by Joanne Lewis
Or would she be a nun?
Dolce heard the blizzard call her name again. She opened her eyes wide then scrunched them. Were there really three men on horseback riding up to the barn? Was that Bartolommeo taking the reigns and leading the horses out of the weather? Were the men walking her way? As they got closer, she realized they were real. She stepped inside the house, closed the door and put her back against it. Hadn’t Cosimo agreed to wait until the baby was born to arrest her? Wasn’t it against Florentine law for a pregnant woman to be imprisoned? Cosimo could change the laws or ignore them. Her heart raced. The baby’s hand curled into a fist and jabbed at her ribs. She reached for a knife. They wouldn’t take her now. And they certainly couldn’t have her baby. Not yet. If ever.
She heard their steps on the porch. Dolce grabbed an iron bar used to stoke the embers in the fireplace and heated it with the flames until it glowed orange. She held it in her left hand, the knife in the other, angled against her throat. She preferred a noble death for herself and her child rather than a spectacular one to please the masses.
The door opened. Slowly, three large figures covered in snow, bundled against the cold and with their heads covered, walked in. They stomped their feet, snow falling to the wood floor then melting away. Dolce pressed the dagger to her neck and held the hot iron over her head as she waited for the visitors to reveal their faces, their purpose.
The first one, smaller than the other two and dressed richly in vibrant colors of red and purple, stepped forward. He removed his headgear. “Chi-Chi, I see you haven’t lost your tenacity.”
Tears flooded her eyes. She dropped the knife, threw down the bar and ran to Po.
“These are my friends.” Po pointed to the two men behind him who slowly removed their hats and scarves. “I want you to meet …”
Dolce fell to her knees. Upon her death, if she could pinpoint the most amazing, spectacular moment of her life, this would be it.
“I know who they are,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Not from fear or sickness or injury. But from marvel and wonder and good fortune and yes, dreams do come true.
She grabbed Brunelleschi’s hand and kissed his palm. “You are …” She knew not the words to express her feelings. Il mio eroe? Il mio maestro?
Pippo placed his hands on her arms and helped her up. He led her to a chair.
“This is Donatello, the master sculptor,” Po said.
“Piacere di conoscerti,” Donatello bowed.
The men sat at the table.
“I would have come sooner,” Pippo said, “but I did not think it wise for Cosimo’s men to see me visit you. I was hoping he’d pardon Andrea and save you from having to make a horrific decision. If Cosimo knew I was visiting you, well …”
“I understand,” she said. “How is Andrea?”
“I am permitted to see him one time per month. His wounds have healed. He is not so skinny. He wants me to give you a message although I have fought with him over this. Nonetheless, I promised to say these words to you.” He hesitated. “Do not sacrifice your child for me.”
Dolce poured wine for the men. “That is my decision alone.”
“Andrea thinks you have decided as there has been no fire burning for several days.”
“Tell Andrea I have not been able to light the fire due to the bad weather. But when it clears, I will light it each night again until my decision is made. There are many things on my mind. Not only Andrea’s situation, but my own.” She looked from Donatello to Pippo. Her eyes narrowed. “If you do not want Cosimo’s guards to know you came to see me, then why are you here? They have been stationed at the gate since Andrea’s trial.”
“No more,” Po said. “They left this morning.”
Donatello spoke. “You will no longer be tried for Giuliano de’ Medici’s murder. Evanko, the only witness, has passed on to the Inferno.”
“You mean …?”
“He’s dead,” Po said. “The guards have been released from Il Poderino. Cosimo gave me this decree this morning.”
He handed her a scroll.
She read to herself. “All charges have been dropped. Questo e grande. What happened?”
Donatello looked away.
“No matter,” Po said.
“Is that what you came to tell me?”
“There is more.” Darkness crossed Pippo’s eyes. “It is not my character to have pity on another.”
“Are you saying I have wronged you?”
Pippo held up his hand. “Yes, but you have also tried to save my son and I appreciate that. You still have the power to spare his well-being. This is very delicate for me. I must confront you but not at the risk of Andrea’s life.”
“Per favore, what have I done to you when my entire life has been shaped around worshipping you?”
He reached under his cloak and pulled out several pages. He threw them on to the table. Dolce recognized them immediately as her entry into the lantern competition.
“You,” Pippo said, “have stolen my design.”
“No,” Dolce said, “I have stolen nothing.”
“The design you submitted and the design I submitted to the Opera del Duomo are almost identical except where they differ, your design is better. I have made certain never to share my ideas with anyone.” He stood from the table. The chair tumbled backwards. He pointed at Dolce. “Tell me now where you copied this from.” His voice boomed.
“I have not copied it.”
“There is no other way you could create such drawings without stealing or being inside my head. I am quite certain you are not inside my head, therefore you must be a cheater and a liar.”
“Pippo,” Po said, “you promised not to yell.”
“I cannot help it. I have spent my entire life punishing thieves who tried to take credit for my inventions.”
“I am not a thief,” Dolce spoke calmly.
