Orsini broke off his glance and walked to another part of the room with his heart racing. ‘A mask, he wears a mask’ he said to himself. Adrenalin coursed through the Cardinal’s veins. He had seen disguises before, the Inquisition couldn’t operate without them, but he knew his rival must be a master. As Orsini pondered what to do with such a cunning intruder the bell rang to announce the dancing.
Merry guests began to gather at varying speeds, and some were a touch lopsided after much wine. What remained of the food, that couldn’t be stuffed into swags or pockets, littered the tables as the serving staff tidied up, before they laid out fruits and cheese. The Duke’s musicians struck up a traditional folk tune, and some people began to dance. The music rattled out through the great hall as the musicians, also half filled with wine, played with gusto. Some men of the assembled court felt free to drop conventions as the music rang on, and took the hands of women that had caught their eye and spun them into an embrace. Then some of the chosen women, in turn, were happy to oblige, and glad to be free, if for a moment, from a possessive man or an annoying husband. Those same men, feigning protest, when relieved of their companions either feasted their eyes on other beauties: if they were married, or scanned the rooms for an upgrade if single.
Illawara shone even brighter than before, while she moved across the floor, as the queue of her admirers elbowed each other in waiting their turn to dance with her - for she ignited imaginations as she improvised on tradition and added inspired flourishes of her own. Orsini swept into the room and a corner, when he heard the music playing, and concealed himself among the seated veterans of the court, who had seen and survived the battlefields of love before. The wizened group shared a feeling of collective anticipation and exchanged sage words, and quips, before shuffling for position to see the night unfold. The tune became wilder than before, and the dance sucked in more guests like a whirlwind.
Illawara blazed across the room flashing from one corner to another, in turn, her blue dress swirling, as the men competed to dance with her. Illawara surrendered herself to the music as her spirit soared. To improve his chances, each man timed his steps to catch Illawara from his rival. Orsini had never desired a woman so much, and took a deep gulp of wine from his topped-up glass, and beckoned a servant of the house for yet another refill. Antonio and Hermes entered the room, followed close by the Duke and Archduchess. Antonio need not have pointed out Illawara to her new acquaintances, as she was visible everywhere: drawing gasps of admiration for her daring improvisations as she swooped, circled and pirouetted about the room. The young Duke, seeing her dance, became inspired, and snatched the modest Archduchess into his arms to join the others.
Orsini, with a foggy head, then saw Galileo enter the room followed by the Earl. Orsini’s knuckles tensed to whiteness around the stem of his glass, as he took another gulp of wine. He saw the Earl pause and gaze upon Illawara and her dancing. The Earl’s expression confused Orsini. His look conveyed not desire, but pride. Then the swift Earl moved into the dance with effortless grace, to clutch Illawara into his arms, and rescue her from a clumsy admirer as the music played on.
She looked elated as she glanced up into the Earl’s eyes. Orsini writhed where he stood, emptied his glass, and almost broke it with his grip before he plonked it down and strode across the room to anticipate where the couple would pass. The couple spun closer to Orsini, and before the Earl could protest the Cardinal swept Illawara into his arms, prompting astonished cheers from the guests, and a crowd began to encircle them clapping. Orsini enthralled his onlookers by them seeing a Cardinal dance with a beautiful woman. The Cardinal’s heart tried to leap out of his chest, as he gazed into Illawara’s face who smiled at him and blushed deeper with every powerful sweep and motion of the Cardinal, and every cheer of the crowd. The Cardinal tried hard to stop his arms from shaking.
Orsini moved like the young man he was before he joined the Church, matching Illawara for pace, and danced as he once did at the infamous masked balls of Venice where reputations were won and lost. Illawara dazzled, her diamond glittering at her throat, as the heat rose to her brow, but she struggled to hold the intense gaze of the man that had watched her all evening. Orsini was powerful but smooth as his hand hugged her waist. The pressure of his hand moved through her bodice and warmed the small of her back. She danced on with him as he impressed the crowd with his skill and agility for a mature man, who far outstripped his younger rivals - even the Earl.
