by Joanne Lewis
She turned into the alley next to Abramo’s store.
Franco blocked her path. The white band on his police uniform sparkled in the rising moon. “You.”
“Yes.” She deepened her voice and kept her head down.
“Don’t you know how to show respect. Take your hat off, son.”
Slowly, Dolce looked up at him. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“I am looking for a girl. Slight in size, like you. She goes by the name Dolce Gaddi.”
“I know of no girl like that.”
“I believe she is betrothed to the Jewish banker’s son,” he spat.
“I have seen no girl.”
“What are you doing in this alley?”
“Depositing wages from my family’s fish stand.”
“Why not go through the front door?” He eyed her suspiciously.
“I have been robbed before.”
“Thieves abound. Florence is not what she used to be. Commerce brings malfeasance. I do not recognize you, son. What is your family name?”
Dolce thought quickly. “Brunelleschi.”
“You are kin to the architect?”
“He is my uncle.” Dolce bowed at the waist. “I must deposit the wages before the river floods and I cannot return home.”
She hurried toward the back of the store then felt her stomach heave when Bandino stepped in front of her. She gasped. He held the rolled parchment—the drawings of La Citta di Dolce she had left on top of the dome—in his clenched hand. Dolce backed up. He lunged, grabbed her cap and flung it to the cobblestones. She turned to run toward the street but Franco blocked her exit, his legs spread wide and his arms thrust forward, poised like a wrestler. A dagger in his hand. Dolce turned back toward Bandino, saw Samuele and Abramo wide-eyed behind him. Franco grabbed her from behind, his meaty arms suffocating the breath from her body.
“No,” Samuele yelled.
Franco pressed the dagger to her neck. He pointed at Samuele. “You move and I will kill her.”
Abramo grabbed Samuele’s arm.
Franco dragged her away. Up the street, he dipped into another alley, an arm across Dolce’s chest, the knife jabbing her neck. A few seconds later, Bandino joined them. He reached into his pocket and handed currency to Franco.
“Cosimo has ordered her capture even though she is with child.” Franco counted the florins and deposited them in his pocket. “But I will say she got away.”
Franco thrust Dolce to Bandino who seized her by the throat and pulled her through the streets.
“Where are you taking me?” Dolce screamed.
“Where you belong. Back to Il Poderino where you can finally be of some use.”
Chapter Fifty-five
Dolce looked from Il Poderino toward the top of the bell tower where Andrea had been imprisoned for the last four months. A window of the bell tower pointed west, toward the farm. Dolce wondered if Andrea was sharing this moment with her and also viewing the rows of low, flat homes, stores and markets that curve through the streets of il centrale di Firenze. She wondered if he dreamed of floating down the Arno from the Mount Falterona Hills of the snow covered Apennine Mountains to the Ligurian Sea seven miles west of Pisa. She hoped he saw her, at this moment, standing next to Il Gigante, the twenty-foot marble giant from Carrara that Bandino had been unable to tame.
Dolce placed her hands on her growing stomach and breathed in the cool November air. Much had changed on Il Poderino since seven-year-old Dolce had dug herself free of Bandino. She was seventeen years old now and soon to be a mother. The house and the barn were worn. The olive groves and flax plants were aged but still producing, although not as much as they used to. Bartolommeo was the only remaining worker. The plague had taken the lives of most of the help on the farm including sweet Mea. Poor economic times prevented Bandino from hiring any more helpers.
Bandino’s plan of having Dolce marry royalty to restore good to the Gaddi name and get a large dowry to save the farm had been thwarted by Dolce’s growing belly and the possibility that Andrea might be the father.
One of the sad events of Dolce’s life was Piero. Po’s twin brother with the golden voice had died at the hands of bandits years earlier.
Dolce was once again imprisoned on Il Poderino. But this time it wasn’t Bandino who forbade her from leaving. It was Cosimo. His guards stood outside the gates to Il Poderino, ordered to snatch Dolce as soon as her baby was born so she could be put to death for taking Giuliano de’ Medici’s life.
