Praise for Alchemist Gift

"a style reminiscent of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magical realism"

-Red City Review, www.redcityreview.com

"Alchemist Gift is a thought-provoking journey through time."

-Red City Review, www.redcityreview.com

"WOW! This story creates characters that you really grow to love and respect.”

-Amanda Craven, Editor

“With worlds you can see as if you were watching a movie, and characters that are so

dynamic they could be your next door neighbor, this book transports you through time

and space to a magical place.”

-Amanda Craven, Editor

“The author has done his homework on the Renaissance period of the late 1400s, early

1500s. He captures the politics, culture and religion of the times through five love

stories.”

-Mary Ellen Wilson, Editor

“Read this thoughtful and earthy story with its many intricately woven subplots that

culminate in a satisfying ending, but you’ll still wish for more...5 stars!”

-Regina Brunton

“Lyrical, fascinating ...vivid settings, colorful characters capture the era in a tale of lust,

love, intrigue, betrayal and redemption...well written and enthralling...5 Stars”

-Tomas Gayton, author of “Long Journey Home” available at Amazon

Alchemist Gift

We are all one.

We always have been and will always be.

We are a mirror to all and the measure of none.

Mark Giglio

Copyright 2014 Mark Giglio

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9903879-0-9

Table of Contents

Praise for Alchemist Gift

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

PART I PRESENT DAY SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA THE STUFF OF DREAMS

1502 Outskirts of Terra Sanctus Republic of Venice All theWorld Is a Stage

The Miracle of the Witches

And So You Shall Reap

ROLAND’S SONG

NOT IN THE STARS

But in Ourselves

SUCH AS WE ARE MADE

So Foul and Fair a Day

Reflection

A Gift of Chance

Merely Players

Let No One Who Loves Be Unhappy

The Serpent’s Tooth

Respite

Wills and Fates

Some Rise by Sin

Some Fall by Virtue

There Is No Darkness But Ignorance

THE TRUTH IN A LIE

For It Is in the Giving that We Receive

Steps Taken

Suspicion Always Haunts

The Bud

The Blossom

Treasure Most Unexpected

To Those Who Wait

A Young Man’s Fortune

Passage

The Flower

The Light of a Single Candle

The Long Shadow

Life

Hands

DESTINED DESTINATION

Rite and Ritual

Creation

The Eternal Nature of Being

Darkest Fate

Part 11 1523 Ancestral Home of Rene Hermes Outside of Adler Lager, Bavaria

Deeds

Stories Twice Told

Best Laid Plans

Silenced Hearts

Absolute Corruption

Comes the Tempest

Tabula Rasa

Ever Mindful

Morning’s Light

The Return

In the Looking Glass

Echos of Echos

And the Veil Shall Be Lifted

Candle under the Sun

Inescapable

Enter the Pawn

Love’s Labor

The Farewell

Transmutation

Transcendence

To the Victor Go the Rewards

The Feel of Gold

Four Years Later Hermes Ancestral Home

EPILOGUE

Appendix

About the Author, Mark Giglio

Alchemist Gift Family Trees

Book Club Discussion Topics

Excerpt from the Next Novel Curious Journey

Alchemist Gift Art Furniture

Author’s Note

Alchemist Gift is an historical novel set in the present day and Renaissance Italy and

Bavaria. The story is one of lost love, self realization and redemption told through the

relationships of five different love stories. There is an element of spiritual fantasy in the

novel, grounded in, let’s just say miraculous occurrences along with a light peppering of

just good old inexplicable magic.

Alchemist Gift is populated by many resilient and strong women. None of them are

“strong for a woman.” They are strong human beings who have learned how to deal with

what life has given them. When I was doing my research I couldn’t believe how the

attitudes and the second class treatment of over half the human race hadn’t changed much

over the last five hundred years. Some sad countries still put women on trial for

witchcraft.

Not all of my characters are kind and giving. Some are selfish and terrible and of

course they don’t even know it. You’ll meet the modern day protagonist Roland Hughes

who is stuck in a rut and gets his wish for a clean slate but also an unexpected trip back in

time to the stage set for him by the long suffering Amelia and Farintino, Farintino’s brut

of a father Fausto, the good daughter Marcella, free thinking master furniture maker

Cesare Lippo, kindhearted Contessa Rosalba and her tragic daughter Rosanera, beautiful,

ambitious but drawn to her darker side and distruction, and Roland’s salvation, Sofia

Hermes.

I’ve always loved history and I’ve always loved to write. I earned a degree in

creative writing but became a furniture maker by trade. On a suggestion I merged both

loves, writing and furniture making and featured one of my pieces of art furniture, the

Alchemist Cabinet, in the novel, Alchemist Gift.

The novel actually started out as a screen play. I do like the screen play, but my

characters demanded more of me and by expanding the screenplay into a novel I was able

to add depth not only to the characters but to the themes of time, alternate realities and

the plight of women.

Acknowledgements

Alchemist Gift thanks Ellen Siders, cover artist; Mary Ellen Wilson, editor; Amanda

Craven, editor; and Tomas Gayton for editorial assistance.

Thank you to the following persons for their generous support enabling the

production and distribution of Alchemist Gift: Adam Giglio, Virgil Giglio, Mary Gray

Perez, Terri and Salvado Luna, Noah Wilson, Mary Ellen Wilson, Expert Home

Solutions Inc., Poetic Matrix Press, John Peterson, Joseph Milosch, and Tomas Gayton.

PART I

PRESENT DAY SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Roland Hughes blindly felt his way along the rough stone walls of a dark, narrow

alleyway as he moved toward the hazy light and the muffled sound of voices. The

alleyway opened into a piazza packed with people who stood shoulder to shoulder under

a gray sky. They jostled and talked and laughed. From his studies, Roland guessed they

might be speaking a dialect of medieval Italian.

His movements were sluggish and unsure. There was no cohesion between time and

motion, just flickering images as the people around him moved freeze frame by freeze

frame. Even though he smelled the smells of flesh, heard the people speak and shivered

with them when a cold breeze swept through the piazza, Roland felt apart, unseen, no

more than a shadow.

He took a few labored steps into the crowd of tanned skin men and women. Most

had long, dark, oily hair. Some of the men and boys wore brimless caps and some

oversized berets. Their linen shirts were ivory colored with wide collars and lacing

instead of buttons. Their pants were drab and baggy and came to mid-calf. The older girls

covered their heads with bright kerchiefs and the women with shawls. Their blouses were

embroidered and had billowy sleeves. All the women wore ankle length outer skirts.

Some had on short jackets and others wore vests. Both men and women were shod in

something that looked like a cross between a shoe and a sandal, wooden clogs or went

barefoot.

The campanile bell tolled twelve times. Everyone became quiet. Roland turned with

the crowd and looked toward the city gate. The people gave a cheer as a light blue, gold

trimmed, horse drawn carriage entered. The carriage stopped and a beautifully dressed

woman stepped out of the carriage and with the aid of an attendant mounted a few

wooden steps onto a narrow platform arranged with chairs. The beautiful lady was

greeted by two priests in black who led her to her raised seat.

Another man on the platform stood and spoke. The crowd hushed and listened. His

flamboyant gestures ignited the people. First a few men, then more and more shouted out:

“Burn them, burn them, burn them!”

“Roland! Hey sleepy head, come on, it’s past eight thirty.” Liz stood at the foot of

the bed and made little crab pinches at Roland’s foot that stuck out from under the

covers. He half-opened his eyes. The pillow under his head was damp with sweat and

cool against his face when he turned from his back to his side. He was passing through

that borderland between dream and reality. His dream was not of the run-of-the-mill kind,

the kind delivered by an exasperated subconscious nudging you to move on or fix

something in your waking life.

Roland looked up and pulled his foot in. “Oh, it’s you.” He laid his head back down

on the pillow and closed his eyes.

She repeated his words in a goofy cartoon voice, “Oh, it’s you.” Liz continued in

her normal voice, “Gee, thanks a lot. Come on, get up. It’s a beautiful Saturday here in

paradise.” Liz went to the window and pulled up the mini blinds.

Roland rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “Why do I have to get up

again?” he yawned.

“Because we’re going to The Edelweiss for breakfast, and then the street fair on

Adams Avenue, remember? We just talked about it Thursday.”

“Oh yeah, that.” He barely disguised his lack of enthusiasm.

Liz’s smiled faded, “You feel okay?” She put her hand on his forehead. “Where’s

your thermometer?”

