Quietus

by Tristan Palmgren

  Joanna said, “I’ve heard tales of you. The prophetess of Avignon.”

  “Merely performing as I have been called to,” Meloku said, head inclined.

  “Tell me – have you dreamed any dreams about me?”

  “I know only that you are innocent. Naples will soon be yours again.”

  Joanna’s smile became warmer. Meloku could smell the guilt on her. No matter. So long as Meloku told her what she wanted to hear, she would still be willing to believe that it was a divine message. People believed what they wanted to.

  Most of the time, all her job entailed was telling them what they wanted.

  Joanna turned, her cloak sweeping the dusty floor. Meloku cleared her throat. “My apologies, your majesty, but there are more challenges in your future. I’ve seen them in dreams, as well.”

  Joanna turned back to her, eyebrow raised. Meloku said, “After this ordeal is over, you will be visited by messengers. God intends Naples to serve as a foundation stone for Italy. They’ll touch your dreams as they have mine.”

  Joanna blinked. She didn’t believe much of that pronouncement, but she wasn’t prepared to ignore a woman of Meloku’s reputation. “We should talk about this later this week, you and I.”

  Meloku nodded, and held her silence. Joanna continued, her step a little less certain. At least she no longer looked cold.

  Compared to France, the Holy Roman Empire, England, Spain, even many Italian cities, the pope’s temporal power was null or insignificant. But no one in the world held spiritual authority comparable to his. All of western Europe’s power brokers either traveled here, or were in thrall to someone who traveled here.

  The best place to influence all of them, therefore, was here. Joanna was to be the first. A tiny thrill traveled up Meloku’s back. She was the only person on this world who knew what was about to happen to it.

  One of the amalgamates was coming to this plane. She was going to meet it.

  Together, they were going to reshape this world. And scavenge what remained of the Unity.

  17

  Niccoluccio was struck by a moment of panic when he woke and his cell walls were nowhere near. He rolled, stifled by a too-hot weight. Only when he’d fallen off his feather bed did he remember.

  He pushed himself back under his blankets, sweating. He glared at the ceiling. His new bedroom was nearly as large as Sacro Cuore’s refectory. He had no idea what to do with all the space. He had a while to wait until dawn.

  His brother had procured him a second habit. The maid had cleaned one of them again last night. The people of this city were far too vain about laundering. Grudgingly, he dressed himself under the covers to spare anyone who might enter from the immodesty.

  He felt drawn to the window. He cast open the shutters and leaned out. He needed to be sure he hadn’t dreamed Habidah, or Florence. The biting wind dispelled the latter idea.

  Niccoluccio’s bedroom window stood on the second floor. He didn’t have to crane his neck far to see the other wings of the home. It seemed all the buildings of Sacro Cuore could have fit between them. Dioneo had even spoken of a summer villa, a purchase their father had made the summer before.

  Niccoluccio hadn’t been the eldest of his father’s sons, but he was the eldest of the two survivors. All of their father’s property had gone to Dioneo. Niccoluccio had forsworn property when he’d gone to live in Sacro Cuore. Even outside the monastery, he didn’t particularly want property now. It felt pointless being jealous when he’d already met a woman far wealthier than any Florentine.

  The more he reflected on the miracle of his rescue, the more he felt the spark of the divine. But it was like no divinity he had imagined before. He wondered how something could be divine without being godly.

  Dioneo escorted Niccoluccio into the city. Niccoluccio silently watched the buildings, each with a more elaborate facade than the last. They didn’t contain a hundredth of the wonder of that single room in Habidah’s home.

  Dioneo chattered. “The old bishop chose to stay in Florence during the pestilence. Everyone thought he could never survive the pestilence. His arms were thin as bones. But, no, he’s still with us.”

  Niccoluccio listened politely, not sure why Dioneo was talking about this. Dioneo’s digressions usually had a point. Niccoluccio said, “I know how he must feel, to survive when by all rights he shouldn’t.”

  Dioneo smiled broadly. “That’s what today’s meeting will be about. I applaud you choosing to wear your habit again.”

