The Lantern, a Renaissance Mystery

by Joanne Lewis

  But at this moment, none of that mattered. She blew her breath on the marble and watched the white smoke disperse, mixing with the striations of fire tipped light from the dipping sun. She poised, ready to strike the marble again, so full of her craft, her capabilities, when the slam of the front door stole her ecstasy. She jerked her neck and saw Bandino and Nic walking swiftly in her direction, their steps the same width apart, their arms and legs swinging wide by their sides.

  Bandino, with rotted teeth and blackened fingernails, was imposing at six feet five inches tall. Chiseled of muscle and wearing a red beard that grew to his barrel chest, few would challenge him to a physical fight—his size and temper were notorious in Firenze and the surrounds.

  Nic, thirteen years old, large like Bandino, tried desperately to emulate his father’s fiery nature, fighting daily to suppress the sensitivity he had inherited from his mother, Tessa.

  As their long strides took them toward Il Gigante, Nic leaned toward his father, motioned with his hands and spoke with fervor. Bandino grimaced, waved him away. Panic rose in Dolce’s throat. She was too far from the house to run there without being seen. She dropped the chisel and mallet, sprinted behind a bush. The leaves were still shaking when Bandino picked up the chisel and examined the dimple with his thick thumb.

  “I don’t remember making this mark.” He spit on the ground.

  A wad of phlegm landed on Dolce’s bare foot.

  Bandino put his hand to his chin as if he were a deep thinker then waved into the air. “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, I am going to have the giant carted away and thrown into the sea. I should have known this devil from Carrara was going to do battle with me.”

  “Father,” Nic said, “you can’t give up.”

  He grabbed Nic by the shoulders. “Son, I am not proud of this. But I have been trying to make something of this monster for too long.”

  “But you are a Gaddi.”

  Bandino turned away. “That used to mean something.”

  “You have talent.” Enthusiasm dripped from Nic’s tongue. “Our family’s works are displayed in the Pope’s private collection and in sacristies across Firenze. Some are still here, at Il Poderino.”

  “Enough,” Bandino boomed.

  Dolce’s breath stopped for a moment at the sound of his deep, imposing voice.

  “I know the success of our ancestors,” Bandino said. “But I have no money. The fields aren’t producing like last season and the servants keep dying from the plague.” He waived toward the barn. “The goats produce little milk and the cows are thin. I have to sell the family sculptures and paintings.”

  “No, Father. You can’t.”

  “Why are they so important to you? You have shown no interest in art.”

  “I look at them often. As does Dolce.”

  Dolce let out a gasp then quickly covered her own mouth. She hadn’t known Nic felt that way, only that he was mean to her. He was the only brother who treated her as if she were worthy of being hung in the Piazza della Signoria.

  “Why mention her?” Bandino pulled Nic by the collar. “She is only a girl.”

  “Have you seen Dolce’s drawings?” Nic’s voice shook. “She is designing a city with buildings that rise into the clouds. She calls it La Citta di Dolce.”

  “When I pass her drawings, I pretend I am blind. When I think of her, I know I am dumb. And if she ever speaks, I will become deaf.”

  “She is full of talent. She could probably make something of Il Gigante.”

  Bandino threw Nic to the ground. “I don’t want to hear you say another word about her. You are to continue destroying whatever she creates. And do not get soft for her like your brothers.”

  Nic stood slowly, dusted off his tunic. Shoulders back, he puffed up his chest, deepened his voice. “No, Padre. I will never be weak.”

  “And now that your mother is in heaven, I don’t want you turning to that girl. I would demand she exit Il Poderino but your mother made me swear I would never make her leave the farm.”

  “But … why—why hate Dolcina so much?”

  Bandino looked at the indents and grooves on the marble, its overall shapelessness. He threw the chisel down, walked in circles, dust kicking up on to his red hose. His puffy sleeves billowed as he turned and twisted. He stopped, knelt and stared into the brush.

  “You.” He pointed a long, thick finger.

  Dolce leaned hard into the bush as if to become one of its leaves.

  “Stand.”

  Slowly, she rose.