He gently pushed her hand away. “I feel fine,” he snapped but then he softened his

tone and continued, “I feel fine, it’s this darn dream I just had. It was so real. I mean,

really real.”

“I hope you didn’t have a nightmare.” Liz sat on the very edge of the bed.

“No, no nightmare, but it was like I was really there. I’m positive they were

speaking this old Italian dialect. I was just doing research on it the other day. Everybody

was dressed in medieval or renaissance clothing. Liz, I could feel these people brush up

against me and smell them. It was just too weird.” He sat up, threw the covers back and

got out of bed.

“What happened in the dream?”

“Nothing really, we were all waiting for something to happen. Everyone was getting

excited. I would have found out if I didn’t get woke up.” He picked his pants up off the

chair, looked at them closely, scratched at a glob of something stuck on the knee and

tossed them on the bed.

“You’re not going to shower?” Liz crossed her arms and hoped he would. For as

long as she knew him, it was a certainty her Roland’s mood improved when he took a

shower, even more so if she joined him. But of late she had taken herself off his menu.

Roland pulled the gray T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the bed. He dropped

his sweat pants to the floor, stepped out of them and stood there in his underwear. “I’m

putting on a clean shirt and pants. Will that do?” Lately, he balked like a defiant child at

any of Liz’s suggestions.

“Of course sweetheart, that’s fine with me. I was just thinking of you. I know how a

shower makes you feel better.”

Roland did not reply. He went into the bathroom, washed his face and brushed his

teeth. He pinched up his hair here and there and held it in place with a little bit of gel. He

decided not to shave but gave himself a few squirts of aftershave for good measure.

While he was out of the room, Liz folded Roland’s sweat pants and T-shirt and

made the bed. When she finished, she lay on her back crosswise on the bed and looked up

through the skylight at the cloudy sky.

Roland looked at Liz and lay on his back next to her. He took her hand. “I don’t

know what’s bugging me. I guess I’m just sick of being broke all the time.” He spoke

with a tinge of self-deprecation.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I make enough. The rent is cheap enough for you to stay

here for as long as you need to.”

It was true. The rent was dirt cheap, a rarity for San Diego, but the accommodations

and location weren’t the greatest either. With his part time job and student loans, he could

just make it. Liz generously helped out with enough money to keep him relatively

comfortable right where he was.

“It‘s taking forever to get that darn Master’s degree. I have to publish something

and then try to get a teaching position.” Roland shook his head.

“You just have to keep working at it sweetie. It’ll come.” Liz took a strand of her

chestnut hair and wound it around her finger.

“I just feel like I’ve been doing everything wrong and for way too long.” Roland

was referring not only to his long student career but to the change in their relationship.

“It didn’t help that you changed majors twice.” Liz’s statement was meant as a

gentle observation, not a scold. She smiled and continued, “But I was there to help you

through it.”

“Yes you were,” he said defensively and then added, “I should have dropped out.”

“I made sure you didn’t have to.” He needed financial help and as usual, she was

there for him. Liz let go of Roland’s hand, grabbed his knee and pulled herself up to a

sitting position. “Come on now, cheer up. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Why

don’t we get going?”

“It’ll have to be your treat, again,” he said dryly.

“It’s okay. You’ll have plenty of chances to take me to breakfast.”

“Plenty, I guess.” He sat up and put his arm around Liz’s shoulder and tried to pull

her back down on the bed.

“Hey, knock it off.” She wiggled away from him and stood. “You can’t have it both

ways, you know.” Liz referred to the non-answer Roland gave her when she said they

should move in together.

Liz had known Roland since the sixth grade. At that time, Liz was living with Mr.

and Mrs. White. They were kind and protective. The Whites married a little too late for

children, were uncomfortable with the ongoing responsibility of adoption, and decided to

remedy their desire to nurture by becoming foster parents.

Prior to living with the Whites, Liz lived in six different homes. The first two homes

were crowded and took her on for the money. She was too young to realize that. The third

placement ended when her foster mother collapsed and died on the kitchen floor due to a

ruptured aneurysm. Her fourth stay came to an end when the parents who were desperate

for work left the state. She was eight. They dropped her off at social services. She had her

clothes and belongings in a black trash bag. The fifth set of parents were smokers and

that is when Liz found out she was asthmatic. The sixth parent, a single man was arrested

before he could practice his pedophilia on her.

Mr. and Mrs. White’s upstairs two bedroom apartment on Meade Avenue was Liz’s

final stop. Liz was the new girl again. This time it was Mr. McCloud’s sixth grade class.

He assigned Roland and Liz as science partners. They had to make the classic paper-

mache volcano. There was a spark between the two even then.

Roland and Liz had an on again, off again puppy love affair through their high

school and college years up until two months ago. That is when Roland finally entered

the Master’s Program. At twenty eight, Liz needed something more from Roland. Their

relationship had become lackadaisical and stagnant. Lately, she found him emotionally

remote and moody.

Roland tried to cup Liz’s breast with his hand, “Why can’t we have a little fun? I

know you want to.” She pushed him away and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Are we going or not?” Liz fought the urge to fall on the bed next to him and fool

around. Sometimes Liz was angry with herself because of how much she needed and

loved him or angry with him for being insensitive and indecisive.

Roland changed his tack. “How about just one little kiss? Or two or maybe three,

then we can see if anything comes up.” Roland gave Liz his playful smile and loosely

grabbed at her wrist.

“Be fair, you agreed with me we should take a break from each other and make sure

our relationship is not just about the sex.”

“So, what’s the matter with sex? Anyway this no touchy thing was your big idea,

not my idea,” Roland chided.

His defensive mood and her serious mood charged the air with something palatable

to neither. The situation did not escalate or abate but slipped into an unsatisfying status

quo.

It was Liz who spoke first, “Come on honey, I want to take you to breakfast now.”

“Yeah, we both need something.” He made himself smile when he spoke.

They left his granny flat and headed around back to the alley, onto 30th

Street and

down University Avenue. Liz had to quicken her pace to keep up with Roland. She took

his hand in hers and held it tightly to slow him down.

1502

Outskirts of Terra Sanctus

Republic of Venice

All theWorld Is a Stage

1

On the crisp morning of the autumnal equinox, Adamo Lucci was instructed by the

Patrona Mezzi to clear away the ragged remnants of the dead tree that some said was as

old as time itself. The tree of the apple variety was some fifty feet tall and grew outside

the vine covered walls of her courtyard just beyond a broad footpath that passed by the

front gates. The tree was already mature when the villa was built.

Some one hundred and seventy years before, a stranger returning from the East

carried with him a sack of apples to sustain himself on his journey. He absently spat out a

seed from the apple he ate. The seed fell onto the wet and warm soil on that particular

spring day. In time, the seed split and sent out a cautious root that deliberatively pushed

its way down and found solace as it entwined itself around a heart shaped stone. The seed

also sent out a hopeful leaf upward, then another and another and another. Time passed

and the apple tree grew to be the largest and fullest apple tree of any of its ancestors. The

tree held within its rings the knowledge of rains both gentle and harsh, soft breezes,

scorching summer days and crystal winter nights.

Its gnarled branches spread heavenward and welcomed the honey rays of the

morning sun, tempered the heat of midday and embraced the shifting hues of twilight’s

lavender to gold to burnt- orange and finally the cobalt velvet of night.

The tree gave life and home to many generations of wrens, owls, sparrows and

ravens, chickadees and doves. The occasional falcon might alight at the very top branches

for a good viewing of the surrounding fields. In spring bees were drawn to its fragrant

blossoms that lay lightly on the russet twigs of new growth. The tree hummed as the

troupes of bees preformed their delicate husbandry from blossom to blossom.

When the apples formed and ripened, they were so very sweet and succulent that

travelers made a new round about path and abandoned the one made by the Roman

armies on their way to Gaul just to pass by the tree to enjoy its shade and to eat its fruit.

The shaded area under the tree had an inviting and earthy scent, especially after it rained.

In the summer, its leaves afforded a shady retreat and trysting place for lovers

young and old. A parade of eager students, tired laborers, pretty young maidens,

wandering philosophers, religious zealots, pious pilgrims, soldiers, minstrels, orphans,

peddlers, thieves and beggars, all found a place to rest, refresh and reflect.

Under that leafy canopy, a subtle exchange took place between the tree and this

stream of humanity. As it did with the rain and the sun the tree also absorbed the passions

and secrets, hopes and wisdom, desires and depravities of its many visitors as they sat

and ate, schemed and dreamed. These flitting emanations were captured in the web work

of the tree’s leaves and flowed into its branches and downward deep into its roots. The

communion gave the tree a soul and a simple notion of good and evil. This knowledge

coursed through every cell of the tree and burst forth giving its fruit curative and thought

provoking qualities. Those who ate the apples were inclined to follow their bent.