  Niccoluccio blinked. “You did get me the second one.”

  “Well – isn’t it who you are? How you want other people to see you?”

  “No. To both questions.”

  Dioneo left that alone. When they neared the cathedral, he said, “Ambrogiuolo will want very much to hear the whole story of your return. Leave out no detail.”

  For as often as Habidah had been on his mind, he hadn’t breathed her name since she’d left. Ambrogiuolo – or Dioneo – would hardly believe anything he had to say about her. He was still trying to figure out how to say that he could never explain the most important part of his rescue as the shadow of the cathedral fell over him.

  For as much as the secular architecture of Florence failed to rouse him, the sight of the Cathedral of Santa Reparata sent tremors down his chest. Its white facade was so tall that, from this angle, it hid its dome. An enormous arch outlined the doors, carving deep shadows across the sunlit stone. The doors were held apart as if waiting for him.

  Even this early, the nave was bustling with shadows and voices. Candles cast wan light over the cathedral’s six principal altars. The most popular altar – that of St Zenobius, the first bishop of Florence – drew traffic toward the crypt. Sunlight shone through the stained glass at odd angles and strange colors. The vaulted ceiling looked somehow farther than the sky.

  Niccoluccio let out a long breath. Earlier, he’d wondered if he could ever find peace again. If he could, it would be here.

  The two of them slipped down a passage toward the adjoining baptistery, and from there to the dim back chambers. Niccoluccio had had no idea what Ambrogiuolo’s role was until he saw his office. It was buffered from the public by a pair of secretaries. Niccoluccio swallowed. Ambrogiuolo had to be the head of the cathedral chapter.

  Ambrogiuolo was as undersized as his office was oversized. He was sharp-chinned and nearly bald. He sprang from his seat and embraced Dioneo, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with Niccoluccio. He settled for peering at him intently. Niccoluccio stood with folded hands.

  Ambrogiuolo wasted little time. “So,” he said, sitting down, “tell me about your escape from the pestilence.”

  Niccoluccio started with the truth, and told them how the pestilence had crashed through Sacro Cuore in two waves, taking every life but his. Ambrogiuolo and Dioneo visibly hungered for details. Niccoluccio didn’t dwell on them. The brothers he’d left buried there deserved more than to be sensationalized, details in someone else’s story. He said his brothers’ names, but not how they died.

  The trouble came when he reached his flight from the monastery. When Niccoluccio hesitated, Ambrogiuolo said, “It must have taken a miracle to see you back safely to us, especially from so far away.”

  Niccoluccio cleared his throat. At length, he decided he would tell the truth but elide her name and the mechanism of his deliverance. “I can’t explain what brought me here. I found my body had been repaired and my needs sated. I do not remember leaving the forest, and yet here I am.”

  “Incomparable,” Ambrogiuolo muttered, and then: “Did it happen in a moment, or over days?”

  “I cannot tell you. I did not know where the time had gone, but afterward I found myself in the world of the living again, in a tiny village.” Her home. “From there, I made my way to Florence.”

  “What was the village’s name?” Ambrogiuolo asked.

  “I did not have the presence of mind to ask,” Niccoluccio said, truthfully.

&nb
sp; Dioneo asked, “Were there any visitations?”

  “I remember seeing people,” Niccoluccio admitted.

  Ambrogiuolo asked, “Saints? The Holy Mother?”

  “Only people,” Niccoluccio said. “Mortals.”

  His answer didn’t seem to disappoint Ambrogiuolo. He leaned back as if at the end of a great meal. “The world must know of your story, Brother Niccoluccio.”

  “I do not believe it does. And I’m not a brother anymore.”

  “Oh? Have you informed the proper ecclesiastical officials of your decision?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “You’re a brother in my eyes and the church’s, Niccoluccio Caracciola. I hope that you stay. I’m certain I can find a place for you.”

  Niccoluccio opened his mouth to protest, and then stopped. “A place?”

  “The San Lorenzo parish is looking for several high officials.”