“Then how do you know about the tunnel I created leading up from the cupola to where the lantern would go. It is clearly in your drawings.” He thumped the prints. “I created it for the sole purpose of mounting the lantern and allowing for light and ventilation then covered it with wood so it would not be discovered by tricksters. And how can you, a girl,” he spat, “know about perspective and geometry and rounded corners and depth.”
“Let her explain,” Po said.
Donatello picked up Pippo’s chair. They sat, looked at Dolce, waited.
Dolce took a breath, exhaled and chose her words carefully. “I have watched the construction of the cupola for years, which has taught me about perspective. I have made games from wooden barrels and metal hoops, which have taught me much about corners. I have been up to my neck in dirt and dug myself free, from which I learned about depth. And I have watched parchment makers and moneylenders and from them, I learned geometry. And,” she said, “despite what you might think, I do live in your head.”
“Are you not then a devil?” Pippo asked.
“No,” she said, “I am an architect.”
According to a decree from the Opera officials, five competitors produced six models for the lantern. The competitors were Brunelleschi, Ciaccheri, Ghiberti, Massei and Domenico. Three separate juries made up of masters of theology, doctors, builders and illuminaries of the arts judged the entries. A special jury of influential citizens including Cosimo de’ Medici also offered their opinions on the designs.
At Pippo’s insistence, Dolce’s submission was disqualified.
On December 31, 1436, the winner was announced. The Opera del Duomo published the following opinion—
That Filippo Brunelleschi’s model has the better form and is comprised of better parts for the perfection of said lantern … that it is stronger and contains greater strength than the other models; and also that it is lighter and produces greater lightness within itself …
Chapter Sixty-two
On an unseasonably warm day in January 1437, the sun was shining bright and a cool breeze blew off the Arno. Samuele w
as studying at The Studio, Firenze’s university. While he would not receive the honorable title of Master upon completion of his courses since he was a Jew, it would still prepare him to take over his father’s business. Abramo was preparing the Gaddi artwork for auction so Bandino could make good on the money owed for the farm. Creditors had been patient with him due to his family name, but no more. Dolce had restarted the nightly ritual of lighting a fire near Il Gigante for Andrea to see from high atop his prison. According to the midwife, the baby was due soon. The following day, at the orders of the podesta, the midwife would move on to the farm to observe Dolce day and night, assist with the delivery, and report on the fate of the baby.
Dolce gently lowered herself in front of Il Gigante and went about slowly, carefully, applying the final details to La Citta di Dolce. Striking the marble with a chisel then blowing dust away, leaving a sheen of white on her face and lips, was marvelous. Dolce felt at home, alive, true to herself when she was creating. One last pounding of the mallet against the chisel, which was struck against the marble, and all was complete. Her city and her decision.
She would not light the fire that night. Nor the next. And on the third night, with Andrea watching from the bell tower to get the signal—dancing and spitting red and orange flames that would indicate his life was to be spared or the still, black, dark of night which would not—he would know his fate.
She would light the flame.
Slowly, she stood and viewed her city on the marble. It occupied one-quarter of the tower in height on one side. She stepped back and placed her hands on her belly then to her face. White dust left behind on her grey garment showed the outline of her fingers.
“What do you think?” she rubbed her stomach and smiled. “Should we live there?” Her smile disappeared as she recalled the decision she had made.
Better two should live than one, as Samuele had said.
Dolce circled the marble, as she had seen Bandino do many times when she was young. But Bandino had circled the marble out of anger and frustration. She was neither angry nor frustrated. Only numb.
She didn’t know what to do with her city, who to show it to, what would come of it, but it didn’t matter. It was done. And it could not be destroyed.
She felt a jolt in her stomach and a rush of water between her legs then saw a puddle form at the base of Il Gigante. She stumbled to the barn, seeking Bartolommeo as he was the only one she trusted. Inside, he kneeled in the doorway to a stall. He was crying. The cow was dead.
Dolce panted through another spasm. She lay in the stall, hay poking and itching her skin, the dead cow with its swollen stomach next to her. Bartolommeo crouched near Dolce, held her hand and wiped the sweat from her face.
“I must get help,” he said.
“No, wait.” She breathed deeply until the pain was gone.
“You need il medico.”
“I know. The baby, she is not ready to come out yet and I am not ready to give her up. I thought I could. I thought it would not be hard.”
“Should I get Samuele?”
“Yes,” Dolce winced.
Bartolommeo got up. “I’ll be back very soon. Mea will watch over you.”
He ran out of the stall. Dolce heard a horse whinny then gallop away.
Dolce waited, in and out of sleep, in and out of pain. The cow stiffening beside her. She thought of moving but didn’t think she could rise on her own. And what if Bartolommeo was right? What if Mea embodied the cow?
Time passed, slow or fast, five minutes or five hours she didn’t know. The pain came and went more frequently, until finally she heard the quick sound of hooves approaching. Was there more than one horse? Louder and louder they came, then slowing to a trot, finally a walk.
“Whoa,” Bartolommeo said.
A moment later, dusty and sweating, Bartolommeo and Samuele ran into the stall.