Il Patron Mezzi was proud to have this tree on his property. Since the Villa Mezzi

was remote, all pilgrims were given a Christian welcome. At times, Il Signore would chat

with those select pilgrims whom he knew to be landed or of noble blood. He and La

Signora had a kind word for anyone who brought news or an interesting story to share.

Everyone was welcome to drink from the spring on the villa side of the path. The iron

entrance gates were locked and only noblemen or clergymen (excluding monks and

friars) were welcome inside the villa’s walls.

More and more people heard of the Sacred Tree. There was the story of the little

lame girl who regained the use of her leg after just one bite of an apple, or the blind

soldier whose sight was restored when he splashed apple juice into his eyes. Some

accounts had a kernel of truth, others were fanciful fabrications. The people listened and

the people came. Along with those who sought a cure for their ailments or looked for

spiritual renewal or confidence to follow their dreams, also came those who found

advantage in the hopes and weaknesses of others.

At the end of harvest time, when most of the apples were picked and the remaining

few were bird pecked or more bruised than not, the path was lined with tents and stalls

and folding tables. There were honest sellers who offered the simple necessities such as

bread, wine, cheese and honey. The clever and crafty ones, offered apples they bought at

market for a copper or two. They claimed the fruit was from the Sacred Tree and sold

them for as much as they could.

A smug competition grew amongst the members of this dishonest brotherhood.

They agreed not to sell any apple for under a half silver Florin. The high mark to beat

was six gold pieces for a single apple bought by a merchant from Padua hoping to regain

his youth and virility. If a customer complained, he or she was told that one apple may

not be enough to affect a cure or a change, and a cure depended on the faith the pilgrim

had in the fruit and in God.

One fine morning La Signora Mezzi accompanied by her youngest daughter of

seven years, Nina, was cutting roses for the house. The rose garden was a compact

diamond-shaped area in the center of the courtyard a few paces in from the front gates.

Nina was a happy little girl. She had on a light blue apron over her dress and her brand

new green slippers just like her mama’s. A hummingbird flitted between mother and

daughter and hovered so close each could feel the subtle stir of air made by the iridescent

bird’s wings. It delighted them both. Nina took great care and pride in her task. She

smiled at her mother as she held the basket up for the next rose. There were already six

beautiful, fragrant, deep red roses nestled in the basket.

From where La Signora and her daughter stood they were able to watch the goings

on under the apple tree. Their delicate sensibilities were disturbed by a loud and crass

argument between an angry pilgrim, who wanted his money back, and one of the

schemers selling the false fruit. After some cursing and shoving, La Signora and Nina

caught the glint of an ivory handled dagger as it wheeled through the air and plunged into

the pilgrim’s chest. The man grabbed at his bleeding wound. Blood trickled from

between his fingers and down the front of his shirt. He fell to his knees, then back onto

his heels and to an ungainly position onto his back with his legs tucked under him. He lay

there and clumsily tried to sit up. With great effort, he rolled to his side. His legs pulled

to his chest until his knees were under his chin. He closed his eyes, whimpered, let out a

death rattle, and died.

La Signora was horrified. Nina dropped the basket and the roses fell out onto the

ground. Nina put her arms around her mother’s waist and buried her face in her mother’s

stomach. The murderer ran only to be stopped by other pilgrims who severely beat him.

He was tied by the wrists behind to an oxcart and led back down the pathway to the town.

He was hanged a month later.

Il Signore Mezzi needed to protect his family. He was angry with himself for not

doing something sooner. He hated confrontation and more than once overlooked the base

behavior of some of the pilgrims to maintain the status quo. He very much enjoyed being

the host of such a wonder. Il Signore liked the way people asked him for permission to

pick the fruit which was something he never denied. Enough was enough. Now, this

terrible murder happened right in front of his wife and darling daughter. Nina, though not

overtly affected by what she witnessed, could never, from that day on, look at a rose and

not think of death.

He understood the value and importance of the Sacred Tree, but more so his family.

On his orders, a tall mud and wattle wall was built around the Tree. The eight foot high

circular wall covered a large area. It had a small heavy door that a grown man would

have to stoop to pass through. Il Signore had the only key. Il Signore had the branches

trimmed to confine the fruit to his most singular orchard. He sent away the vendors and

charlatans. He had the monsignor announce at mass that pilgrims would only be able to

visit after the summer solstice until the end of harvest time.

La Signora and Il Signore along with the monsignor and Mayor Renaldi decided it

best that La Familia Mezzi be the sole stewards of the Tree. The Mezzis saw no reason

why they should not find the Sacred Tree fruitful spiritually and monetarily. Il Signore or

La Signora would distribute the fruit. On a strong suggestion from La Signora, they

would collect what she thought a fair price and of course giving a tenth share to the

church. They would also cater to the immediate needs of the visitors by offering the same

fare the food vendors did. La Famiglia Mezzi could make a very tidy sum, and why

should they not? They looked forward with an easy eagerness for the next groups of

pilgrims and the coins they would spend.

Then on a terrible afternoon in October, a stinging wind twisted and tormented the

tree. The howling gusts stripped its branches naked of the few remaining leaves. The

wind bullied the tree; tugged at its very soul. The roots held fast, clinging to the heart

shaped stone as if for dear life. Along with the wind came rain, not the gentle rains of

March or April, but torrents of chilled rain interspersed with hail. All of this was in the

dark company of crashing thunder and devilish lightning. The unthinkable came to pass.

A bolt of lightning struck like a silver serpent from the blackness above and made a

searing wound down the tree’s side and deep into its roots. In minutes, the rain turned to

a drizzle. The wind faded to a breeze and the breeze pushed the clouds off to the west.

Half the tree lived, and in time the other half withered and died. The half that lived

bore very little fruit and it was small and knotted and pitted with little black dots. This

bitter fruit grew on the very highest branches making it irretrievable.

Word spread and the wide path that was made by so many travelers over so many

years now was seldom used; the grasses and wild flowers grew, and all but a foot path

crisscrossed with animal trails remained. The mud and wattle wall fell to ruin as Signore

Mezzi never got around to having it whitewashed, and the woven wattle was scavenged

for firewood. Only the short door and its casing stood upright.

One morning a soldier rode down that overgrown path, arrived at the villa and

called out Signore Mezzi. The order was for firewood. Six witches were to be burned in

the piazza. Signore Mezzi took it as a great honor to contribute to the cleansing. He

ordered Franco Lucci the father of Adamo to cut down the dead apple tree, stack it in his

cart and deliver the wood to the mayor and the monsignor for the burning. Franco’s axe

did not stop from sunrise to sunset. Adamo, a strong boy of twelve, armed with a bow

saw cut the larger branches into manageable sections and loaded the cart sometimes with

the help of his father and sometimes not. After two days, the wood was loaded and driven

to the town square. The mayor sent his clerk to accept the gift from the Mezzi family.

The parish priest, Father Eduardo, came out, sprinkled the wood with holy water and

gave the two woodsmen his blessing. Franco and Adamo bowed, thanked the priest many

times and headed back to Signor Mezzi.

Franco received a silver Florin for his work and he related to Signore Mezzi how the

mayor’s assistant sent the mayor’s thanks. The mayor said he hoped the signore and

family were in good health and he was looking forward to their attendance at the burning.

Franco also mentioned how Father Eduardo blessed the wood with holy water and even

gave him and Adamo a blessing.

The Miracle of the Witches

The following Sunday, the day of the burning, was crisp and cloudy. The clouds were

bilious and silver gray and filled the heavens; small patches of blue sky and rays of

golden sunlight occasioned through. Unseen in the distance, veils of rain gently trailed

from the clouds. In some places, the first of the raindrops were big and scattered and they

pocked the tawny dust. In other places, a fine mist barely wetted the pathways leaving

behind a fragile crust.

Father Eduardo Silva said mass that morning. The modest sized church, Our Lady

of Divine Mercy, was completed in 1146. Its vaulted ceiling seemed held on high by the

delicate gilded tracery that knotted into itself forming the capitals of the smooth marble

columns. The tracery exploded into a fantasy of sweeping arcs and impossible curves that

lead to the next column and the next from the back of the church to the altar. High narrow

windows, each a station of the cross, told of the sad and painful journey Jesus took his

last day on earth. The stained glass artists crudely captured the grotesque and the sublime.