  “Why aren’t you working?” He waved his hand. “No matter. You need to make money for this farm. What can you do?” He asked the question into the air. “You can be a wet nurse. No, too young. Can you sew, mend, cook, clean? What can you do? You don’t even speak. You probably couldn’t earn even a single florin as a whore.”

  Dolce cleared her throat then swallowed hard. “I would like to go to school,” she said in Latin, which she had learned by listening when the boys had their lessons.

  I would like to go to school. These were Dolce’s first words spoken since her arrival at Il Poderino three years earlier when she had been dropped off by her wet nurse, Novella.

  Nic’s eyes widened with surprise. A huff of breath escaped his tongue. Bandino stared at her, his eyes void of expression as if not hearing. Dolce was about to repeat her request when Bandino grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the side of the house. Nic ran behind. Bandino threw Dolce to the dirt then picked up a shovel. With ferocity, he dug and dug and dug. All three boys and Mea stood nearby, along with Dolce, her head cocked like a curious dog. Bandino bent at the waist, lifted a shovelful of dirt and tossed it to the side. When the hole was several feet deep, he jumped in and dug more. Finally, his face wet with sweat and brown with dirt, he threw the shovel down and climbed out. He grabbed Dolce and carried the squirming child to the hole, threw her down then started covering her with dirt. Dolce tried to climb out, screaming, crying, yelling, clawing at the walls of the deep hole. Bandino pushed her down, placed his foot on her chest and roughly held her there, twisting his upper body to pickup the dirt, toss it in then rotating again. Spit formed on the corners of his mouth. His brow furrowed. His eyes were small and intense. The boys watched, speechless. Their mouths agape while Dolce bawled.

  “Quiet.” He held the shovel over her head.

  Dolce stopped screaming.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Mea pleaded. “I can teach her to cook. She can work anywhere.”

  He scowled. “Shut up, woman, or else I’ll have you hung in the Piazza della Signoria with the thieves and heretics.”

  When Dolce was covered in dirt to her neck, Bandino stomped around her, patted the dirt down then pointed at the boys and Mea. “If anyone sets her free, I will treat you like one of the chickens.” He motioned toward a tree stump, which was red with chicken blood. A war ax leaned against it. “Capite?”

  The boys and Mea nodded. Bartolommeo, Mea’s husband and the head servant, ran to them. Mea silenced him with a look. Bandino stormed off. Dolce whimpered. In the distance, undernourished and flea bitten dogs circled.

  Chapter Two

  Twelve-year-old Andrea di Lazzaro de Cavalcanti, known as Il Buggiano for the Tuscan town where he was born, loved lilies. The white and purple sheen and the way they grew wild in the nooks of stone walls and haphazard in open fields pleased him more than the most stunning lace veil. He loved all things beautiful, like his miniature brown and white horse, Minuscolo, and some things very ugly, like his new father and mentor, Filippo Brunelleschi, known as Pippo.

  Even dressed in silk and linen, Pippo was unsightly with a square head, pocked skin and a nose that hooked like a waterspout. Andrea already loved him for many reasons. For his mind, which was splendid. For his forty-nine years that made him determined and stubborn. For taking Andrea from the Roman orphanage and bringing him to Firenze as his prodigy and heir. For allowing him to bring Minuscolo too.

  Andrea pointed his
face toward the sun. The one hundred and thirty fifth day of 1426—his first day as Pippo’s adopted son—was turning out to be perfect. He was thankful to be out of the orphanage. There had been too many rules and many of the boys were thieves. Andrea had to pretend to like jousting and lead ball tossing to avoid ridicule. He had won all of the contests involving the use of a slingshot, but the other sports he hadn’t cared for. And he had missed Minuscolo who had roamed the open fields of Rome until Andrea left the orphanage with Pippo and was able to find him. But more than anything, he had missed another’s touch. Not the rough contact in the night from the older boys at the orphanage but the soft strokes. A hand on his face. A pat on his back. A kiss on the cheek.

  Andrea and Pippo walked along the Arno River that split Firenze into unequal halves. The city could be walked on foot in all directions in under forty minutes as it was only about two miles across. Andrea knew Pippo liked to stroll through Firenze.