Dolce burned a flame for Andrea each night, hoping he’d see the glow from his cell on top of the bell tower and feel its heat bouncing off Il Gigante and into his heart. She had made sure he was aware of her plan by bribing a guard with homemade pigeon stew. When she decided what she was going to do upon her baby’s birth, no flame would dance for two nights. On the third night, if the fire crackled and leapt and its embers glowed orange and red, Dolce would send the message to Andrea that she decided to sacrifice her child so Andrea would live. If no flames spat and Il Poderino was black, Andrea would be brandished a sodomite and hung in the piazza.
Dolce pulled her coat tighter. She thought she heard the baby giggle. Four months after the verdict, she still hadn’t discussed their dilemma with Samuele. If he didn’t already know, he would find out tonight.
“Dolce,” Bandino called.
Bandino had aged significantly in the last ten years. He was forty-four years old and had never remarried after Tessa’s death. His shoulders slumped forward and he constantly twisted his neck as if to release an ache. Skin hung loosely from his face, below his chin. His eyes were watery and grey. The once strapping man with the booming voice was bent and broken although his large hands were still powerful and strong.
“Yes,” she bowed slightly.
“What is for supper?”
“Liver wrapped in membrane. Goat cheese with figs. Grain and pasta.”
“The wine?”
“Already delivered.”
“Dessert?”
“Black pudding.”
“Did you have enough hog blood for the pudding? If not, Bartolommeo can slaughter another pig.”
“There was plenty.”
“This meal is very important,” Bandino said.
“I know.”
“Abramo is a Jew but he is very wise when it comes to money and commerce. Isn’t that what they say about Jews?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it is,” he snapped. “We will make Abramo Da San Miniato and his son, Samuele, feel like the Medici tonight.” He hesitated. “You haven’t seen Samuele since you returned to the farm?”
“No.”
He looked at her stomach. “It is better everyone believes Andrea is the father and not the Jew boy. Better for Andrea, better for the baby, better for your brothers, better for the Gaddi name.”
She rubbed her belly.
“They’ll be here soon and they will spend the night. The gates to the city will be closed by the time we have finished eating and looking at the artwork. Hopefully, they will be able to sell it.” He pointed at her. “You and Samuele will not share a bed. Capite?”
“Capisco.”
He walked away, past the marble that he didn’t look at, never looked at. Il Gigante was discolored and weathered from thirteen years of rain, wind and sun, not as tall nor as wide as it once was. Even so, it loomed like a mountain unable to be conquered.
Chapter Fifty-six
With coats and blankets over their shoulders, they walked toward the barn, around the stump stained with chicken blood, near the indent in the ground where Bandino had buried Dolce alive and past three crosses—one for Tessa, one for Mea and one for Piero.
“This way,” Bandino said. “Nic has put all the pieces out for display. We will eat after we look, before the sun goes to sleep.”
Bandino led the procession with Abramo behind him, followed by Nic, his wife Guida, Samuele and Dolce. Bartolommeo waited in the barn. Nic’s children la
ughed and threw rocks at Il Gigante.
Po was traveling through the city-states of Italy. A scholar, he was enmeshed in the humanistic movement, continuing the work of Petrarch and others. Through poetry and the translation of Latin and Greek texts, he espoused the importance of human autonomy, self-worth and dignity. A waste of time, Bandino had growled. He should be married and working the farm. But Po was a romantic and a dreamer who believed he could revolutionize the world. Dolce missed him in a way words could never describe.
Dolce’s heart ached for Po differently than it did for Samuele. Samuele was steps in front of her. She could feel his heat despite the wintry chill, smell the ink on his fingers and the oils he used to soften his skin and hair. She wanted to touch him, to be alone with him, to feel his hands on her, to tell him about Andrea’s sentence, about their baby. She needed him to tell her what to do. Despite what Bandino had said, she had every intention of sharing a bed with Samuele.