Orsini danced on as the years’ fell away from him like tissue paper as he turned with Illawara, lost in the dark blue of her eyes, and re-lived an almost forgotten life - his memories of Venice - the dreams of his youth before he gripped her waist to lift her off the ground. She gasped. The crowd applauded, and then Illawara swept herself back, curving her spine, throat exposed and her arms arched, to accentuate Orsini's graceful lift which touched all those that saw it with emotion – a wild swan spinning in the arms of a prince. But in a moment it ended.
Orsini’s pleasure then became a painful wrench from within, as the Earl snatched Illawara back from his embrace - the crowd oohed at the theft. Orsini stood still for a moment as if still holding Illawara, with his mouth ajar, his eyes dead, and his face barren: at that moment he looked lost, bereft, and old as Illawara spun off. The crowd then cheered his efforts, and the roar brought him back to himself. He gave a modest bow, a strained smile and turned away before his lips trembled.
Antonio observed the Cardinal with intensity, as the dance continued without him because he had never seen the Cardinal so softened, so enchanted, and then so wretched: blood had come from the stone. Orsini then clutched at his back that gave a spasm of protest. He moved with haste to the side of the room from where he glared at the Earl, who had brought Illawara to rest next to himself on a chair, much to the disappointment of the crowd. Many guests started to leave but paused to heap Illawara with praise before they moved on. With a tug from his Archduchess, Duke Cosimo the second took his wife's hint and retired to other rooms, although the musicians played on for the few not exhausted.
Four women gossiped with one another about Illawara as they made way to their carriages: ‘she must be a Venetian: only a Venetian courtesan could dance like that’ said one woman with a high collar, attractive face, plunged neckline and a green figure hugging dress.
‘And I suppose you would know... What have you done with your old man, Constanza?’ said one of the women to the tipsy laughter of the other two. Constanza paused to eye her friend up and down:
‘Indeed I do know, and so would you, Clara - if you were pretty enough’ came the retort. Clara was scorched into silence, her face like a brick, while her companions made eyes with hands over their mouths to stifle their giggles, as the group then moved down the hall to leave the building. Orsini’s eyes burrowed into the Earl’s head as he chatted with Illawara, and the Cardinal watched the man, who dabbed at his brow with a napkin. The Cardinal moved closer, and snatched up an abandoned wine glass to his mouth, and drank his fill. His heart pounded, and his head swam. In his glaring Orsini noticed that sweat had loosened what looked like peeling skin by the Earl’s ear. The Earl continued to dab at his face, drinking his wine - forgetting himself.
As if possessed Cardinal Orsini then sprinted across the room. The Earl had scant time to react while he drank his red wine as Orsini approached from the side: ‘scoundrel’ Orsini exclaimed as he tore off the Earl's wig and caught hold of the loosened flap by the Earl's ear and yanked at the mask with all his might. Illawara let out a scream as the Earl’s red wine splashed up on his face. Orsini wrenched the mask half off, and the Earl looked bloody and torn. Such was the force of his tearing attack that Orsini knocked out one of the Earl’s coloured contact lenses, revealing a distinctive grey iris, but also an elegant nose, and a shock of red-blond hair hidden under the discarded wig. Illawara then recognised the man in an instant:
‘DADDY’ she exclaimed. In confusion, Orsini staggered back with horror and lost hi
s balance to crash on the floor as he took in the macabre wine stained face with most of its skin hanging off. The mask half peeled back revealed the face of a man who looked too young to be Illawara’s father. With his disguise exposed, Professor Sloane bolted upright and made a dash for a door, as Hermes and Antonio rushed across the room followed by a guard who heard the commotion. The music stopped, and several shocked guests froze mid-dance to stare, while the quartet looked on dumbfounded.
The sages glanced to one another, nodded, and muttered amongst themselves - waiting to see what happened next: ‘SEIZE him’ Orsini screeched, as he threw his arm in the direction of the fleeing Professor as he tried to struggle to his feet. Sloane flashed past the guard, including Hermes and Antonio, before they could grab him.