At a certain time of morning, the sun shone through these brilliant shards and fell upon

the faithful in colors of amber and scarlet and cerulean.

The mass was coming to its end. The scent of myrrh hung in a swirling haze above

the church goers and lazily wafted throughout the nave into the alcoves and apse and up

to the choir loft. Father Eduardo, clad in his heavily brocaded green and gold vestments,

faced the parishioners. He stood under the large cross with its painted wooden Jesus

frozen in the ecstatic pain of eternal crucifixion. As the last of the faithful returned to

their seats after taking communion, Father Eduardo held the gleaming, golden chalice

above his head, lowered it, placed the chalice on the marble alter, wiped it clean with a

linen handkerchief, folded the handkerchief and set it on top of the chalice. With the last

sweeping sign of the cross the priest uttered, “Dominus vobiscum.” His flock rejoined

with “Et cum spiritu tuo.” The altar boys snuffed out the six ivory colored candles and

the tendrils of blue smoke drifted into eternity. The doors were opened. Sunlight flooded

into the vestibule and unrolled like a golden carpet down the center aisle. The richest and

oldest families sat in the first three pews closest to the altar and exited first. They were

given the greatest respect via subtle nods and hushed awe by the not so rich down to the

poorest who stood just inside the back of the church.

A dozen or so be-ragged beggars, some missing a hand or a leg occupied the outer

borders of the church steps. The collection of unfortunates looked lively and applied their

trade as the church emptied. A few coppers were usually dropped, but today the beggars

were all but ignored. Thoughts of the burning occupied everyone’s minds. Some

shuddered with inexplicable excitement and anticipation, others with fear of what they

were going to see and what they might hear when they closed or averted their eyes.

The piazza was ready. The six stakes were arranged in a semicircle. The open end of

the circle faced the dais that was erected for the occasion in front of the fountain. Signore

Mezzi’s wood was stacked neatly around each stake in a conical fashion. Lengths of

coarse rope were secured chest high on the stakes.

The dais was appointed with a red carpet bordered with gold fringe. In the center of

the dais was a gilded platform with a high-backed armchair upholstered in plush

burgundy colored velvet that was reserved for the Countessa Rosalba. On the dais, in

front of contessa’s chair, was a row of much shorter high-backed chairs without arms.

Bishop DiMars had already taken his seat, his hands resting comfortably on his fat little

belly as he twiddled his thumbs, a calming habit he formed as a young man. The bishop

smiled inwardly as he watched the crowd slowly swell. The other chairs were for Mayor

Renaldi, Monsignor Petri, and the parish priest, Father Eduardo Silva.

The bishop was not alone for very long. Monsignor Petri climbed the three stairs

and crossed the dais. He bowed to the bishop, kissed the bishop’s ring and sat in the chair

next to him. The two men had known each other for a very long time. Friends from

childhood and ordained together, their familiarity lead to a casual demeanor that, at times,

had to be checked in public. Petri, who was much less political and ambitious than his

contemporary DiMars, enjoyed his simple station. DiMars, who was ambitious and

political, had his eyes on the red togs of the cardinal since ordination. The bishop, taking

advantage of the conte’s absence, gladly signed the orders of execution on the six hapless

women. Being quite devout, he felt each heretic he brought to judgment put him a step

closer to God and his own goal of becoming a cardinal.

While these two churchmen chatted amiably in the open air, Father Eduardo was in

the sacristy carefully putting away his vestments. The serious young priest peered out the

window down onto the square. He felt impatient and uneasy as he watched the gathering

crowd. Having been transferred from the south, he had never witnessed a burning. He did

not know what to feel, mercy or righteousness. He tarried, not wanting to leave the haven

of the little room. Father Eduardo thoughtfully watched the people enter the piazza.

Some newcomers took seats on door stoops. Others, with a little help, perched on

garden walls. Bleary-eyed young men fresh from a night of whoring and drink straggled

in from the narrow alleys and found shade under awnings, balconies, or flower boxes.

They quietly nursed their hangovers and regretted their near empty purses. On the fringe,

leaning against walls or half hidden in the shadows of doorways were society’s necessary

undesirables: the drunks, the petty thieves, the fools and the fallen. These examples of sin

and degradation could be pointed to by decent people to affirm their own goodness and to

scare their sons and daughters into being good Christians just like themselves.

A half dozen prostitutes, made to wear red or stripes, sat in the bed of a hay wagon.

The Bruni twins, comely girls of eighteen, lay side by side on their backs holding hands.

Their legs dangled over the side of the wagon as they watched the lazy clouds. The

youngest, a girl of twelve, with curly red hair tied with a pink ribbon sat upright and

childishly swung her crossed legs to and fro while she said her rosary. The other three

women were older, silent and sullen. They looked to the past or to the future with sadness

in their eyes. Their pimps and patrons, never too far away, joked or argued as they stood

around an iron brazier and warmed themselves. The flames were small and the orange

coals gave off little puffs of white smoke now and then. The pickpockets also warmed

their hands by the brazier as they went over handoff strategies, searched out escape routes

and eyed naïve rubes and strangers who were there for the burning.

Simple families, the farmers, the semi-skilled and day laborers formed a ragged arc

furthest from the center of the piazza. These country folk were the buffer between the

decent townspeople and the collection of riff raff, ruffians and rascals who had their

blood thirst quenched by the acute cruelty of public humiliations, floggings and hangings.

The peasants were dressed in homespun as dull and drab as the earth they tilled. The

men chatted about the harvest or a sick donkey or the weather. Women shared gossip,

recipes and remedies. The little children ran in and out between their older brothers and

sisters shrieking and laughing and generally enjoying themselves immensely.

Adolescent boys looked at the adolescent girls and the girls coyly looked back. One

bold boy took a dare to talk to one of the prettiest girls and received a box on the ear from

the girl’s mother. The boy over reacted in such a clownish and funny way there was

much laughter. Even the girl’s mother gave in and laughed along with the others.

Still closer to the semicircle of stakes were the shopkeepers, tradesmen and guild

craftsmen with their families and apprentices. They were better behaved and better

dressed, especially the tailors’ wives. The tanners and dyers stood together. Their ever

stained hands fluttered like colorful birds as they spoke. The shoemakers, though washed

and perfumed, still had the faint odor of urine about them. The Bakers Guild was

enterprising. They sent out their daughters with baskets of crucifix shaped biscotti... two

coppers for one or three for five. The girls did a brisk business. They were especially

popular with those who fasted in order to take Holy Communion.

The inner most row of this human amphitheater was reserved for the land owners

and the richest merchants. Their servants arranged folding chairs for the patron and the

misses. The Famiglia Patriarca not only had their chairs, but they also sat in the shade of

a canopy that ruined the view for those behind them.

The gentlemen were dressed in dark satins or rich brocades. They wore fine leather

boots. Each gentleman carried a walking stick surmounted with a heavy gold handle in

the shape of an eagle or lion. Their serene wives and beautiful daughters draped

themselves in silks and satins the colors of apricot, creamy lemon, cinnamon or dusty

rose. They wore fine white stockings and the most fashionable shoes of French design.

Their dresses shimmered at the slightest turn, bow or curtsy. The ladies made a wonderful

sight in their ribbons and lace. As they twirled their parasols or flicked their fans, they

chit-chatted and bestowed catty compliments on each other.

The graybeard elders engaged in serious conversation concerning the ongoing war

with the Turks, the safety of trade routes and the like. These men were ever on the look

out to marry a son or daughter into the right family to further their wealth and power.

Their sons’ topics were a bit less somber: women, hunting and merriment. There was

little jealousy amongst the young men, only competition that would serve them well after

they inherited their family estates or businesses.

The church bell announced noon. The vibration of the great bronze bell resonated in

the hearts of those present and brought the reality of what was coming with each somber

toll. As if planned, perhaps by the hand of God, Contessa Rosalba’s carriage and four

appeared at the western gate. Her sky blue and gold trimmed livery was quite

recognizable. The skillful driver, Alfredo Amalfi, halted the closed carriage. He deftly

backed it so the door was perfectly perpendicular to the bottom step of the dais.

The contessa, who was about to go into her confinement, reluctantly and resignedly

knew she must attend. She was peeved that her husband Conte Emilio d’Benevita was

away preparing his small army to do battle with the Turks. He should have been here

with her. She could have used her confinement as an excuse to stay at Casa Bella to spare

herself being a witness to this terrible afternoon. Conte Emilio was a modern man, a man

of science and discovery, who would not have allowed such a thing to happen. The conte

would have kept the bishop in check and heard the cases with impartiality. He would

have made humane and thoughtful decisions, nothing more severe than a public

humiliation or whipping or at worst banishment. For the most extreme cases, he advised

ex-communication.

