“God takes away the sin of the world,” Lazarro called to her. “Confess and be free, daughter. You owe that to us all.”
Gio stopped. “Do not speak to me of debts! You who live in a fine church, who eats every meal knowing the next is not far behind, who have no fear of men in the night! You are a pig in priest’s robes! You live well because of my sin!”
Lazarro came down the steps and slapped her. The crowd approved with murmurs and claps. His words were too low for anyone else to hear, especially Dario.
“I paid your debt to Dario with my life. I will never earn my freedom. I will never marry, never kiss a wife, never have children. Yes, I have my meals in peace and I sleep in a quiet room. But I was kept alive against my will, forced into a life I did not want to live. When I learned who you were, how you slept with many men, I died inside. I wanted to marry you, Gio. I fell for your deceits, and I will spend the rest of my life paying for it. Are you happy, Gio? No higher price can a man pay for his bride. Did I do well?”
“It was not as it seemed,” Gio said, her voice falling. She just wanted to go home, to fall into her bed and weep, alone. The wine wasn’t making her brave anymore.
“No, it was not,” he agreed.
He repented later for slapping her, when it did no good. She was sober and had no courage to confess her own mistakes.
Gio held the brush in her hands. Tears mixed with the pigments as she made another stroke. Words had failed her too often to be trusted. They were slippery, like wet shards of glass that cut as you handled them, everyone seeing something different in them from their angle. Only this parchment could be trusted, where she affixed the colours and they stayed, a flat, honest surface that gave all the same picture.
She would say it all in this work and give it to him. She forgave him with every colour she had, and the truth began to emerge.
Chapter Nine
Panthea sat, numb, looking at the two bodies lying in blood beneath her in the garden.
Armando had forsaken her. This is what she always claimed she wanted. But it did not bring her pleasure. It brought grief, an awakening of a voice she should have recognized but didn’t. She wondered if it was her heart, dead for many years, returning to scream in her ear.
The bodies before her were a vulgarity, a perversion lying among the flowers as the birds sang.
Why did the birds sing? Panthea wondered. Their song terrified her. How could nature be so ruthless? Birds should not sing when there is death.
But then, she thought how she herself had continued after her mother’s death, and her father had as well. Everyone thought it was near miraculous. They were like birds too, rising each morning and doing the work set before them.
Panthea’s heart had not been in it, though. Her father’s heart had not been in it either. Their hearts were left at the bedside, bundled into the bedding her mother rested upon, lowered into the ground as Lazarro blessed the Lord for His mercies. Her father wept then. Death humbled him.
Her father became tender, softened. He lost his will to live as the man he was before. He struggled to make amends. Panthea panicked, seeing her father change, his will become unsteady, just as she needed him. She became what he could not.
Panthea hated him some nights for adding this burden to her—why did he not fight death? How could he accept it, let it break him so that he became a weaker man? She wanted to strike life across the cheek, to humiliate it, to ruin every good thing it offered. She could not bear to hear the birds sing.
She forced herself to climb over the stone wall of the low balcony and walk to the troubadour’s body. Closing his eyes, she thought she should cry, but she could not. The troubadour’s wide hands were cupped, blood drying on them, the blood on his clothes turning to a rust brown. Death was changing him, too.
She should repent for her words, for her flirtations. It would do no one any good except God. Could her sorrow save anyone now? Sorrow was the most useless of all emotions, she remembered. You could cry a thousand tears and let sorrow destroy you day after day, but God would not come to your rescue—this she remembered from her mother’s death.
But anger—that changed the world. This surely had caught God’s eye. Two of His children lay dead because of it, because of the sorrow God had not healed in her. God was the bird in the forest who sang when good people died.
“I should say I am sorry for their deaths,” she said to the night air. “But I do not know how to ask for mercy, and I would not know how to bear it now. Too much time has passed since I was willing to receive the Lord’s comforts. To turn back now would cost everything I am. I do not know how to save myself, or receive mercy, or even bear the tenderness of a good man. I cannot save myself from the woman You have turned me into.”
She spat on the ground and did not say amen.
Panthea forced herself to look down again, to look for purses or gold jewelry. There was no sense in the servants stealing them. The poor ruined themselves by losing money and bearing children. Besides, the troubadour wore a beautiful cross of gold, which she bent to steal, though it was stained in blood. A glance at Damiano’s face showed it twisted in his death. He did not look changed. She bent farther in to the troubadour, turning so she would not have to look at Damiano.
A cold hand shot out and took her by the ankle, knocking her off balance to her knees. Her stomach clenched down hard as though it had been struck by an anvil.
Damiano’s eyes were open.
She tried to jerk her leg free as he began dragging her to him, his grip crushing her ankle. His hands were so cold and prickly. His eyes had a strange green light as his tongue flicked around the edges of his lips.
She tried to kick with her other leg, but he caught that one too and dragged her on her back until she was under him.