  The San Lorenzo parish was the wealthiest – and therefore most important – parish in Florence. Clergymen fought for the privilege of serving there. Niccoluccio quickly shook his head. “I have done nothing to deserve such an honor. Nor am I capable of upholding it.”

  “The pestilence has moved us all in directions we could not otherwise have taken,” Ambrogiuolo said. “Your brother is serving as prior. He may, if God wills, keep that position. Before the pestilence, did you ever think that could have happened?”

  “No,” Niccoluccio admitted.

  “This is a matter of necessity. There’s been a great deal of turmoil in relations between the church and the city. The San Lorenzo parish lost its treasurer, among a good many others. It needs someone the church and the people can trust. A monk, particularly a monk graced by miracle, would be a popular choice.”

  “You’ll have to look somewhere else for a monk.”

  “If you are not a monk, then what do you intend to do to better your family’s fortunes?”

  Niccoluccio glanced at his brother, and then back at Ambrogiuolo. “Pardon?”

  “You’re your father’s eldest son. Not working to improve the family fortunes or to continue the line could be excused while you were in the church. If you carry on telling people that you’re no longer a monk, they’ll expect you to contribute.”

  “I do not care for other people’s expectations for my life.”

  “Then what of your own?” Again, Niccoluccio had no answer. Ambrogiuolo pressed, “What do you intend to do if not stay here with us?”

  “I don’t intend to leave Florence, if that is what you mean.”

  “Yes, but then what? Your brother can provide for you, of course. How content would you be with nothing but that for the rest of your life?”

  “I had not thought so far ahead.”

  “You keep saying that you are no longer a monk. Does that mean you are no longer clergy? That you can’t contribute to the church?”

  Niccoluccio hesitated. He wanted to exit this conversation as fast as possible, but Ambrogiuolo was speaking the truth. Sacro Cuore had taught him to resist fleeing truth.

  “I will consider that,” he said, though he knew the two other men would interpret that as acquiescence.

  Certainly his brother was already speaking as if he’d accepted as they exited the cathedral. “I have not felt so optimistic about this city for years. Your return was a gift I didn’t dare so much as pray for.”

  Niccoluccio tugged at his coat sleeves, willing them to be warmer. “I wasn’t aware you’d felt so poorly of Florence.”

  “You’ve been fortunate, staying away when you did. It’s been years of hard winter, and food shortages. The municipal bread ration is lower than ever. Last year there were grain riots at the Orsanmichele market. I think the only reason we haven’t seen the same this year is that the pestilence has taken so many people that food prices stayed low. Fewer mouths.”

  There was nothing to say but, “I am very sorry.”

  “On top of that, there’s been the trouble with the church.”

  “Surely the church has only helped in these trying times.”

  “Religious men help, yes. The church has been a hindrance.”

  A body lay at the edge of the alley ahead: a man about thirty years old, with mud over his open eyes. Judging from the snow sprinkled over him, he had been there for days. No one had so much as covered up his face.

  Niccoluccio stopped. His brother took him by the crook of his elbow, and dragged him on. “That man needs help,” Niccoluccio protested.

  “That man needed help.”

  Niccoluccio was so taken aback that he couldn’t speak for a moment. “That’s not a very Christian attitude. He needs a burial.”

  “These are not very Christian times.”

  Niccoluccio only looked at him.

  Dioneo sighed, and asked, “You of course remember the Compagnia della Misericordia?” Niccoluccio nodded. They were a spiritual order founded to tend to the sick. Their red robes and hoods were highly esteemed everywhere in Florence. “After the plague struck, they came to care for the sick and dead. They wore masks, but that didn’t protect them. There are few left now. I do not have the charity left in me to see the same happen to my brother.”

  Niccoluccio lapsed into silence. As usual, his brother went on without prompting: “Avignon has interfered with a number of our elections. Not only within parish institutions, which would be understandable, but municipal elections. There are always new clerical taxes even when there is no crusade. Yet our clergy don’t have living wages. In times like these, their parishioners don’t have enough to support them, either. Anyone the bishop deems against him, he declares a ‘potential outlaw,’ and requires them to post a bond for good behavior. You can imagine that the bishop is not now the most popular man in the city. Too many people were hoping he wouldn’t survive the pestilence.”