Rosalba was peeved at herself as well for her cowardice and weakness in allowing

the bishop to usurp her husband’s authority in signing the death warrants for the six

condemned women. She could have stopped everything until her husband returned, but

she did not. She acquiesced. She was tired and her usually caring continence was in

shambles because of her pregnancy. She was always a little afraid of the bishop although

she did not know why. Rosalba sighed, pulled the curtain back and looked out on the

strange arena.

Her footman, Armando, descended from the rear perch of the carriage, opened the

door and offered his arm in support as she ascended the three steps of the dais. The young

man gave a smart bow and returned to his perch. Alfredo drove the carriage out of view.

The bishop and Monsignor Petri met the contessa at the end of the dais and after

many bows escorted her to her seat. All the time Bishop DiMars exchanged pandering

courtesies and compliments. One of her cousins and a great uncle were members of the

College of Cardinals.

The crowd watched the goings on between the contessa and the bishop. Rosalba was

a most handsome figure. Her long black hair, interlaced with golden ribbons, fell in a

series of long coils on either side of her face. Her complexion was as luminescent as the

Tuscan dawn. Her forehead was smooth and topped with a subtle widows peak. Her

eyebrows were fine and slightly arched. Her brown eyes could be penetrating, but her

gaze was always gentle. Her cheeks carried a faint blush and her nose, slightly aquiline,

was a defining sign of her nobility. Her lips were full and the color of cherry wine, her

neck long and slender, her breasts high and well proportioned, her lower torso and hips

pleasing and her arms and legs quite regular. Her hands were soft and pale. This corporal

beauty was covered by a full length dress made with many clever folds of dark green

velvet and a bodice of snow white satin encased in a golden lattice. Where the lattice

intersected, a pearl was held fast with golden thread. The bodice was cut to amply expose

her bosom. Rosalba wore an emerald necklace, along with a few heavy gold chains. She

had on emerald earrings also set in gold. On the middle finger of her right hand was a

ring with a square cut emerald of good size, a family treasure handed down for at least

seven generations. Her shoes were dark green patent leather and tied with gold colored

ribbons.

Her presence caused a hush of pride in both rich and poor. She was well loved by

everyone for her kindness, generosity, and piety. Because of these very qualities Rosalba

dreaded what would happen in the coming hours. It was her duty to attend in her

husband’s place.

Feeling very alone because of the conte’s absence, Rosalba let her mind drift to

Casa Bella, her ancestral home. It was a beautiful world unto itself. As her dowry was

more than ample, Casa Bella was kept in her name when she wed as demanded by her

father. That is where she and the conte lived.

The estate and lands covered a small valley. Over the years, from the work of many

hands the hillsides were terraced and planted with grapes and olive, fig, lemon, almond,

pear and hazelnut trees. A wide stream and two springs produced plenty of water. Where

the hills met level ground, golden meadows rolled forth and eventually transformed into a

smaller line of hills, a natural border that ended the valley as well as the estate.

A number of cottages and outbuildings were scattered throughout the hillsides and

orchards. A few were empty as they were only used by itinerant laborers at harvest time.

The cottages were for the families who did the work. Many lived in the same homes that

their grandparents did. Some of the peasant children left. A good number were never to

be heard of again. Those who returned did so to be surrounded by the beauty of Casa

Bella and for a love of the land.

Rosalba gladly lost herself in these thoughts and images even though her refuge was

invaded constantly by Bishop DiMars in his not so veiled attempt to garner favor or at

least a mention Rosalba might make to “her cardinals” as the bishop called them. The

entire time the bishop spoke, a large black fly would not stop pestering him. He would

wave it off and it would return, landing on his ears, then his eyes and even on his upper

lip. Rosalba finally told Bishop DiMars she would mention him next time she wrote. The

bishop smiled, sat back in his chair and returned to twiddling his thumbs.

A flock of pigeons noisily flew around the piazza a few times and as quickly as they

appeared they flew out of sight. The faint rumble of distant thunder was just barely heard.

A black, mongrel dog howled. The mayor cleared his throat to get the bishop’s attention

and leaned forward with an expectant look on his face.

“Did you hear that? It is thunder. I told you today might not be a good day for this.

Remember that Patriarca wanted to wait until next month. ”

The bishop answered with a bit of impatience. “Renaldi, please, have faith. The fires

will burn hot enough to turn any rain to harmless mist, and it is God’s will what we do.”

“God’s will,” repeated the mayor blandly and with a barely hidden incredulous tone

in his voice. “We both have something to gain from today, let us hope you are right. It is

not too late...”

“It is time, Arturo, it is time.” The bishop nodded and with a quick gesture of his

hand he signaled to the bailiff to send for the guilty. The bailiff in turn gave a nod to the

sergeant at arms. He snapped his fingers at the six young men who were waiting just

inside the portico of the town hall. The men disappeared into the shadows and returned

shortly with the convicted witches. One was so weak two guards had to support her, one

on each side. Her gray head bobbed as she shuffled along behind the others.

The women had their hands tied in front of them. They all wore the same dull

colored, coarse garments that looked to be no more than old blankets slit in the middle

and worn over ones head like a loose shift. The women’s hair was mussed and matted,

faces and feet filthy and they were pale and underfed. One’s legs and arms were covered

with sores; another was wracked by a deep rasping cough.

The bishop stood and looked out over the crowd. When he raised his hand, the

people became quiet and gave him their full attention. Only the faint whoops and laughter

of the little children who were still playing could be heard. This was silenced as the

children were snatched up or given a stern look.

The bishop stood up a little straighter, took a deep breath and began.

“Faithful members of the most holy Catholic Church, today we rid ourselves of a

despicable evil.” The bishop stopped for an instant waiting for a response. The mayor, a

student of rhetoric gave an encouraging gesture with his hands to the crowd. A few

hurrahs were heard which turned into a unanimous response. “These sinners, these weak

women, these daughters of Lilith who now stand before us, have forsaken our lord Jesus

Christ and have become the consorts of Satan. You will hear from their mouths their own

admissions of guilt.” The crowd already primed by the first round of cheering again

raised their voices. The bishop allowed the display to run its course before he continued.

He took a piece of paper from inside his cassock and opened it. It was a list of the women

with their crimes written next to their names.

“Maria Cutri,” the bishop said in a loud voice. The second woman in line raised her

head. She was not more than twenty-two or -three with a very plain face and hair hanging

in dirty black strands. She looked up at the men on the dais. “You are guilty of casting a

love spell on Lucius Conino making him unfaithful to his wife and then, through your

wiles causing him to be caught in the act of unwanted adultery with an unnamed woman

of good birth, both of whom were known to visit your herb stall in the market place, and

both of whom were smitten because of your spell. I know Lucius Conino. He is a good

husband and a very generous friend to our Holy Mother Church. No blame shall fall on

him or the un-named woman, for it is all your doing. Do you, Maria Cutri, renounce

Satan and ask forgiveness for your sins? This is the only way to save yourself.”

The poor woman looked up at the bishop with tears in her eyes. “Yes your holiness,

I renounce Satan, I have always loved Our Lord Jesus Christ. If I have sinned in his eyes,

I beg to be forgiven and saved.”

“My child you are saved; you are forgiven your sins. You will not burn in hell for

eternity, if you are truly sorry.”

“Oh yes, I am truly sorry.” She continued in a timid but hopeful voice, “May I go to

my mother? She is ill. She needs me.”

“My child, it is in my power to grant you absolution for your sins and save your

immortal soul, but you must be punished here on earth for your witchcraft. Rejoice, you

will soon be with Our Lord.” The bishop gave a nod and the youngest guard, Vito, a lad

of sixteen, put his hand on Maria’s shoulder. The crowd silently watched as the accused

sobbed and slowly shuffled her way to the stake. Vito felt a pang of sympathy. Maria

looked very much like his favorite aunt. He gently helped her up onto a mostly flat area

which he further compacted with his boot so she could stand in some sort of sorry

comfort. Then he tied her to the stake.

As he tied the ropes tight, he whispered into her ear. “Breathe the smoke in as deep

as you can, that way you will feel no pain. Goodbye.” Maria looked around in a jerky

manner then eventually lowered her head, closed her eyes and prayed.

