Maestro Ambrogio much preferred the nightly vigil to the daylight procession. Something magical happened to people when they carried light into darkness; the fire spread to their souls, and if one looked carefully, the wonder could be observed in their eyes.
But tonight he could not participate in the procession as he usually did. Since he had commenced the large frescoes in Palazzo Pubblico, the Siena magistrates had been treating him like one of their own—undoubtedly because they wanted to ensure that he painted them in a flattering light—and so here he was, stuck on a podium with the Nine, the Biccherna magistrates, the Captain of War, and the Captain of the People. The only consolation was that the perch offered him a full view of the night’s spectacle; the musicians in their scarlet uniforms, the drummers and flag throwers with their insignia, the priests in flowing robes, and the candlelit procession that would go on until every contrada had paid its respects to the divine queen who held her protective cape over them all.
There was no mistaking the Tolomei family at the head of the procession from the contrada of San Cristoforo. Dressed in the red and gold of their coat of arms, Messer Tolomei and his wife had the demeanor of royalty approaching their thrones as they walked up the nave towards the main altar. Immediately behind them came a group of Tolomei family members, and it did not take Maestro Ambrogio long to spot Giulietta among them. Even though her hair was covered by blue silk—blue for the innocence and majesty of the Virgin Mary—and even though her face was illuminated solely by the small wax candle in her piously folded hands, her loveliness easily eclipsed everything around her, even the beautiful dowries of her cousins.
But Giulietta did not notice the admiring eyes following her all the way to the altar. Her thoughts were clearly for the Virgin Mary alone, and while everyone around her proceeded towards the high altar with the contentment of the gift giver, the girl had her eyes fixed on the floor until she was able to kneel with her cousins and hand her candle to the priests.
Getting up, she curtsied twice and turned to face the world. Only now did she seem to notice the grandeur surrounding her, and she swayed briefly underneath the vastness of the dome, regarding everything human with nervous curiosity. Maestro Ambrogio would have liked nothing more than to rush to her side to offer his humble assistance, but decency demanded that he stay where he was, and merely appreciate her beauty from a distance.
He was not the only one to notice her. The magistrates, who were busy making deals and shaking hands, fell silent when they saw Giulietta’s radiant face. And below the podium, standing close enough to look as if he belonged there, even the grand Messer Salimbeni eventually turned to see what had made everyone so silent. When he caught sight of the young woman, an expression of pleasant surprise spread over his face, and at that exact moment he reminded the Maestro of a fresco that had once caught his attention—when he was young and foolish—in a house of ill repute. The scene had depicted the ancient god Dionysus descending on the island of Naxos to find the princess Ariadne there, abandoned by her perfidious lover Theseus. The myth was vague about the outcome of the encounter between woman and god; some liked to think they flew away together in loving harmony, but others knew that encounters between humans and amorous gods can never have a happy end.
To compare Salimbeni to a divinity might be considered too kind, given his reputation. But then, those ancient pagan gods had been anything but benign and aloof; even though Dionysus had been the god of wine and celebration, he was only too ready to transform himself into the god of raving madness—a terrible force of nature that could seduce women into running wild in the forest and tearing apart animals with their bare hands.
Now, as he stood there looking at Giulietta across the floor of the cathedral, to the untrained eye Salimbeni looked all benevolence and abundance, but the Maestro could see that, beneath the man’s plush brocade, the transformation was already taking place.
“I say,” mumbled one of the Nine, loud enough for Maestro Ambrogio to hear, “Tolomei is full of surprises. Where did he keep her locked up all this time?”
“Do not jest,” replied the most senior of the magistrates, Niccolino Patrizi. “I hear that she was orphaned by one of Salimbeni’s gangs. They raided her home while she was in confession. I remember her father well. He was a rare man. I never could shake his integrity.”
The other man snorted. “Are you sure she was there? It would be unlike Salimbeni to let such a pearl slip between his fingers.”