“Tomorrow my work begins, for I have come here in service to another. But I have found you, Panthea, and I will not let you go again.”
He bent for a bloody kiss.
Painting was the art of infinite corrections. One impulsive stroke would give her hours of work. She had practiced, over and over, to make something beautiful from her mistakes. Painting was freedom for her heart, the chance to say anything and know that whatever came out could be built upon into beauty. Here, her heart made no permanent mistakes.
Next came the green earth of Verona, and the yellow of Italy’s soil. Cumin gave a brighter yellow, but it always made its way to workmen’s pies and not the church walls, so it had fallen out of favour with her. There were other pigments she could use: lapis lazuli, which took hours to grind and wearied her wrist, crushing the precious stones into fine dust.
The pigments would be mixed with fat and sit before her, a language of indescribable words. She would find an order for them, and they would say what she could not.
It took so long to mix each colour, time to think, to consider each stroke that would be made. The paper from Amalfi absorbed the fat quickly, leaving the pigment dry to the touch. If not mixed in perfect proportion, however, the pigment would ball up on top of the paper and flake off. The pigments were the temperamental ones, not the artists.
She made the finest pigments for the churches because she alone was a painter among all the herbal women. She alone could offer a sojourner the prize his priest sought, and remedies for his loved ones as well. How they must have fought for a chance to visit her. It was no trouble: She gathered the stones and the herbs on the same walks and traded for them both at the harbour.
She had transformed the ruins of her life into something desired by the holy men who had once scorned her. She had not meant to stay entwined in Lazarro’s world. Now every holy man asked directions to her hut from him; every month he had to sit and listen to a strange man praise her work and insult her name. After all, she was a wretch now, an outcast who did not receive Communion. She once hoped this tort
ured him.
She never revealed the truth to him of her false pregnancy. When no baby came, the village gossiped that justice came in many ways to a sinner. She buried her shame and pride deep in her heart, layering them over and over with lies, until it became a brittle, calcified rock that no one could break open. It had been hard to climb her mountain with these deep burdens.
But here, tonight, she broke open her heart. The paper was silent and did not rebuke her. Violent pigments swirled and cut through each other. Too much was used for each. A little would have made the impression, but her soul was pouring out and wanted more. More words, more piercing truth. So much truth was needed to cut through the past.
After midnight it was almost finished. What artist can ever say the work is truly finished, she laughed to herself. An artist can only say the work has seen the end of one’s talents and burned out from confusion. They were both meant to be so much more.
She sat on her haunches and looked at it, sweat dripping from her eyebrows onto her nose and exhaustion overtaking her. She would bring it to Lazarro tomorrow, leave it at his church. It was her best work, her masterpiece. He would see the language and begin to find her story, the buried story. He might forgive.
She had never painted like this. She had never been able to make something so beautiful from her life. The painting was all her lost words, tears that had not fallen, kisses never shared. The painting said she was broken with grief, and it gave her heart back to him, the only way he could hold it now.
Perhaps now she would travel with his blessing and see the painted churches she had supplied with pigment. Perhaps now she would share her secrets with the other herbalists, and churches would have colours that the world had never seen. Confession could give her the world back again, not just her heart.
Confession for sins could be heard only by a priest if there was to be forgiveness. Gio’s stomach burned at the thought. She had not eaten for hours, true, but it was the thought, the courage she would need to face Lazarro to do this—that was what ate at her. Food could wait. Fear was a stronger appetite. She had to find the strength to show Lazarro her sins, and he had to forgive her in the name of God. Was it unfair to ask him to forgive as a man and as a priest? Would he do it? Would he even hear her confession? Now the painting seemed too bold. She wished she had not used so many colours, such thick, harsh, black scrapings. Alone, she was brave in telling the story. She might have even embellished it.
Gio felt sick. She did not trust her work, did not trust Lazarro to understand and accept her, did not trust God to mediate between them. Why had she painted at all? Now this wretched canvas would sit here, accusing her every moment of both past sins and this cowardice.
A wind moved the door, just enough for Gio to see that there was no light outside, no light except the stars. Some ancients taught that angels were stars, burning guardians holding back the darkness, lighting cold nights for the sons of man. She tried to take comfort in them, tried to believe angels were there. She could take the painting, right now. She could force herself to move, to push through her weakening resolve, force herself to walk to the church and be free. She could do it tonight. She could do it right now. All these years, all her lies, they would be over.
Fear would not leave her. It circled around and around, constricting thoughts and breath until Gio was unable to defend herself.
“Please help me,” she said, reaching a hand for the door. “I must do this tonight.”
Every movement she made only gave fear new access to her flesh, new places to sting in her belly. Gio withdrew her hand.
“I cannot,” she cried. No one heard her. The piercings did not stop.
The door did not move. Gio crouched in the fetal position, helpless. A night wind parted the trees beyond her door. She heard the branches sway and the birds sing out. Gio had not heard birds sing in the still of night like this. They sang with full cries, the way they sang on spring mornings. Something was stirring, but they were not afraid.
