.
'Two men . . .' she dissolved in tears. I stroked her hair and held her close. At last she sobbed, 'Two men . . . raped me.'
My heart tore in two. 'Oh, my Miranda. My angel. My angel.' I rocked her backward and forward. 'Where was Tommaso?'
'They nearly killed him! If it were not for him I would be dead!' Again tears overcame her.
I did not question her any further. My ears, which hungered for the details, were at the same time reluctant to hear them. At last, Miranda continued. 'Tommaso told them he was escorting me to die in my father's house.'
'Where was this? In the valley?' She furrowed her brow.
'At the bottom of the valley or on the way to Gubbio?' She screwed her face up impatiently, 'On the path going away from the house. What does it matter?'
I promised I would not interrupt her again.
'Tommaso said I had the plague and that he was escorting me to die in my father's house,' she repeated. 'They did not believe him. They wanted to see my boils. I told them that even in the time of a plague a lady must be respected. They said the plague did not care who was a lady and who was not and neither did they and if I did not show them the boils they would look for themselves.'
'One attacked Tommaso, and the other—' She broke down, pressing her face into my chest. 'Tommaso killed the first one and drove off my attacker, but not before . . .' The rest was lost in weeping.
I did not say anything. What was there to say? I had sent her away. 'Mi displace, mi displace, I whispered.
I was blind with rage. I wanted to hunt down the criminals, scoop out their eyes, cut off their falli, and burn them at the stake. I dreaded what else I might hear, but I needed to put my mind at ease. 'Are you . . . with child?'
'I do not know,' she whispered.
'My angel, my Miranda. I will take care of you.' I waited a moment longer and then I said, 'What happened after that?'
'We found a hut. Just like the one we used to live in. Remember?' Her face brightened briefly. 'Tommaso could not do anything because of his wounds. I was afraid he might die so I bathed them in urine.'
I tried not to imagine what this had looked like. 'What did you eat?'
'There was plenty of fruit — apples, peaches, and pomegranates — because no one had picked them. I swear I never want to see another pomegranate as long as I live,' she laughed. 'I made polenta and Tommaso killed a pig.'
'He was better already?'
'No, when he got better. He is such a good cook. One day he will be the chief chef. He is better than Luigi is even now, I swear it!'
She told me how they had eaten the pig for three days, how Tommaso had cut slices of ham and salted them and had even made a sausage. 'He has wonderful hands. Have you ever looked at them? They look so small and stubby and he is so tall and thin. But they are strong. He can crush a nut between his fingers!'
'Really!'
'Yes, it is true.' Tommaso had also killed a chicken and a squirrel, built a fire, plucked a goose, and repaired part of the hut. It was a wonder he had not made the rains come.
Miranda held out her own hands and studied her long, thin fingers. 'My hands are too long.'
'You have the hands of an artist.'
'But Tommaso's are tender.' She rose and went behind the screen to dress.
I could not help myself. I said, 'Where did you sleep?'
'In the hut.'
'Did you sleep . . . ?' I could not finish.
'Of course not, babbo! Tommaso said he could not betray your trust.' She came out from behind the screen and placed her hand over her heart. 'I swear by all that is holy.' In that moment I knew as sure as sparks fly upward she was lying.
I stood up. 'Where are you going?' she asked, alarm flickering in her eyes.
I did not answer.
She grabbed my arm. 'You do not believe me?'
'I believe you.'
'Babbo, if you hurt Tommaso, I will kill myself.'
'Why would I hurt him?'
Her eyes filled with tears. 'I love him, babbo. I love him.'
'I know. Now eat and sleep. And Miranda, do not tell anyone of this rape.'
Tommaso was lying on his pallet. The wound on his right cheek made him appear o
lder and, together with his hair, which had grown longer and curlier, he looked like the disciple Peter in a painting in the Duomo Santa Caterina.
'I want to thank you for saving Miranda's life.'
'You asked me to take care of her and I did as you asked. It was nothing, niente.'
'Niente?" I smiled. 'The Tommaso I used to know would have bragged about it from the rooftops.' I did not add 'because you have never won a fight in your life.' 'What started it?'
He shrugged. 'We met these men on the path. I told them to let us pass because Miranda had the plague but they wanted to see her boils. I said, no. I said ... a lady ... a lady . . .'
'Must be respected.'
'Yes, yes. Exactly so. But they said if she did not show them the boils, they would force her! So I attacked them.'
'That was very brave.'
'But as I was fighting one, the other one ravished Miranda.' He carried on as if he was afraid he would forget what he was supposed to say. 'I killed the first one and drove the other one off.'
'Miranda said you killed the second one.'
'No. Maybe ... no ... I do not remember.' He frowned, turning away. He was such a bad liar. 'They cut me,' he said. 'I am lucky to be alive.'
'I see.' I had been looking at the wound on his cheek which was not as deep as it first appeared. Indeed, it seemed as if someone had inflicted it carefully so as not to cause too much pain. 'Then you found a hut.'
'If Miranda told you, why are you asking me?'
'She said that you cooked wonderful meals.'
He tossed his hair out of his face and puffed his cheeks out. He was so easy to flatter. 'I caught a pig if that is what you mean. I cooked it with some herbs and mushrooms. At night we prayed to God. And we prayed for you, too,' he said earnestly.
'Me? Why?'
'Because Miranda missed you. We knew people in Corsoli were dying and that you had to look after Federico. She was worried about you.'
'What else did you do?'
'We sang songs. We danced . . .' He stopped, the memory overtaking him. 'It was . . . crazy.'
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