Samuele fell to his knees, covered Dolce’s face in kisses.
“Did you bring il medico?” she asked.
“Better,” Bartolommeo said.
Dolce was barely able to raise her head but when she did, she saw the most magnificent sight.
Novella.
“It is not a good plan.” Dolce screamed from pain, so deep within her bowels, like nothing she had ever experienced before.
“I see the baby’s head,” Novella said. “Push. More towels. And water. I need more towels and water.”
Bartolommeo scampered out of the stall. Samuele had his hands on Dolce’s face, caressing her, wiping sweat from her eyes.
“Push harder,” Samuele said.
“I am pushing as hard as I can,” she screamed.
“Shh,” Bartolommeo dropped towels on the ground and put down a bucket, water splashing over the sides. “We don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”
“Have you ever given birth?” Dolce yelled.
“No, of course not.”
“Then don’t tell me what to do.”
Samuele took a towel, rolled it into a log and placed it under her head. “One more push. You can do it. And Bartolommeo is right. If the plan is going to work, you must keep it down.”
“Here it comes,” Novella said.
“I detest the plan. We are not doing it.”
“Are you pushing?” Samuele asked.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Dolce yelled.
“Shhh,” Bartolommeo said, “put a towel in her mouth if you must.”
“No,” Dolce screamed.
“One more. Harder.” Novella said.
Dolce tensed her muscles, pushed as hard as she could, her head and shoulders off the ground.
“Good. Stop. No more,” Novella said.
Dolce lay back. Heard—nothing. Panic filled her throat. Then she heard the sweetest sound in the world.
A baby’s cry.
Her baby.
Their baby.
Novella wrapped the girl in a towel and placed her on Dolce’s chest.
And Dolce knew the plan would work. It would have to.
Chapter Sixty-three
Il medico leaned down between Dolce’s legs then stood and wiped his hands on a towel. The midwife and Bartolommeo were at the foot of her bed. Bandino and Nic waited at the door.
“Tell me what happened again,” the doctor asked.
“I had a cramp in my stomach. I thought I had to relieve myself. When I squatted, the pain was excruciating. I felt as if I would faint.”
“I heard screaming,” Bartolommeo said.
“After I had finished, and the pain had dulled, I looked down and saw …” Dolce wiped her eyes.
“She is lying,” the midwife said.
“I am not pregnant. The doctor confirmed that. My baby did not disappear.”
“Yes, I have checked. There is no baby,” the doctor said.
“My baby came early. She was only blood and thick liquid and organs and soft bones like I’ve never seen.”
“She?” The midwife asked. “How do you know it was a girl?”
“I don’t. I just … If my baby had lived I would have wanted her to be a girl.”
“Where is the proof?” The doctor asked. “You said you have proof.”
Bartolommeo left the room and returned with a metal box. He lifted the cover. Flies escaped into the room. The doctor and midwife turned away, pinching their noses. Bandino stood, stoic. Nic gagged.
“That smells worse than one hundred Arnos,” the doctor said.
Slowly, he and the midwife looked inside the box.
“Are those maggots?” the midwife asked. “That does not look like a baby.”
The doctor leaned in further, winced then pulled his face away. “I have seen babies self-abort before as if they knew they were going to be sick or possessed by the devil. And this,” he pointed at the blood, guts and tangled skin stuffed in the box, “looks like what I have seen in the past.”
The midwife looked again. “I don’t know.”
“Why would I lie?” Dolce asked.
&nbs
p; “To save the sodomite.”
“Our baby has died. That is not my fault nor is it Andrea’s fault. He must be released.”
“I will tell the podesta,” the doctor said, “but for now, you must rest.”
The doctor took the box from Bartolommeo and left, the midwife close behind. Bandino and Nic stepped into the room.
Bandino pointed at Dolce. “Do not destroy the Gaddi name. The Gaddi are not liars. If I discover you are lying, you will be punished.”
“There is nothing worse that can happen to me that you have not already done,” Dolce said. “Punish me if you must but I am not lying. I swear on my dead baby.”
The following morning, Dolce awoke to find Po and Pippo seated in her room. She sat up slowly. Her stomach muscles were sore. Her legs were weak.
“Have you been here long?” she asked Po.
Po tapped a scroll against his leg. “No.”
She looked at Pippo, who appeared to have aged considerably since she last saw him. “Are you here to accuse me of malfeasance again? If so, I ask that you leave.”
“Po told me how you left Il Poderino at a very young age after much misfortune. You know Firenze is a small yet majestic place with many citizens. I investigated whom we both might know and I discovered we have a mutual acquaintance. Abramo Da San Miniato, the Jewish banker. He told me everything.”
Dolce’s heart seemed to stop. She caught her breath. “Everything?”
“Yes. About the dome. How you lived there during construction. Your studies. Your … idolatry of me.”
Not anymore, she thought.
“I wrongly accused you of stealing my design for the lantern when in fact yours was better than mine. I had told the Opera you were a cheat so your entry was disqualified. You are correct, you live in my head. I have never said this to anyone in my lifetime. Mi dispiace.”