The bishop consulted his list and read off the second name: “Aurora Tocini! You are

guilty of consorting with Satan through one of his familiars known to be a large black cat.

You have also been seen summoning spirits, speaking and answering when no one could

be seen.”

All the time the bishop was reading off the offenses, Aurora Tocini, a woman in her

early sixties, stood with her head nodding involuntarily. She mumbled under her breath,

then, called out some gibberish.

“Do you wish to be forgiven before you are punished?”

Aurora Tocini stood there oblivious. All she could do was fixate on the toes on the

contessa’s patent leather shoes and watch them sparkle.

A guard took the old woman by the shoulder and gave her a shake to no avail. She

merely changed her focus to the large mole on the guard’s cheek and giggled.

The bishop spoke with impatience, “As we all can see, this witch is so captivated by

the devil she has no will of her own. Her soul is lost forever.” With a raise of his finger,

he summoned the second guard. Aurora Tocini fought and resisted at every step. The

second guard needed the help of another man. All the while, the two men bound her to

the stake she kicked at them and let out an eerie howl that turned into a droning repetitive

moan.

Visibly irritated by Aurora Tocini’s pathetic protest the bishop, with a bit of a

flourish to regain the crowd’s attention, consulted his list: “Monica Longo, you are guilty

of casting spells which caused your neighbor Luigi Castigilone’s dairy cows to give sour

milk. Do you seek forgiveness for casting spells?”

Unlike the other two women Monica Longo was strong willed and outspoken. These

traits, desirable in men, were not so appreciated in women. Longo, a widow, used her

strong will and wits to keep her farm going after losing her husband. She had more

success than her late husband ever had. She even surpassed her neighbors to the left and

right of her. Castiglione was one of those neighbors, and Sandro Petri, a third cousin of

the monsignor was her other neighbor.

Monica Longo spoke in a firm, loud voice. “Bishop DiMars, I can no more cast a

spell than you can. I am no witch nor do I consort with the devil or any of his demons.”

The bishop was a little taken aback but not too much so. He remembered her quite

well from her trial. “So, even though you were found guilty for your evil acts you

proclaim your innocence?”

Monica Longo turned toward the crowd. “Yes I am innocent. Castiglione and Petri

want my land. Just ask the monsignor, everyone knows Sandro is his cousin. Everyone

knows too that there are two springs on my land and fifty level acres for grazing or

planting, not like that collection of stony hillocks that make up their farms. When Carlo

died both came to me and offered a pittance for my land, a pittance!”

The bishop was visibly angered. “You will address me! It is you who were found

guilty, not Luigi or Sandro. You would be just as guilty if your neighbor was not related

to the good monsignor. You were seen near Luigi’s pasture waving a willow wand in the

direction of his dairy cows. For the next six weeks, the cows could only give sour milk.

Luigi was almost ruined. He could make no cheese or butter. You were seen not only by

Luigi and two of his workers but also by Sandro.”

“Curious I would be seen by both men. When is it the work of the devil to dowse for

water? Further, if you feed your cattle nothing but scallion and garlic the milk they give

will smell rancid, will it not?”

“Clever answer, very clever, it seems that Satan guides your words. It is your soul

that will burn in everlasting hell if you do not admit your guilt and seek forgiveness.”

“I am at peace with Our Lord and I owe you no explanation.”

Monica Longo quickly turned to the crowd and added in a loud voice, “Be very

careful, any of you could be next.” For this warning, she received a blow from her guard

that rendered her momentarily senseless.

“As this witch came into the world as an innocent babe, so she will leave it. Take

away her coverings.” Boomed the bishop.

The guard took his dagger and slit the blanket from the shoulder to the neck hole,

pulled it away and flung it to the ground. The crowd gave a small gasp. A few ruffians

whistled as the condemned Monica Longo was rushed to the next stake and roughly tied

to it.

At this point, two of the bishop’s household servants climbed the stairs and stood at

the end of the dais. A young boy of eight named Oswaldo carried a tray with goblets. The

other servant was his older sister Annamarie. She carried a jug in each hand. One jug

contained water and the other wine. They approached the contessa. She took water. They

next went to the bishop; he took the wine as did the monsignor and the mayor. Father

Eduardo refused both. When they finished their tasks, the two children sat on the

platform behind the contessa’s chair as they were instructed beforehand and waited to be

called on again. Oswaldo closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep. Annamarie settled

in next to her brother and took out a small embroidery hoop from her apron pocket. She

was working on a rose. Annamarie felt around for the little pouch that held her thimble

and needle. Both were made of gold; they were a surprise gift from the bishop on her

tenth birthday. The two items were her most valuable possessions.

Mayor Renaldi leaned forward and addressed both the monsignor and the bishop.

“This is bad business. Carlo Longo was a friend of mine. I never would have thought his

wife could be a witch, someone who casts spells?”

The monsignor tried to restore the mayor’s confidence. “Dear friend, I know you

could not attend her trial. After the most dire persuasion, as she was suspended at the end

of a rope, this witch all but admitted her guilt. Her display today is as the bishop said,

Satan speaking through his vessel here on earth. I have complete faith in the decisions

that were made.”

As the men spoke the contessa sat aloof, not out of apathy for the poor souls at her

feet but more to create an emotional distance. She bided her time and thought of when it

would be right for her to leave. She held the goblet of water and took a sip now and then.

She cast a sad look on the three women. Two were standing with their heads lowered, the

third, the weakest one, the one who needed help from the dungeon had already sunk to

her knees and was slumped forward in the prayer position of a good Mohammedan.

The crowd started to chat and move about, some of the adolescent boys crept closer

to get a better look at the three women who were already tied to the stake. Some of the

boys went through a number of machinations to spy on the nakedness of Monica Longo.

The guards chased them back. The disappointed boys returned to their families without

getting their glance.

The mayor and the bishop noticed the crowd’s impatience and finished up their

wine. Refreshed, the bishop stood and held up his arms. The crowd calmed itself and

gave him their complete attention.

“Bianca Molina, you are guilty of casting spells and performing Pagan rites. Admit

your guilt and ask for forgiveness.”

After Bianca was imprisoned in the dank dungeon, she developed very painful, red,

running sores up and down her body. She raised her head and looked at the bishop with

dull eyes. Her spirit was gone and the way she flinched when the coarse garment rubbed

against her body was telling she suffered greatly. “I am guilty of casting spells and

performing Pagan rites, just as you say. I am sorry for my sins and await my

punishment.”

The bishop turned his palms up and made a lifting motion and nodded to Bianca’s

guard. Carmen pulled Bianca’s shift away from her body and exposed the raw red lesions

that pocked her legs and torso.

“These are the marks of Satan your lover and master. Each sore is where he has

kissed or caressed you; everyone, look upon her!” The bishop pointed at the tearful

woman. The crowd whispered in eager agreement with the bishop.

“Do you renounce the devil? Are you truly sorry for your sins? Do you recognize

our lord Jesus Christ as your savior?” The bishop spoke with ease already knowing the

answers.

“Yes your holiness, all of those things you said. I renounce the devil, I am truly

sorry and I have always recognized the Lord Jesus Christ.”

The bishop corrected her, “you mean you will recognize Jesus Christ as your savior.

Only the hand of God can make you clean and worthy of his kingdom.”

“Yes, I will recognize Our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

The bishop made a small and careless sign of the cross. “You are forgiven my child,

but of course you must be punished for those earthly sins you committed.”

Bianca nodded and without being told, turned away from the dais and took a step

toward the guard standing closest to her. The guard, Carmen Testo, stopped short of

taking her arm. He was repulsed by the running sores. They walked slowly. Bianca

needed to stop and catch her breath even though the stake was less than twenty paces

away. Being very careful not to touch Bianca the guard put his hands as close as he dared

in a guiding gesture. When they stood before the stake, Bianca noticed the guard’s

reluctance to touch her. She smiled at him as best she could and climbed unaided and

clumsily over the stacked wood. Losing her balance she had to crawl the last little bit,

then pull herself up grabbing onto the stake for support. She turned around and faced the

crowd as the guard tied her fast but rather loosely.

“God bless you,” she whispered to the soldier.

“And may He welcome you,” he whispered back.

When the bishop saw that Bianca was secured, he read the next name. “Angelina

Rotelli, you are guilty of worshipping Satan and sorcery. Stand up and admit your guilt.”

The old, white haired woman who was prostrate in front of the dais did not move. The

sergeant approached and gave Angelina Rotelli a kick. The accused fell to her side and

remained there motionless. “Stand the witch up,” barked the bishop.

