The Lantern, a Renaissance Mystery

by Joanne Lewis

  At the bottom, Andrea was flung into daylight. Momentarily blinded, he stumbled then squinted toward the sun.

  The Canto alla Macine was one of the many corners of Firenze where the street widened to set off a large building and form a miniature piazza. Lined with a bakery, a butcher shop and a tavern in the midst of a working class neighborhood, the enormous Medici palace rose on the adjacent Via Larga and blocked the sun, leaving the narrow streets of Canto alla Macine dark and gloomy. But that did not dissuade the residents. The Canto alla Macine was often the sight of festivities. Artisans, entertainers and artists gathered to put on plays or show their wares. Friends often met to gossip and talk politics. Current events were a favorite discussion on the outdoor benches and loggias that were often occupied even in the coldest weather.

  It was to Canto alla Macine on this windy, freezing December morning that Po led Andrea. Andrea was bundled from rabbit fur lined boots to a hood pulled tight over his head and around his face. People crowded the streets and parted as Po and Andrea walked through. They recognized the humanist teacher Po and wondered who was walking head down in his shadow.

  Andrea enjoyed the fresh air on his skin and deep in his lungs, the use of his legs to take him somewhere—not just walking in place—and the smells. Chestnut cake, pork rinds and eel stew. Even the smells of others titillated him. The Arno, off in the distance with its commanding stench, smelled like sweet berries. Andrea enjoyed his freedom so much he barely saw the popolo—the working class people wearing grey coats so tattered and thin they might as well have been wearing nothing—parting to the sides of the streets to allow him through.

  “Where’s Pippo?” Andrea yelled to Po. He wanted to share his freedom with his father.

  Po didn’t answer. Or maybe he did and Andrea wasn’t able to hear him over the din of the crowd that stood erect and on guard like the walls that surrounded the city. Po led Andrea up several steps to the top of a wooden platform. It took only a moment for Andrea to recognize it as the same one made by Pippo for Pope Eugenius when the dome was consecrated earlier in the year.

  At the top, Po looked up. And out. Then down. Before him, masses gathered. The wind whipped through their garments. The sun hid behind thick clouds and cast a grey hue turned almost black by the shadow of the Medici palace. Andrea pulled his hood off his head so he could see better. Slowly, people looked up, tapped their neighbors and pointed to the podium until every person, hundreds of them—as many as a thousand?—were staring at Andrea.

  “Il Buggiano,” someone yelled.

  The crowd cheered, raised their arms over their heads, and chanted “Il Buggiano. Il Buggiano.”

  Andrea backed up, turned to hurry down the stairs, away, back to his cell.

  Po yelled into his ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to. By order of Cosimo de’ Medici. You must calm them. If not, there will be bloodshed.” Po grabbed Andrea’s shoulders and turned him around, back toward the crowd.

  “What are their complaints?”

  “Of the twenty-one guilds that run Firenze, none represent the working person. Only professionals, skilled laborers or artists. They want a voice.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Andrea yelled.

  Po pushed him forward. “Then be their voice.”

  “But …”

  Cheering and screaming abounded from below Andrea. Several women fainted, overcome by the sight of their savior. Men climbed to the top of the platform and knelt before him. A small peasant boy with sheer cloth for cover climbed onto the platform. He wore no shoes, had no coverings for his hands. His teeth chattered. His skin was blue.

  Andrea grabbed the boy and draped his cloak over his slight, boney shoulders. He lifted the boy into his chest to warm him.

  The boy hugged his neck, whispered “My mama says you will take care of us. I love you, Il Buggiano.”

  Andrea held the boy tightly, unsure what to do. A cloud still covered the sun and despite the people around him, Andrea felt a chill in the depths of his bones as if they might shatter. Brittle, like the frail boy between his arms who wore so little but Andrea’s coat. He pulled the boy more closely into his chest. He wanted to lift him into the air until he grew wings and could fly high to the sun, toward warmth.

  Roars from the crowd intensified and Andrea realized he had lifted the boy over his head, into the air. The clouds moved. The Medici palace seemed to lean out of the way. The people became illuminated by the winter sun. Golden beams lit their faces, warmed them. The boy giggled and raised his arms over his head like the winner of a foot race. The crowd applauded, laughed.

  And for a moment—ever so brief—all the dreams of the common citizens of Firenze seemed possible.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  “I can’t do it.” Andrea put the boy down, turned, pushed his way past Po and ran down the stairs. The sounds of Il Buggiano growing softer as Andrea raced toward the bell tower and the dome.

  Po caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm and threw him against the side of a store. Abramo Da San Miniato, bank clerk, was etched on the window.

  “Where are you going?” Po asked.

  “I can’t do it. I’m not who they think I am.”

  “Maybe you’re not who you think you are.”

  “Firenze is made up of many great men. I am not one of them.”

  “That’s not what they think.” Po pointed.

  The mass of people were streaming down the street, toward them, cheering, chanting.

  “Where were they when I was being tortured? Where were they when I was being unjustly tried?” Andrea yelled.

  “They were silenced.”