  Andrea surveyed the homes of the wealthy. Rich citizens often lived next door to the working class who were growing more and more frustrated by the privileged taking their profits and charging exorbitant taxes. As they walked, Andrea studied the works of craftsmen who sold their wares from open stalls. He tasted the latest spices and teas imported from Turkey. All within the defensive walls and forty-five towers and guard gates built in the late thirteenth century that surrounded Firenze.

  The spring air was temperate. Cobblestoned streets underfoot, the Arno-behind-the-walls was to their left. Low stone and wood homes and shops of goldsmiths, blacksmiths, butchers and bankers were to their right. Pippo nodded at passersby. Andrea noticed several bow and look away to avoid making eye contact.

  Small ships, rafts and barges carried wool, timber and hides along the Arno. Broad shouldered housemaids slapped laundry on rocks and shared laments about their lives. Diggers methodically gathered sand used for construction. Apprentices dunked wool in the river, spread it out on the banks to dry, applied dye, hung the wool on rafters and pulled them into various shapes and sizes to prepare for sale.

  The wind blew and Andrea gagged at the stench of soaps, dyes, excrement and garbage that rose from the river like a thundercloud. Pippo appeared unaffected, sniffing the air like he was in a field of flowers. Andrea mimicked Pippo by clasping his hands behind his back. He forced the stink into the depths of his throat. After living with one hundred other boys in a large room of the orphanage, Andrea thought he could handle any odor. But the stink of the Arno was unbearable. Somehow, he would get used to it.

  They walked past bridges and a vandalized equestrian statue of the God of war on the Ponte Vecchio. The hum of civic responsibility, hard work and suffering surrounded them. Low wails grew louder and higher pitched. Andrea saw a mother and father run into the street, their diseased and dying child limp in the father’s arms. Andrea knew all about illness and death, having awoken many mornings at the orphanage with the boy in the next bed wide-eyed and stiff.

  Pippo ruffled the boy’s long brown hair that fell in curls around his shoulders. Andrea knew his energy and poetic tongue had set him apart from the other boys at the orphanage when Pippo had arrived to choose his son.

  Excited, Andrea tugged on Pippo’s sleeve. “You promised to tell me about the fat carpenter.” He jumped from cobblestone to cobblestone, foot to foot. “Please, Pippo. Tell me how you made the fat carpenter think he was someone else.”

  “The carpenter’s name was Manetto di Jacopo. We called him Il Grasso, the fat one,” Pippo said.

  Andrea twirled then vaulted a broken urn. He ran back to Pippo who grabbed him by the arm, pulled his face close and scowled. “You must behave.”

  Andrea tried not to wince from the pain of Pippo’s grip. “I am excited.”

  “I am excited too. But you must walk quietly by my side.”

  Andrea lined up next to him like in a Papal procession and tried to match his cadence, taking two steps to his every one. He clasped his hands behind his back, mimicking the older man’s authoritative gait.

  “I snuck into Il Grasso’s shop in the Piazza San Giovanni one night and nailed the door shut from the inside,” Pippo said. “And then I waited. When Il Grasso arrived, he couldn’t get in. I pretended to be him.” Pippo mimicked Il Grasso’s deep baritone. “Go away, I said. This is not your home. Il Grasso asked, whose home is it? I answered, this is Matteo’s home, and I am Matteo. Il Grasso left, confused no doubt.”

  “What happened next?” Andrea asked.

  “Donatello saw him in the piazza and addressed him as Matteo, the Notaio.”

  Andrea clapped his hands.

  “Then a bailiff also called him Matteo and arrested him for failing to make good on a debt.”

  Andrea moved to kick a rock but stopped when Pippo held up his hand. Once again, Andrea tried to match the big man’s steps.

  “Matteo’s real brothers showed up and paid his debt and freed him from prison,” Pippo said. “They took him to Matteo’s home, called him Matteo, acted like they were family.”

  “Didn’t he protest? Didn’t he say I am Il Grasso, the fat carpenter, not Matteo, the distinguished notary?”

  Pippo smiled. “Yes, of course he protested. But the brothers laughed like Il Grasso was drunk or stupid.”