‘Daddy, no, where are you going?’ Illawara cried as she gave chase. Hermes gawped, shell shocked for a moment when he realised who he had seen, and Antonio also stood stunned by the revelation, as the flapping face had shot by before they gave chase as the Professor hurtled down a passageway. Orsini’s pale henchman passed through the room like a ghoul as Orsini shouted orders:
‘Get him. Don’t rest till he’s caught.'
More guards were alerted as the Professor ran on, and he snatched up objects to hurl behind him, in his desperation to escape his pursuers. Illawara hampered by her skirts had yanked them up to one side to keep pace, and Hermes pulled her along with him, light as a bird in his sprint. The Professor flew down stairs toward the back quarters of the Uffizi, and lobbed a torchlight behind him, as Antonio, sprinting, gained ground. The torch missed Antonio and the others by a fraction, but had the desired effect as two men of the guard were forced to stop and stamp out the flames that then erupted on one of the luxurious carpets, after Illawara and Hermes bundled past.
The Professor, dashing, reached the kitchens where he knew the courtyard and stables were nearby. Emerging from a darkened corner like a vampire, the pale henchman lunged at the Professor with a knife. The Professor managed to block the full force of the blow with his arm, but the sharp blade still sliced the skin as it cut through his wide-sleeved shirt, and stained it with a streak of scarlet blood.
The Professor grabbed up a rolling pin left on a table in the vacated kitchen and used his new weapon like a sword to defend himself. The pair struggled: the henchman slashed at the air as the Professor avoided the blade, but the Professor connected with a strike of his own across the brow of his assailant.
The ghoulish man stumbled back and clutched at his face as if punch-drunk, as dark blood began to flow from the bridge of his eye between his pale and twig-like fingers. The Professor scrambled to a door, and flayed with his hands at the bolts like a wild animal; the door streaked with his blood. Illawara, half falling down the stairs, had overtaken Antonio and emerged first into the kitchen. She screamed once more as the henchman; part recovered, had begun to lunge again in the direction of the Professor as he struggled with the last door bolt.
Within a blink, she scanned the kitchen, before she leapt to the side to yank a heavy copper pan from a hook, and ran forward to swing it, like a cricket bat, and slam the pan into the side of the henchman’s head. The man crumpled to the floor, as the tattered face of the Professor looked back at the sound. Wide eyed he glanced at her before he flung open the door and ran towards the stables. Illawara stood, unable to move, and wept before she dropped the blood-stained pan with a clang,
‘Please... Please don’t leave me again. I’m sorry’ she wailed as she watched her father sprint away, and a sob heaved out of her.
‘We have to get out of here’ Antonio said, his fear palpable, as he heard the clamour of guards making their way down the stairs. ‘Quick, he’s running to the stables, if we can get to our carriage, maybe we can catch him.’ Antonio shoved Illawara and Hermes forward, and slammed the door behind them, as both men then ran across the courtyard and pulled Illawara along with them, limp and crying, to where their coach awaited.
Few carriages were left as most guests had departed for home, or for the brothels, or for the taverns of Florence. Up ahead the group caught sight of the Professor as he vaulted a stable gate, and in moments had untethered, and leapt onto the back of a black stallion, and jumped the gate again on horseback: as he clung to the horse’s mane like a crazed man while the startled horse whinnied. The group reached the coach as Hermes flung open the door to push Illawara in, before Antonio leapt up into the vacated driver's seat, and whipped the horses into action. The original coach driver, and footman, then emerged from a side stable with flapping breaches, followed by a confused woman who stuffed her breasts back into her corset.
The coach lurched around to the left, as Antonio did his best to turn around and cut off the Professor before he could exit the courtyard. Several guards had assembled themselves to prevent escape by blocking the main gaits. The Professor reached into his blood-stained jerkin to pull out a small pouch before he charged at the men. The guards held their ground with their polearms outstretched to spook the horse, but the Professor dug his heels into the sides of the stallion to urge him on. The men scattered has the animal launched into the air to clear the blades, as the Professor threw the pouch at the ground with all his might.
The pouch exploded with a flash and billowed with smoke obscuring all, and almost caused Antonio’s coach to crash as his horses lurched away from the discharge. Antonio gave up the chase of the Professor, as a guard leapt forward through the smoke to intercept the carriage, but miss timed his lunge and became caught by a hoof of the sprinting horses.