  “Tell them to be silent again.”

  “You tell them.”

  The people surrounded them. Men and women, adults and children. All sizes and shapes. The words Il Buggiano chanting from their tongues. The belief that Andrea could lead them to equality for all citizens in their hearts.

  “They’re just desperate. And dim-witted.” Andrea wiggled free from Po’s grip, pushed through the crowd and ran toward the Baptistery.

  His prison atop the tower felt like a sanctuary. He ran up the 414 steps. The guard waited for him at the top, a pewter plate filled with food in one hand, the bucket in the other. Andrea sat on the stool, panting, sweating, realizing he had left his cloak with the boy.

  The guard held out the plate. Calf liver, grains, beans. A slice of bread. A glass of wine.

  Andrea waved it away. “What should I do?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Please,” Andrea said, “you seem to be a wise man.”

  The guard sat on the stool across from Andrea. He put the bucket down. “How wise can I be when I work a job I detest?”

  “You do it to care for your children.”

  “Does it suffice that the reasons are honorable while the duty is not?” The guard bit into the bread and took a sip of wine.

  “I have no answers,” Andrea leaned over, looked out the window. Below the bell tower, amid the Baptistery and the dome, people began to gather. “I am not their hero.”

  “I am hero to my children.” The guard ate a piece of liver, spoke with his mouth full of organ. “Although it is a lie, I let them believe I can do no wrong. When they are older, they will realize the truth. But for now, it is what they need.”

  Outside, the crowd was thickening.

  “They are not my children,” Andrea said.

  The guard dipped the bread in liver juice then scooped up grain and beans with his fingers.

  “You sure you are not hungry?” The guard asked.

  Andrea looked at the plate. It was empty, wiped clean.

  “Positive,” Andrea smiled.

  The guard stood, held out the bucket. “Do you …?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t be back until curfew. Are you sure you can wait?”

  Andrea nodded and watched as the crowd filled the Piazza di Duomo. Ex
cited yet orderly, they looked up toward Andrea in the bell tower and pointed, sang, cheered and hugged. Thousands braved the cold and wind, thousands looked toward heaven.

  “I am sure whatever decision you make, it will be the correct one.” The guard left, empty bucket and plate in hand.

  Andrea looked down. He saw the boy wearing his cloak being passed among the crowd. Over their heads, like a beautiful bird riding soft ocean waves. He listened to the dim, hallow echoes of the crowd through the glass panels then heard a slow, steady drum beat. Barummp, barummp. Getting closer. Increasing in volume and intensity. Then he saw them. Men on galloping horses. Dressed for war. Cosimo’s army.

  People scattered. The horses ran through the crowd, stomping those that didn’t jump out of the way. Atop the stallions, militia yielded swords that cut through the air, slicing a baker’s hand off, hacking a girl-child’s ear, beheading a woman with a baby on her hip.

  Andrea tried to run out of the cell but the guard had locked the door. He screamed, his face and hands pushed against the window. If he could open the windows and find a slingshot…

  Down below, he saw his cloak. On the ground. Soaked in blood.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Andrea awoke prone on the cold, prison floor. Slowly, he grabbed the stools and used them to hoist to his feet. His hands were sore where they gripped the wood. The glass that surrounded the cell was cracked. Blood streaked and stained the panes. He examined his palms, tried to wipe the dried blood away and realized it had come from his knuckles. Slowly, he remembered what had happened. Po had taken him to Canto alla Macine to lead the populous. Andrea had run away but the crowd followed and had celebrated beneath the bell tower. Soldiers stampeded on horseback. Andrea recalled seeing his bloodied cloak on the ground below. He remembered banging his fists furiously against the windows to be freed, yearning for his slingshot.

  Now, he looked out the windows. Horse drawn wagons moved slowly below. Prison guards slung bodies and body parts into the carts.

  Andrea heard a noise and turned. The guard stood before him. He held a plate of food in one hand and the bucket in the other.

  “Sorry I didn’t come last night,” the guard spoke softly, as if at a wake. “The city was in lock down. If anyone was found on the streets after the sun was at its midday peak and without military clearance they were to be immediately imprisoned. Prison guards included.” The guard stared at Andrea and looked at him from his bare, cold and calloused feet to his ragged, thin clothes to his long, curly locks.

  Andrea smelled something foul. He looked at his clothes. His pants were soiled from urine in the front, stained with feces in the back.

  “Do you want it now?” The guard held out the bucket.

  “No. How are … they? The people?”

  “Twenty dead. At least that’s what’s being reported. Cosimo ordered everyone back to work today. And no one is to speak or write of the massacre. If they do …”

  “Imprisonment?”

  “Death. Will you eat?” The guard held out the plate.

  “You can have it.”

  The guard devoured the meat, vegetables and grains. He soaked up the juice with unsalted bread. He spoke with his mouth full of pigeon. “I have six children to feed. Sometimes there is not enough for all of us. The children and my wife always eat first.”

  Slowly, Andrea sank to the floor.

  “You should eat,” the guard said. “It will give you strength.”