They entered the barn. Horses whinnied. A few stray chickens pecked at the dirt floor. A pregnant cow chomped hay and eyed Dolce. A red tailed fox ran for cover under nearby brush.
The works of art were displayed in a row, leaned against stalls, placed gingerly on hay, and covered with cloth. One by one, they walked down the line. Bartolommeo grandly removed the cloths. Gasps resounded through the wood structure. It was all they could manage as the voices of the dead were deafening.
There were mosaics by Gaddo Gaddi; frescoes, altarpieces and paintings by Taddeo Gaddi; tempera on wood and panel paintings, medallions and statues by Agnolo Gaddi.
They surrounded an altar painting and gazed at the middle panel. The Coronation of the Virgin, dated 1386 by Agnolo. They moved to the next one. It was an unfinished altar painting of the Crucifixion, probably incomplete due to Agnolo’s death in 1396.
At the end, Bartolommeo presented a vellum bound book to Bandino. Sketches of Taddeo’s plans for the Ponte Vecchio covered the parchment between the wood covers.
Outside, Bandino looked at Abramo. “Well?” he asked.
“Tell me again what you desire.”
“Do they have any value? Can I sell them? The farm is in need of repairs to keep it running. How much can I get for them?”
“I am not an art dealer.”
“That is why you are here. You are the finest banker I know. And you are the most honest man I know. An art dealer would offer me less than they’re worth. But you, you will tell me the truth.”
“I think,” Abramo said, “your barn is filled with treasures.”
Bandino clapped his hands. “I knew it.”
He put his arm around Abramo’s shoulder and led him away. Nic and Guida followed. Dolce and Samuele lingered.
“I have missed you terribly, my love.” Samuele pulled her toward the back of the barn. He gently pushed her against the side of the building, covered her mouth with his. Their embrace was tight, their bodies sliding into one. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, and her chin. Pulled her so close. Dolce loved the feel of him, his smell, his taste.
She felt movement in her belly and pushed him away. “The baby.”
His eyes widened. “Scusi.” He bent down, put his hands on her belly. “How is our little girl?”
She tousled his hair. “And how are you so sure we are having a daughter?”
He stood, kissed her gently, careful not to lean against her stomach. “Because only a creature as wondrous as you could make something beautiful. Boys are rough and loud. Girls are soft and delicate.”
She laughed then became serious. “If we have a girl, would that be okay? You wouldn’t be disappointed in me.”
“I would be the happiest man in Firenze. Girl or boy, it makes no matter. As long as you are healthy. As long as we are together.”
“Oh, Samuele, I am sorry I haven’t been to see you.” She looked toward the entrance of Il Poderino. “Cosimo’s guards are there all the time.”
“I know. They will arrest you if you leave, even if you are carrying our baby.”
“I’ve had a lot to think about.” She drew in a deep breath. “I am concerned because …”
“I already know.”
“You do?”
“It is why I haven’t visited you. I was giving you time.”
“So, what do I do? What do we do?”
“We live without fear. I heard your brother Po speak the other day. He talked about living without fear of others, without fear of God. If we believe in ourselves and live up to our civic and moral responsibilities, all will be well.” He cupped her face. “It should not matter that I am Jewish since first, I am a man. A man who is in love with you and promises to take care of you always.”
“It is not about you being Jewish …”
He dropped to one knee. “Marry me, Dolce Gaddi.”
She watched his breath rise into the cold air. “But … I am wanted for murder and once I am no longer with child, I will be imprisoned.”
“We will hire the best procurator in Firenze.”
“I will not have a fair trial.”
“The people of Firenze are just.”
“That’s what Andrea thought. And I have no dowry.”
“My love and devotion cannot be purchased.” He looked into the moonlit sky. “None of that matters. I will shout it to the sky for all of Firenze to celebrate. Marry me, Dolce Gaddi.”