The animals swerved to avoid the man, but the coach wheel then glanced off the courtyard gate, which knocked Illawara’s head against the carriage interior, and crushed the body of the hapless guard: his anguished screams almost lost to the night in the din and squeal of horses. The guard’s blood shot out his mouth as the iron-clod carriage wheel ran over his rib cage and burst his lungs, with a dull pop, and crushed his spine. Some other guards lay injured after trying to leap onto the carriage, and Illawara screamed as the guard's bodies thudded against the side of the vehicle, but the lucky ones clambered on.
Antonio, with one hand on the reigns, turned this way and that to whip at them all in the eyes, ruthless and accurate, before the guards yelled, and fell back clutching their faces, while their dead colleague’s flesh lay mangled by hoof and wheel. In the maelstrom and confusion, Antonio thought of the safety of his passengers, as well as his own life, and twisted the coach down a side street. Illawara wept, inconsolable, as Hermes rubbed her banged head. Behind him, Antonio left the groans of the fallen, the stunned or the injured, to take a crossing at a quiet part of the river Arno and make their getaway.
The Professor, free of a carriage, continued his escape, at high speed, on the stolen black stallion by crossing the languid river Arno at the Ponte Vecchio. The city had begun to sleep, few people mingled about, but the hooves of the steed clattered like broken China across the cobbled bridge, and along past the shuttered jewellery shops, as the impostor headed for the hills and shadows. The Professor, bloodied but determined, his wig lost and shirt torn, rode on with grim focus, as his face flapped like a flag in the moonlight.
Chapter 9
The Fugitives
Outer Florence, before Dawn, Monday October 3rd, 1611
‘I had a very strange dream last night’ said Illawara, from where she lay, to Hermes as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and got up from the chair where he had slept. He yawned and stretched himself like an amber coloured cat.
‘What was it about?’ he replied, before sniffing at himself.
‘I’m not sure’ she said, ‘but you were in it as you are now. You were running, and you were holding a baby. Then there was a bright flash, and then I woke up.’ Hermes looked as if a cold chill had caught him by surprise, and he gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Do you remember anything else?’
‘No’ she said. Hermes nodded, before his shoulders relaxed.
; ‘Where are we?’ said Hermes, yawning again, as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings of the living room where they had spent the night. Near to the wooden chair where Hermes had slept stood a large stone hearth that still gave out some warmth from the firewood burned in it the night before. In another corner stood a cabinet-come-bookshelf laden with ecclesiastical books in fanciful bindings. Nearby a small round table lay strewn with hardened bread, and food scraps from the hasty meal eaten the night before. In the feeble twilight that struggled to enter the dim room, between the gaps in the shutters, Hermes figured that they were in a basement dwelling.
Antonio lay asleep on the floor beside the fire swaddled in a green blanket, except for a tuft of his blond hair that had escaped from the wrapping he had made for himself: looking like an ear of corn. Hermes observed the blanketed figure on the floor, smiled, and recalled that Antonio had insisted that he take the chair, before offering a makeshift bed to Illawara. Antonio had then laid himself down by the fire as if he were a street urchin - ignoring any discomfort he may have felt.
Illawara lay draped across a wooden bench, softened with a scrap of an old mattress, and clung to her blanket, decorated with flowers, with a listless expression. She looked like Ophelia in her river as she gazed up empty headed to the ceiling as if waiting for the ceiling to speak back to her. Hermes turned to look back at her - her face pale - but thought it best to leave Illawara alone.
Instead, the youth turned away and crept across the room to open a door, before halting to ponder the playing cards and dice that lay strewn upon the lower shelf of the book cabinet. The door creaked behind Hermes as he walked into the passageway, and smelled the scent of cooking. Hermes crossed the stone floor, almost in darkness, and followed his nose. The smells of frying pork lead him into the kitchen via a side door. Inside he found a man standing over a frying pan, and wood-burning stove, pushing sizzling cubes of pancetta around with a spoon and looking out through a window into an enclosed courtyard.
The Hermeporta Beyond the Gates of Hermes Page 14