The sergeant grabbed Angelina and tried to stand her up. Angelina’s head lolled

back and forth, and each time the guard lifted the sparrow of a woman to her feet her legs

would buckle. After three attempts the sergeant laid the woman on her back, knelt down

and felt her neck for a pulse. He looked up at the clergymen, the mayor and the contessa

and mouthed the word, “Dead.” The bishop gave a nod and hand gesture for the body to

be removed but just as quickly rescinded it. He thought for a second and shared his

epiphany. “May our Heavenly Father forgive this poor creature, as that coward Satan has

killed her right here before us and snatched away her soul before I could grant her

Absolution. At her trial, she admitted her guilt and I know she was repentant and eager to

be forgiven. As Satan snared her soul and made her his slave, if any of you fall to your

weaknesses, Satan will be there waiting. It is all of our duties to be vigilant, to be on the

lookout for the signs of the devil.”

The crowd awoke to the words. Suspicious glances were cast. Family members

stood a little closer to each other. Children were picked up by anxious mothers. Many

people just looked down at the ground. Rosaries appeared and people lost themselves in

the murmur of prayers.

Contessa Rosalba shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She watched the mayor give the

bishop a nod of appreciation for using the dead woman to his advantage. Rosalba wished

her husband was with her. She wished she was not there at all. In her heart she felt these

women who stood accused were no more than helpless victims of someone else’s

ambition, or greed or guilt. She kept her feelings to herself and prayed for their souls,

both the accused and the accusers.

The sergeant at arms, Enrico Gagliardi, looked to the bishop. DiMars nodded and

the broken vessel of Angelina Rotelli was easily picked up, placed in a waiting cart and

covered with a canvas tarp.

The bishop called out the last name. “Maria Lillo, you are guilty of worshiping

Satan, invisibility, casting love spells and corrupting young girls. Are you sorry for your

sins? Do you renounce Satan and do you accept Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”

Maria Lillo looked up and gave each clergyman, the mayor and the contessa a

strange nod and a cold smile. She cleared her throat and looked at the bishop. She spoke

in a rasping whisper that was most difficult to hear. “Holy bishop, may I please have a

swallow of water? I can barely speak above this whisper, I want to be heard and

forgiven.”

“If you must,” the bishop shrugged and nodded at Father Eduardo. The priest rose to

fetch the flagon from the servant girl who sat next to her little brother on the ledge behind

the contessa’s chair. The boy napped. Lost in a daydream, Annamarie held a strange and

unfamiliar straw doll that was somehow in her hand. Unseen, Maria Lillo stroked her

palm with the index finger of her left hand. Father Eduardo watched intently as

Annamarie mirrored Lillo and stroked the doll’s stomach with her finger. Even though he

knelt in front of the girl she did not look up. He had to tap her shoulder to break her

reverie. The girl started at his touch. She met him with a blank stare that quickly turned

into a look of puzzlement when she saw the unfamiliar little doll she held. She closed her

hand around it and covered her fist with her other hand to hide it. Father Eduardo smiled

and patted the girl on the head. Without a word the girl picked up the flagon, crossed the

dais and handed the jar to the guard. All the while she was mesmerized by Maria Lillo.

Maria Lillo smiled at the girl who of all things, curtsied to the condemned woman; then

in a fright at the repulsive show of respect, quickly returned to her brother and hid her

face in her hands. Father Eduardo took his seat. He felt ill at ease but did not know why.

The guard uncorked the flagon and held it to Lillo’s lips. She took three swallows

but kept the fourth generous swig in her mouth. She nodded that she was finished. While

the guard was busy corking the bottle and setting it aside on the dais, Maria Lillo took a

few steps closer to the bishop and the contessa. She looked up and with all of her might

she sprayed the bishop, the contessa and the monsignor with the water in her mouth. The

guard pulled her back and held her from behind. The bishop, whose face was dripping

with water, looked aghast and the contessa who was disgusted by the condemned’s

actions, wiped her cheek and hands in a way that bordered on being obsessive.

Maria Lillo addressed those who sat before her with a firm and mocking voice.

“Since, as you say, I am a consort of Satan, I baptize you all in his name. And I curse you

all. You, holy bishop, like a bird you will never change your color, black it is now and

black it shall be forever. You will never fly with those birds of a red feather. Monsignor,

you have cursed yourself already with indolence. A life half lived is your earthly

penance. Pretty contessa a flower so pure and so white what grows in your belly is as

dark as night. Your good words could have spared this doubtful coven. Your comfort and

apathy sends us to the devil’s oven.”

Before Maria Lillo could continue, the guard had his arm around her neck and his

hand over her mouth. He forced her to the ground and onto her back. He put his boot heel

on her throat. Maria looked up at him with a serene, almost dreamy expression on her

face. The guard looked to the bishop for direction. The bishop, who was still drying his

face, looked at the guard then down at Maria Lillo with an intense and cruel stare. Bishop

DiMars gave a chilling nod. The guard slowly brought the weight of his body down until

he felt the delicate cartilage of her throat collapse with a hollow crack. He kept his foot

there until the bishop gave a wave of his hand. When he took his boot away Maria

painfully gasped for air. With the help of another guard, they jerked her to her feet. The

two took turns beating her with their fists. This drew an approving murmur from the

crowd. The two men dragged the bloodied and barely conscious prisoner to the stake.

They tied her so tight she could hardly breathe. Eventually, she passed out and her head

slumped forward.

The contessa rose from her seat and looked out onto the curious and stunned crowd.

The bishop approached her. He wore an apologetic expression. “I am so sorry contessa.

You can see how depraved and possessed these terrible women are.” He dabbed at his

face with his hanky even though it was dry.

The contessa collected her thoughts. She was disgusted. She was also frightened by

Maria Lillo’s curse. Part of her wanted instant vengeance and to see the witch burn for

what she did and said, but the better and greater part of Rosalba wanted to set her free

along with the others. She looked at the bishop coolly, “Terrible? I would think more

desperate and bitter at their fates. All they have left are words. Would you go to your

death without calling out your accusers?”

The bishop answered thoughtfully, “Dear contessa these women have sealed their

fates by their actions and their confessions, confessions that had to be painfully extracted

tis true, but given none the less, confessions that were duly recorded by Father Eduardo

in front of witnesses, and a legate from Rome.”

“I am sure everything is most legal and proper. But now I must leave. I am not

feeling very well. I must leave.”

The bishop’s brow furrowed with sympathy. “Yes, yes of course.” He looked

beyond the contessa and called out to his servant girl, “Annamarie, Annamarie come

quickly.”

The young girl peeked around the corner of the contessa’s chair.

“Come my dear, run and fetch the coachman for the contessa.”

The girl curtsied and hesitated for a second in front of the contessa. Annamarie held

out the straw doll that moments earlier mysteriously appeared in her hand and so

captivated her attention, “For you and your baby.”

Rosalba gave the girl a quizzical smile. How could the little girl know she was

pregnant? But the kind gesture was a flicker of light on this very dark day. Annamarie

then hurried off to find Alfredo Amalfi. In a few moments, the carriage appeared.

Armando jumped down from his perch at the rear of the carriage, bounded up onto the

dais and offered his arm to the contessa.

The men crowded around Rosalba. The mayor, who until now had said very little,

took a deep breath and looked ready to give a long and flowery goodbye. The contessa

cut him short. “Thank you for your hospitality, and goodbye.” The mayor let the deep

breathe escape and he gave the contessa a disappointed little smile. Monsignor Petri

bowed as did Father Eduardo. Rosalba gave a half-hearted wave to the crowd who gave

her a muted but affectionate sendoff.

She took Armando’s arm. Rosalba could only see the carriage or more exactly the

gleam of its polished brass door handle. She quickly descended the few steps of the dais

and waited what seemed a lifetime before Armando opened the door. With one step up,

she escaped. Armando closed the door. She sat. The inside of the carriage was warm.

Sitting on the dais Rosalba had not noticed how cold she was. The warmth felt good. The

familiar scent of the carriage’s leather interior was soothing. She pulled the curtains

closed. They subdued the midday sun to a pale yellow glow. She felt the carriage rock as

Armando climbed to his perch and was gladdened when Alfredo turned the carriage and

headed away from the crowd, the clergy and the condemned.