  “Many people not including yourself, I trust.”

  Dioneo looked to him. “I would never celebrate the death of another Christian in these times.”

  Niccoluccio studied his brother. He had always known Dioneo as an honest man. That had been twelve years ago. It was evident that politics had changed him in many ways.

  Dioneo went on, “This bishop has not been kind to us. Neither he nor anyone in Avignon cares about Florence. The church has just become another Venice or Naples, scrabbling for power. You will see for yourself when you work with us. That is the last I will say on the matter.”

  For now, Niccoluccio silently added. Dioneo was rarely finished with talking.

  The smell of roasting garlic from a nearby market would have tempted him if his stomach hadn’t still been churning from the sight of the corpse. Maybe it would be easier to avoid temptation here than he’d thought.

  Experimentally, he flexed the muscles in his throat, and spoke as Habidah had taught him. He said, or unsaid, “I can already tell you a great deal about how my city has changed.”

  Her voice sounded as though it were coming from all around him. “Huh…? Oh. Niccoluccio.”

  He started. He glanced at Dioneo, sure his brother had heard, but Dioneo kept walking, unaware.

  Her voice had sounded entirely unlike her. Even when she’d made him practice calling her before they’d left her home, she hadn’t sounded like that. It was deep. Resonant. For a moment, he wondered if she’d allowed her companions to answer her calls.

  But when she spoke again, the moment of oddness had passed, and she was herself. “It’s good to hear from you,” she said.

  She sounded preoccupied, like she’d half-forgotten him. Niccoluccio tried, unsuccessfully, not to be hurt. He subvocalized, “I didn’t disturb you, I hope?”

  “Of course not. I shouldn’t have neglected you since yesterday. A lot has happened here.”

  He’d never heard her so unsettled. “Would you care to tell me about it?”

  Something like laughter echoed through the streets around him. It was astounding that only he could hear this. “No. Tell me about your day.”

  Non
plussed, he told her what Ambrogiuolo and his brother had offered him. Habidah said, “Congratulations. That sounds like quite a step up.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it. I may refuse.”

  “That’s your choice to make.”

  “I don’t enjoy feeling as though I am not in control of my fate.”

  There was a lengthy pause. “I’d thought that joining a monastery required subordinating yourself to God’s will as well as your superiors’.”

  “Yes, but entering the monastery was my choice. None of this is. I might love Dioneo, but I could never place my faith in him.”

  Habidah asked, “Do you believe you can do good with what you’ve been given?”

  “I don’t know,” Niccoluccio said.

  “Then neither do I.”

  Niccoluccio hadn’t failed to notice that Habidah had avoided asking about Florence, even after he brought it up. She’d supposedly sent him here to report on the city. It didn’t help his upset stomach.

  He and Dioneo passed the Church of San Michele, one of many small churches near the cathedral. He’d gone by it many times without thinking of it. It served the staff of Florence’s politicians and bankers and merchants. Most people went straight on to the cathedral.

  He’d expected it to have changed in all the ways the rest of the city had: fewer people, filthier and meaner grounds, maybe closed. But the doors were flung open. People bustled inside. There were more people here than he could remember seeing on all his trips past, just as there had been more at the cathedral than he’d seen so early in the mornings.

  No matter the dangers of the pestilence, Florentines still flocked to the church for hope, healing, and succor.

  He told Habidah, “Perhaps I could do some good re-entering the church.”

  “Help as you’re able,” she said. “It’s all any of us can do.”

  18

  The cold sea draft flowing through the cracks in Habidah’s walls didn’t bother her as much as the stink of fish it carried. She imagined she would have gotten used to it by now. Her demiorganics could block out discomforts like cold, but odors were something else. Even when she couldn’t smell Marseilles, she could taste it.