  “I am not weak from hunger.”

  The guard licked the plate and drank the wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You told me I was a wise man.”

  “Yes. That is what I believe.” Andrea looked up at him.

  “I am a coward. It is easier to conform than to demand change.” He put the plate down, removed his coat and started to unbutton his shirt and tunic.

  “What are you doing?” Andrea asked.

  “They need you. I need you.”

  Andrea leaned on a stool to help him stand. “I am not who you think I am.”

  Naked, the man held out his garb to Andrea. “You cannot change our minds. You must lead or more will die. There is already plan for another uprising. People are gathering in the Piazza della Signoria to honor the dead. Many will be armed. There’s going to be more trouble. Take off your clothes. They are soiled.”

  “You will be hung for this. I cannot allow it.”

  “I am going to help with or without your approval.”

  “Why, my friend, are you willing to do this for me? Why do the people look to me to help their cause?”

  Tears came to the guard’s eyes. “You do not know?”

  “I do not.”

  “The popolo have witnessed your persecution. They have seen your strength during the hardest of times. They admire your patience in this bell tower. They have to look to someone to lead them.”

  “What of the humanist Po?”

  “He is not one the people look up to. He does not know heartache. He has not been unjustly judged. He has not been scarred.”

  Andrea brought his hand to his face and felt the raised skin. “I am not worthy of these accolades. I am no leader.”

  “True character is determined during the most difficult times. The people will not follow Po. They will only follow you. You have shown yourself to be more than worthy of our loyalty. And sometimes the myth is enough to give the people faith.” The guard thrust his clothes at Andrea. “Take them. Please.”

  “But …”

  “I wish for my children to have a reason to be proud of me.”

  With reluctance, Andrea took his clothes. He removed his shirt and pants, rolled them into a ball and dropped them into the bucket.

  “What will you wear?” Andrea asked.

  “I will wear the knowledge that I will finally be a deserved hero to my children.”

  Andrea pulled on the guard’s undergarments. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Marco Delbene.”

  Andrea buttoned the shirt then placed his hand on the guard’s shoulder. “Mio piacere, Marco Delbene.”

  “Wait. I tell a lie. That is not my given name. I changed my name to protect my family.”

  “And what is the name you were given at birth?”

  “Moise,” he said. “I am a Jew but I pretend not to be so I can work.”

  “There is work for Jews in Firenze. The Jewish community was officially established recently because Firenze needs moneylenders.”

  “I am not good with numbers or currency. Therefore it is not safe nor prudent for me to be labeled a Jew.”

  “Very well. Then what shall I call you?”

  “Marco, per favore. It is better.”

  “Bene, Marco. Grazie. I will not forget this.”

  “And I will never forget you.”

  Piazza della Signoria, situated in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, was the political center and beating heart of Firenze. The piazza was located at the intersection of the cardo, north-south oriented streets, and the decumanus, east-west roads. Tightly packed, narrow winding streets, shops and churches intersected and bypassed the hub of economic activity like blood circulating through arteries and veins. In the L shaped piazza, stalls where merchants sold their goods—cloth, grain and firewood—settled in a row under an overhanging roof. To one side was a temple dedicated to Mars, the city’s warrior god. To another side were shrines and churches. To still another, tall and thin tower homes loomed, which were built up instead of out to compensate for the overcrowded city.

  Bustling from the time the gates to the city opened until they closed, it was no surprise to find people crowded into the piazza and its surrounds. Commotion abounded. People bought and sold goods. Friends greeted each other warmly. The piazza hummed like a happy heart.

  But on this morning in December 1436, a rush of softly spoken pronouncements spread from the mouths of small children who ran from doorway to doorway and shop to shop to announce a nonviolent gathering in the piazza
to honor the dead from what had been baptized The Day Before Massacre.

  The families of the dead were being recognized as heroes for their sacrifices. The leaders of each family were to give a short speech. The goal was to show solidarity for the working people and to soothe those who wanted revenge. A board of leaders would be elected who would determine what action to take next including how to convince the ruling Medici of the need for a working class guild, how to fight back, if attacked again, and how to get Il Buggiano, their reluctant savior, released and willing to lead.

  Not all agreed this should be a nonviolent gathering. Men, and some boys, hid sticks and pipes under their garments. Their chests puffed out, their words bold, their fists clenched, daring Cosimo to release his murderers again. This time, they would be ready.

  Dressed as a prison guard, Andrea kept his head low and made his way through the streets. His first order of business was to find his father. He found him at the cathedral taking measurements for the lantern. Andrea ran up to him and threw his arms around his back and shoulders. Pippo shied away until he realized it was his son. He hugged him tightly.

  “Where have you been?” Andrea asked.

  “Traveling. Looking for the right material to build the lantern. I know I am going to win the contest. I’ve even started the preliminary construction. What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that? Have you been set free?”

  “No,” he pulled him to the side of the partially built building, ignoring the workers who stared. “Yesterday, there was an uprising …”

  “I heard all about The Day Before Massacre,” Pippo interrupted. “Po told me everything early this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you come see me?”