“She was saved by a priest, I believe. Tolomei has taken them both under his protection.” Niccolino Patrizi sighed and took a drink of wine from his silver goblet. “I only hope this does not make the feud flare up again, now that we finally have it under control.”
…
MESSER TOLOMEI HAD been dreading the moment for weeks. He had known all along that on the vigil of Madonna Assunta he would be face-to-face with his enemy, that most odious of men, Salimbeni, and that his dignity demanded revenge for the death of Giulietta’s family. And so after bowing before the altar, he made his way towards the podium, seeking out Salimbeni among the nobles gathered below.
“Good evening to you, my dear friend!” Salimbeni opened his arms in a gesture of affection when he saw his old enemy approaching. “Your family, I hope, are in good health?”
“More or less,” replied Tolomei, his jaw tightening. “Some were recently lost to violence, as I am sure you have heard?”
“I heard a rumor,” said Salimbeni, his gesture of friendship turning into a dismissive shrug, “but I never trust rumors.”
“Then I am more fortunate,” replied Tolomei, towering over the other both in stature and manner, yet unable to dominate him, “for I have eyewitnesses who are ready to swear with their hand on the Bible.”
“Indeed?” Salimbeni looked away, as if he was already bored with the subject. “What court would be foolish enough to hear them?”
A pregnant silence followed the question. Tolomei, and everyone around him, knew he was challenging a power that could squash him and destroy everything he had—life, liberty, and property—in a matter of hours. And the magistrates would do nothing to protect him. There was too much Salimbeni gold in their private coffers, and too much more to come, for any of them to desire the tyrant’s downfall.
“My dear friend,” Salimbeni went on, his benevolent smirk returning, “I hope you do not let these faraway events ruin your evening. You should rather congratulate yourself that our fighting days are over, and that we can enter the future in peace and understanding.”
“And this is what you call peace and understanding?”
“Perhaps we might consider”—Salimbeni looked across the room, and everyone but Tolomei could see what he was looking at—“sealing our peace with a marriage?”
“But certainly!” Tolomei had proposed the same measure several times before, but had always been refused. If the Salimbenis were to join in the Tolomei blood, he figured, surely they would be inclined to spill less of it.
Anxious to strike while the iron was hot, he summoned his wife impatiently from across the floor. It took a few waves before Monna Antonia finally dared to believe that the men desired her presence, and she joined them with uncharacteristic humility, sidling up nervously to Salimbeni like a slave before an unpredictable master.
“My dear friend Messer Salimbeni,” Tolomei explained to her, “has proposed a marriage between our families. What do you say, my dear? Would not that be a marvelous thing?”
Monna Antonia wrung her hands in flattered excitement. “Indeed it would. A marvelous thing.” She nearly curtsied to Salimbeni before addressing him directly. “Since you are kind enough to propose it, Messere, I have a daughter, recently thirteen, who would not be entirely inappropriate for your own very handsome son, Nino. She is a silent little thing, but healthy. She stands over there”—Monna Antonia pointed across the floor—“next to my firstborn, Tebaldo, who will ride in the Palio tomorrow, as perhaps you know. And if you lose her, ther
e is always her younger sister, who is now eleven.”
“I thank you for the generous offer, dear lady,” said Salimbeni, indicating a bow of perfect courtesy, “but I was not thinking of my son. I was thinking of myself.”
Tolomei and Monna Antonia both gaped in speechless amazement. All around them, there was a spontaneous outburst of disbelief, soon curbed into a nervous murmur, and even on the podium everyone followed the developments below with intense apprehension.
“Who,” Salimbeni went on, oblivious to the commotion, “is that?” He nodded in the direction of Giulietta. “Was she married before?”
Some of Tolomei’s former anger returned to his voice as he said, “That is my niece. She alone survived the tragic events I just mentioned. I believe she lives only to seek vengeance on those responsible for the slaughter of her family.”