She sensed something moving into the room. The broken places in her heart began to heal, the sealed words unfurling, melting away in its warmth. Exhausted from the attack, Gio could not move. She lay there like a child.
Arms wrapped around her, lifting her, cradling her tired body. Her fingers felt new life waking them, new colours she would dream, new works she would paint. She dreamed of a strange, gentle giant in the room with her, with eyes of fire and wide sweeping wings that could touch the walls if he stretched them.
He was like the creature the children of the village described when they had fallen too close to the water’s edge or came upon an angry animal. They told of being saved by a fierce man with great wings and burning eyes. But these same creatures had been painted by the Greeks and Romans, whose ruins were still here. Everyone thought the children had created the legend from the paintings. Now she wondered why she had not believed the old painters. Lies destroyed art; they did not feed it. The painters who drew these magnificent beasts were telling her what was true. These creatures existed.
She felt a kiss upon her forehead as he lowered her to her mat and sat at the mat’s edge throughout the night, his back to her, his attention focused on the door.
She stretched her legs in her sleep, pointing her toes just to feel how loose and gentle her body was now. Tomorrow she would bring her painting to Lazarro. There were still miracles in this world, and there were still fresh dawns. There was so much time, she told herself.
So much time.
Damiano pinned Panthea’s wrists above her head. She jerked her head to the side, smelling death as he lowered himself to her.
The iron serpent, his staff, was alive and crawling up the wall of the castle, its eyes reflecting the moonlight in a wave of greens and blacks, a wave that made her feel the ocean beneath her, and the fear of losing control, the seasickness rising in her stomach. The serpent was heading toward her father’s chambers. She could see the candles flickering from the window; her father was still consulting his attorneys and advisers, finalizing the transfer of estate. He would be at peace tonight at last—this place and its memories resting on the shoulders of Armando. He would be free to love the memory of his wife without the burden of carrying on with their former life.
The serpent’s head swung in her direction, its mouth opening, red foam dripping down. It hissed, spraying red in the air.
Damiano took her gently by the chin and returned her attention to his face. “You were so beautiful to behold when He first dreamed of you.”
“Get away from me!” She tried to kick, but he dug his knees into her thighs, making her gasp. The struggle was bringing her closer to the troubadour’s lifeless body, his blood making it too slick for her to move with force.
Spying the cross still on the minstrel’s neck, she tried to move a hand to it. Damiano allowed her just enough give to rest her fingertips on its edge, then he snapped her hand away.
“Will God save you now? Look what you have become. This is not how He envisioned you. He is ashamed of you! He will have no part in your rescue. Come with me, Panthea. There is no hope for you here.”
“I will not! I have my father, and I am pledged to Armando. You cannot undo that!”
“I cannot undo that,” he replied. “You speak truth, daughter of shame. I cannot undo what has been done. But death has come at last to your world. It is not the good death of the saints, or the blessed last sleep of old age. This is a death of agony, and blood, and madness. Your world of angels and good deaths will end. Your world will never believe in goodness again. Lies will become as truths, and few will know it. Come with me and live.”
“If you can save, save my father. Save Armando. Then I will be yours. I will go with you.”
“You mistake me. I do not control death, Panthea. I am in service to another.”
“Your prince? Take me to him then.”
“No, sadly, though he is great, he too is in bondage to another lord, and his powers retrained too often. We may do our work here, but we cannot control it. We cannot control who dies. This is very much like your life, isn’t it? Though you are rich and have much power, nothing you have done has ended as you planned. There is no power on earth that can give us control. It is a beautiful lie.”
“So you cannot save me? This is a lie?” Panthea asked.
“I can take you from here before it begins.”
He looked up at the snake, watching it test the glass window for a weakness, forcing its head into the wood edges made soft from rain.
She thought of her mother. The agony her mother felt was not the physical death but the separation from her family. That is what broke them all inside and kept shattering any foundation she or her father tried to build after her death. Separation was an unnatural grief. The serpent moved between her and her father.
No, Panthea decided. For her father, she would stay.
“I will not go with you,” she said.
He slapped her, sticky cold blood on his palm smearing across her cheek. It made the sting less sharp. It sounded like a wet thud, not a sharp clap.
“What are you staying for, unloved child? A father who does not see you? Or a knight who has fully seen what you are and fled?”
His words stung, making her shoulders hunch down, shielding her heart.
“Do I lie?” he whispered. “You know this is true.”
“I can turn from my past,” Panthea said. She did not believe it, but she had heard Lazarro say it. “I can redeem myself in their eyes.”
“You cannot!” he shouted. “Do you know how much evil you have done? How daily you have crushed hearts under your heel? What is broken would take a thousand years to sweep together and mend. You ruined them. And then you made it known to all at the feast that you wanted more, more than Armando. You wanted me. Let them have one last moment of peace without you harping in their ear, selfish little beast that you are.”
In the Arms of Immortals Page 10