Tears jiggled in her eyes. “There is nothing that would make me happier.”
“Then say yes. I have dreamed of you being my wife since I first saw you, even though you were trying to steal from my father.” He laughed. “Say yes. Please, I beg you, say yes.”
“There is something I need to tell you first.”
“There is nothing you can say that will change my mind. You are to be my wife. And I will be the best husband this world has ever known.” He kissed her stomach. “And the best father.”
“But what if … something happens to our baby?”
“Nothing will happen that our love cannot cure. Please, say yes. My knee is hurting.”
“Yes,” she said. “I will marry you.”
Samuele jumped up, carefully embraced her. “I have already chosen the date. May 15th of next year after I have finished my coursework and taken over my father’s business. Then, I can support you. Come,” he grabbed her hand, “let’s tell my father.”
“No need,” Bandino stood several feet from them, Abramo to his side, Nic and Guida there too. “We have heard.”
Abramo hugged Samuele and Dolce. “Wonderful.”
“I forbid this marriage,” Bandino said.
“And I,” Nic stepped forward.
“But you can’t,” Samuele said.
“She is a minor until she is twenty-four. She is only seventeen.”
“I will sell your artwork and make no money but to cover my costs if you allow this marriage,” Abramo said.
Bandino stared at Dolce then looked at Samuele. “And so it shall be. You may marry her if you must. But you will have to procreate with your wife in prison. And when you learn the fate of your child, you will surely change your mind.”
He walked away. Nic and Guida scurried behind him.
Samuele looked at Dolce. “What did Bandino mean about the fate of our child? Is our child sick?”
“No.”
“Then what …?”
“I will leave you alone to talk,” Abramo said.
“No. Stay. You are like a father to me. I wish to tell you together. I am surprised you have not heard.” Tears flooded her eyes, overflowed down her cheeks. “We hold the fate of two human beings in our hands. Two can live. Or only one.”
“Both, of course,” Samuele said.
“If that is our choice,” Dolce wept, “you and I will never know our child.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
With Il Gigante as their chaperone, Dolce and Samuele huddled around the fire. Dolce looked toward the bell tower, hoping Andrea was watching the flames. She laid her head on Samuele’s
chest. He wrapped his arms around her. Next to Samuele, was a satchel.
She rested her hands on her stomach. “What do we do?”
“I will trust your decision.”
Fire danced in his eyes. She saw the little boy she had first met ten years ago, the one who couldn’t read and who had stuttered.
“I need your help, il mio amore.”
“I will help by agreeing with whatever you decide.”
“Samuele, please …”
“You are a strong woman. Look at all you’ve endured. I don’t know how you can be back on this farm, so near to your father after all he’s done to you”
“Thanks to Cosimo, I have no choice but to live on Il Poderino, at least until the baby is born. And I have forgiven my father and myself.”
“Pray tell, what have you forgiven yourself for?”
“Being born a girl.”
He scoffed. “That is no crime.”
“That is my crime according to Bandino. The crime of being born. I do not wish the same fate for our child. I cannot imagine never knowing our child, never seeing you play with her or teach him your craft. And what kind of life will it have as a nun or a monk?” She looked into the flames, felt the intense heat on her face. “Maybe a cloistered life is a good one. It has to be better than the one I’ve had. But Andrea dying because of me, I cannot bare the thought. He saved my life. And, he is Pippo’s son.” She looked toward the dome, outlined by the light from the winter moon. “It feels like I would be betraying more than Pippo, like I would be betraying myself.”
“But you hardly know Pippo. You have seen him how many times?”
“Once when I was seven years old. Again at Andrea’s trial.”
“And for that you owe such loyalty as to sacrifice our child’s happiness as well as our own?”
“I know Pippo very well, maybe better than I know you, better than I know myself.”
Samuele pulled her closer to keep them warm. “If Andrea is hung, it will not be because of you. He has made choices in his life, as have you and I, as have the people who govern Firenze by making stupid laws.”