“I see.” Salimbeni looked anything but discouraged. In fact, he seemed to relish the challenge. “A spirited one, is she?”
Monna Antonia could remain silent no longer, and stepped eagerly forward. “Very much so, Messere. A thoroughly unpleasant girl. I am confident that you would be much better off taking one of my daughters. They will not object.”
Salimbeni smiled, mostly to himself. “As it is, I rather like a little objection.”
EVEN FROM A DISTANCE, Giulietta could feel the many eyes on her, and she hardly knew where to go to avoid the scrutiny. Her uncle and aunt had abandoned their kin to mingle with the other nobles, and she could see them talking to a man who exuded the comfort and magnanimity of an emperor, but who had the eyes of a lean and hungry animal. The unsettling thing was that those eyes were—with few interruptions—fixed on her.
Seeking refuge behind a column, she took a few deep breaths and told herself that all would be well. This morning, Friar Lorenzo had brought her a letter from Romeo saying that his father, Comandante Marescotti, would approach her uncle Tolomei with a proposal as soon as possible. Since receiving that letter, she had done little but pray to God that the proposal would be accepted, and that soon her dependency on the Tolomei family would be a thing of the past.
Peeking out from behind the column, Giulietta was able to make out her handsome Romeo in the crowd of nobles—unless she was mistaken, he was stretching and looking around for her, too, getting more and more frustrated that he could not see her anywhere—and next to him stood a man who could only be his father. She felt a surge of joy when she saw them, knowing that they were both determined to claim her as a member of their family, and when she saw them approaching her uncle Tolomei, she could barely contain herself. Moving discreetly closer, from column to column, she tried to bring herself within hearing range of the men without their discovering her presence. Fortunately for her, they were all too absorbed in their heated conversation to pay attention to anything else.
“Comandante!” exclaimed her uncle Tolomei, when he saw the Marescottis advancing. “Tell us, is the enemy at the gates?”
“The enemy,” replied Comandante Marescotti, nodding curtly at the man with the animal eyes standing next to her uncle, “is already here. His name is corruption, and he does not stop at the gate.” He paused briefly to allow for laughter. “Messer Tolomei, there is a matter of some delicacy that I would like to discuss with you. Privately. When may I pay you a visit?”
Tolomei looked at Comandante Marescotti, clearly mystified. The Marescottis might not have the riches of the Tolomeis, but the torch of history shone upon their name, and the Marescotti family tree had surely sprouted in the camp of Charlemagne, five centuries ago, if not in Eden itself. Nothing, Giulietta suspected, would please her uncle Tolomei more than to enter into a business venture with someone of that name. And so he turned his back to the man with the animal eyes and opened his arms. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
Comandante Marescotti hesitated, unhappy about the public setting and the ears surrounding them on all sides. “I cannot imagine,” he said, diplomatically, “that Messer Salimbeni would find our business very entertaining.”
Hearing the name Salimbeni, Giulietta felt her whole body stiffen with fear. Only now did she realize that this man with the animal eyes—the one who had elicited motions of humility from Monna Antonia just a moment ago—was the man responsible for the murder of her family. She had spent many hours imagining what this monster might look like in person, and now that he finally stood before her, she was shocked to see that, apart from his eyes, he did not look the part.
She had imagined someone square and unforgiving, whose whole body was built for war and molestation; instead she saw a man who had surely never wielded a weapon of his own, and who looked as if his arts were those of rhetoric and the dining room. There could be no greater contrast between two men than there was between Comandante Marescotti and Messer Salimbeni; one was an expert at war, yet desired nothing but peace, the other had civility draped around him as a robe, but, underneath his fine fabrics, lusted for conflict.
“You are mistaken, Comandante,” said Salimbeni, enjoying his own power over the conversation, “I am always intrigued by any business that cannot wait until morning. And as you know, Messer Tolomei and I are the best of friends; surely he would not scorn my”—Salimbeni was honest enough to chuckle at his own choice of words—“humble advice on his very important business affairs.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Comandante, wisely bowing out, “but you are right. This can wait until the morning.”