  “Why play this joke on the fat carpenter?”

  “Because I can.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You can achieve anything you set your mind to,” Pippo said.

  “Even make a man think he’s someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why Il Grasso? What has he done to you?”

  “He failed to honor a social engagement.”

  “And that is bad?”

  “To me, yes.”

  As he absorbed Pippo’s lesson, Andrea saw a handsome, older boy take long strides along the Arno. Andrea fought the urge to run and jump and recite poetry and dance and sing—I have a father. Instead, he strolled, and tried to look serious and act noble as a boy of his new status should.

  Shouts sounded and Pippo drew Andrea close. Polizia pounced on the handsome boy Andrea had just noticed, punched and kicked him, screaming “sodomite” as the boy’s blood spewed.

  Pippo steered Andrea around a corner and passed a resplendent home owned by the Medici, the powerful banking family who spawned the Renaissance and ruthlessly governed Firenze.

  Andrea looked over his shoulder, back to where the boy was being beaten. “What about …? Shouldn’t we help him?”

  Pippo pulled Andrea along. “Choose your battles, my son, for they live with you for the rest of your life.” Pippo pulled him through the Old Market and up a weed spotted hill. “There it is.” He pointed.

  Andrea looked over his shoulder once more then at the overgrown field. “All I see are horses and cows.”

  “I received the commission several years ago to design the Osperdale degli Innocente, a home for abandoned infants. Construction has been delayed due to the plague we must battle and the wars we must fight but I am hopeful it’s almost ready to begin.”

  “You are designing the cupola for Santa Maria del Fiore, you are building two other chapels and now this hospital. You are busy, Pippo. When will you have time for me?”

  “Today begins your apprenticeship. You will watch and learn and dream and one day you will betray me as all sons betray their fathers.”

  “That will never happen.”

  Pippo held up his hand. “And I will forgive you as all fathers forgive their sons. Now, let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Three

  The year was 2008 and Filippa George stepped into the light. A brown duffle bag was slung over a bony shoulder.

  The social worker waved good-bye and yelled, “Happy Birthday. You don’t look forty-three. Happy Valentine’s Day, too. And don’t forget to check in with your parole officer.” She walked back into the halfway house.

  On the sidewalk, Filippa looked left, then right, up and down the street. She pulled her thick
, curly red hair off her neck. It was hot, so hot she could barely breathe. She let her hair fall again around her shoulders. She was tired of the heavy air, tired of South Florida, tired of her poor choices. She was ready to make that trip to Italy she had been dreaming about since she was incarcerated almost six years ago. She was eager to find the Renaissance girl even if she didn’t know her name, her family history, nothing about her. Even if she didn’t know if the girl had ever existed.

  Filippa glanced at her watch. Julio was late. She tried to care, to be angry, to feel longing or hate, even anxiety. But she felt nothing. She had stopped feeling anything for Julio, for most things, a long time ago. The exception was Buddy, Julio’s fourteen-year-old son, who Filippa had raised as her own. She pictured Buddy’s wide grin and floppy blond hair. She remembered the last time she saw him about three years ago, the only time Julio had brought Buddy to visit her in prison. He was eleven then and she knew boys could grow a lot during the teen years. She was hopeful to see how much he had grown, how his muscle tone was filling out, how a rosy complexion replaced his pale skin. They had written letters back and forth while she was serving her sentence but it wasn’t the same as seeing him, smelling him, touching him. He had always been a sickly boy. Born frail and stick thin like his father and prone to severe allergies and asthma like his mother. Filippa hoped he had outgrown all of that.

  She eagerly looked down the street, anxious at the sight of each new car. Julio was a mechanic, owned his own garage and rarely drove the same car for any extended period of time. Any car could be his. Any car could have Buddy seated in the passenger seat. She was so excited to see Buddy she began walking in the direction she thought Julio would be driving. So what if she was in Overtown? A major highway long ago dissected the jazz filled streets that Grandpa Raj, who had raised her since birth, had loved. Gangsta raps shot from souped up Mustangs and Escalades. The rat-tat-tat of bullet fire had murdered the soul of street corner harmonies years ago.