“No!” Romeo was incapable of walking away without having stated their business, and he stepped abruptly forward before his father could hold him back. “It cannot wait! Messer Tolomei, I wish to marry your niece, Giulietta.”
Tolomei was so utterly surprised at the straightforward proposition that an immediate response was impossible. He was not the only one silenced by Romeo’s impulsive interference in the men’s discussion; everywhere around them, people were stretching to see who would have the nerve to speak next. Behind the column, Giulietta held a hand to her mouth; she was thoroughly moved by Romeo’s determination, but horrified that he had spoken so impulsively, against his father’s wishes.
“As you can hear,” said Comandante Marescotti, with remarkable calm, to the gaping Tolomei, “I would like to propose a marriage between my oldest son, Romeo, and your niece, Giulietta. I am sure you know that we are a family of means as well as reputation, and, with all due respect, I believe I can promise that your niece would experience no decrease in comfort or status. After my death and upon the succession of my son, Romeo, as patron of the family, she will become mistress of a large consortium comprising many households and extensive territory, the details of which I have outlined in a document. When would be a good time for us to visit, that I may give you the document in person?”
Tolomei did not reply. Odd shadows traversed his face, like sharks circling their victims beneath the water’s surface, and he was clearly in a state of anguish, searching for a way out.
“If you are concerned,” Comandante Marescotti went on, not entirely pleased with the hesitation of the other, “for her happiness, it is my good fortune to be able to assure you that my son has no objections to the marriage.”
When Tolomei finally spoke, his voice held little encouragement. “Most generous Comandante,” he said, grimly, “you do me a great honor by making such a proposal. I shall peruse your document and consider your offer—”
“You shall do no such thing!” Salimbeni stepped in between the two men, furious to have been ignored. “I consider this matter settled.”
Comandante Marescotti took a step back. He might be an army commander and always prepared for foul sneak attacks, but Salimbeni was more dangerous than any foreign enemy. “Excuse us!” he said. “I believe Messer Tolomei and I were having a conversation.”
“You may have all the conversations you like,” Salimbeni shot back, “but that girl is mine. It is my one condition to maintain this ridiculous peace.”
Due to the general uproar following Sali
mbeni’s outrageous demand, no one heard Giulietta’s cry of horror. Crouched behind the column, she pressed both hands against her mouth and sent up an urgent prayer that she had somehow misunderstood the men’s conversation, and that the girl in question was not her, but someone else.
When she finally dared look again, she saw her uncle Tolomei stepping around Salimbeni to address Comandante Marescotti, his face contorted in embarrassment. “Dear Comandante,” he said, his voice unsteady, “this is, as you say, a delicate matter. But surely, we can come to some agreement—”
“Indeed!” His wife, Monna Antonia, finally dared speak again, this time to throw herself obsequiously at the frowning Comandante. “I have a daughter, fully thirteen, who would be an excellent wife for your son. She stands over there—see?”
The Comandante did not even turn his head to look. “Messer Tolomei,” he said, with as much patience as he could still muster, “our proposal is for your niece Giulietta alone. And you would do well in consulting her on the matter. These are not the barbarous ages, where a woman’s wishes can just be ignored—”
“The girl belongs to me!” snapped Tolomei, angry that his wife had intervened, and unhappy to be the victim of a lecture, “and I can do with her as I choose. I thank you for your interest, Comandante, but I have other plans for her.”
“I advise you to consider this more carefully,” said Comandante Marescotti, taking a warning step forward. “The girl is attached to my son, whom she considers her savior, and she will most certainly give you grief if you ask her to marry someone else. Especially someone”—he cast a disgusted glance at Salimbeni—“who does not seem to appreciate the tragedy that befell her family.”