Rosalba sat back in the seat. She just then noticed the little straw doll. She smiled at

its simplicity. As she turned it over in her hand, she felt a prick. Rosalba pressed her

thumb against the tip of her index finger and forced out a drop of blood to cleanse the

tiny hurt. The crimson dot fell on the doll’s belly. On closer inspection, Rosalba found a

fine golden needle in the straw. She put the doll into a basket on the seat next to her and

closed her eyes.

The bishop, mayor, monsignor and Father Eduardo watched the carriage pass

through the town’s gates and out of sight.

Mayor Renaldi spoke in a low tone to the men, “It is not good that the contessa left.

She should have stayed. The people have not seen her for a long time.”

“She made her appearance. Who could blame such a beautiful woman wanting to

leave after being spat on by a condemned hag?”

“You make a good point monsignor,” agreed the bishop.

“It is all so sordid,” added the priest. His comment was benign enough to be

interpreted by the others to suit their needs. Father Eduardo actually referred to the selfish

and dualistic acts that were given a veil of righteousness and legality by his superiors. All

those accusations and lies that spawned this inhuman spectacle sickened him.

Now that Contessa Rosalba left, the people started to chatter and move about. A

young man hollered across the square to get the attention of his friend. A baby began to

cry which was an invitation for a few other babies to join in. A fight broke out between a

peasant, Vito Carlucci, and one of the town ruffians who went by only Nino. Nino, a big,

slow witted man was in league with the pickpockets. The fight was to be a diversion.

Vito’s friends and family immediately came to his aid and Nino ran off into an alley and

disappeared. Everything happened so quickly the pickpockets lost their chance.

The sky darkened and a chilly breeze swept through the square. Bishop DiMars put

his hand on the mayor’s shoulder. Renaldi understood. On direction of the bishop, the

priest and the monsignor sat. Mayor Renaldi after making a great flourish with his arms

loudly cleared his throat and called out to the impatient crowd.

“Citizens! Countrymen look to me, hear me.” The mayor’s plea along with the cold

breeze caught the attention of the spectators. “We are here to witness God’s work through

his servant Bishop DiMars. For too long, the threat of Satan has gone unchecked. The

devil and his army of demons have invaded our city and our very lives. Satan and his

fiends are everywhere sowing their seeds of hate and mistrust. We must defend ourselves.

We must root out this evil. We must be ever vigilant to the wiles and tricks of the devil.”

The people in the square nodded in agreement with the mayor and each other. They

all pressed in a little closer to hear and see the mayor.

With another flourish of his hands Mayor Renaldi continued, “It is not enough to

merely pray for God’s protection and salvation. We must act! We must fight for our very

souls and the souls of those we love.” As he spoke the mayor’s voice became louder and

slightly higher. “That is why we must turn to our Holy Mother the Church. With its

blessing and through its instrument Bishop DiMars we can find that protection and

succor. We can root out those sinners, those weak pawns of the devil. Without this divine

help, we may not know whom to trust. Your friends, neighbors, even members or your

family could be under the spell of that foul, fallen angel! “

The crowd answered in a low agreeable tone. A few old ladies kissed the crucifix on

the ends of their rosaries.

The mayor continued, ”We have before us five witches. They have confessed their

sins. Are we ready to punish them? Are we ready to send them to their final judgment?”

Arms were raised and fists made. Staffs and cudgels were shaken. The crowd

responded with a loud “Yes!”

Mayor Renaldi posed the question again, this time a bit louder. The crowd

responded even louder than before. Renaldi called out for the last time and was satisfied

that the parishioners were ready.

“Let it be known that you may thank Bishop DiMars for ridding our city of this

threat and that only Our Dear Savior can change what has been put into motion. “ The

mayor took the bishop’s hand and held it up as he would do the victor in a fight. A few

men started chanting: “Burn them! Burn them! Burn them!” Soon the entire population of

the square joined in.

The bishop and mayor sat. Mayor Renaldi gave the bishop a smug smile then

rubbed his palms together. DiMars made a hand gesture to the guard standing next to a

wrought iron brazier. The guard reached into a small barrel and pulled out an unlit torch.

He passed the resin soaked rag that was wrapped around the end of the wooden handle

over the flame in the brazier. The rag caught immediately and sent a sooty black stream

into the air. The bishop nodded again and the guard went to his assigned spot. In a dark

epiphany, the guard realized what he was about to do as he held the flame to the wood.

He tried not to look into the teary eyes of the woman tied to the stake before him. He

looked away but still felt a jolt of revulsion pass through his body. His soul felt frozen.

Being an obedient young man, he carried out the order knowing this day would be

branded into his memory.

One by one the guards reached into the barrel and pulled out the unlit torches and

waited. The order was given and each guard walked the circumference of the stake and

put fire to the kindling. The kindling smoldered and tiny orange flames leapt from the

straw, twigs and small sticks. The guards stepped back and waited for the larger pieces of

wood on the outer edge to catch.

Signore Mezzi sat back in his folding chair and smiled. This was his wood, his

contribution to the cleansing. His wife and daughter sat at his side and shared in his pride.

The others settled in, as well. They watched the small fires consume the kindling and

eventually go out. The crowd was disappointed and became a bit noisier.

The sergeant was at a loss when he saw that all of the fires had burnt out. Mezzi’s

wood that was so neatly stacked did not ignite. He turned to the closest man. “Get some

pitch or oil.” The young man hurried through the portico of the town hall, went to the

store room, snatched up a demijohn half full of oil and retuned quickly. Without further

instructions, he went from pyre to pyre generously sprinkling oil onto the dry wood.

Again the torches were set to the wood. A dark anticipation griped the onlookers. The oil

burned bright and hot. The watchful crowd waited in silence for the wood to crackle with

heat and burst into a consuming flame. The flames were tall and yellow and bright. In

minutes, the oil was consumed. The proud flames faltered and became smaller and

weaker and again failed to ignite Signore Mezzi’s wood.

The bishop looked over to the mayor. “What is going on here?” he asked with

concerned disbelief.

Mayor Renaldi shrugged his shoulders. He shared in the bishop’s concern. “Is the

wood wet?”

Monsignor Petri added,” I dare say no. I looked at the wood myself. It was dry as

stale bread. It is from Mezzi. It is what is left of the cursed apple tree. The tree has been

dead for three years, plenty of time to season.”

“Yes, quite a disappointment to lose something of that value, and all those pilgrims

with all of their coin,” mused Renaldi.

Someone in the crowd yelled, “Burn them! Burn them! Burn them!” The chant was

picked up by another and then another and spread through the piazza like a cancerous

chorus. The mayor did not like to see such public plans go awry. His term was coming to

an end, and he wanted the burning to be a feather in his cap and a memorable rallying

point for his re-election campaign. Renaldi stood and held up his arms. “Dear citizens,

patience, ask God for patience, as you see His will be done.” Then turning to the bishop

and pointing, ”Through his most holy instrument here on earth.” Renaldi looked at Father

Silva and bid him to stand. The young priest stood. He wrinkled his brow.

“Father, please lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.”

A very large flock of starlings noisily squawked and chirped as they flew overhead

off to the west. The starlings were followed by a half dozen ducks racing closely behind.

A strong and icy wind blew through the square catching the crowd off guard. A pearl

gray, silk parasol took flight and landed on the other side of the dais in the fountain. The

chilling breeze dragged in distant dark clouds. The clouds cast a cold gray shadow over

the square and people in it.

The bishop gave an impatient hand gesture indicating he wanted the young priest to

begin the prayer. Father Silva blessed the crowd who quieted themselves and waited for

the ever familiar words.

Silva began, ”Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom

come, thy will be done...” and with the utterance of the word “will” a bolt of lightning hit

the bell tower causing the clapper to fly back and forth on its pivot making the bell ring.

Everyone was shocked, even the most irreverent.

Then the rain came. Gossamer towers of water descended and swayed following the

erratic paths blazed by the wind. Each drop of driven rain felt like the prick of a pin

against any exposed skin. The paving stones glistened dark red and became slick and

slippery. Patriarca’s canopy took flight and left the family scrambling for shelter.

Families became separated. The people scurried about. Some fell as they ran looking for

any kind of shelter. Clothing was darkened and drenched. The pretty young ladies’

elaborate hairdos wilted and fell under the force of the icy rain. Then came the hail, at

first no larger than half grains of rice. As the hail continued, it became as large as a

child’s fist. Rich and poor alike were thrust into a panic. Family members ran here and

there. Parasols were ripped by the wind and hail and then dropped. Heads were covered

with hands that felt the sting of the icy projectiles.

The burning attracted such a huge crowd that only a lucky few were able to find

shelter immediately. Lighting exploded again hitting just outside the city walls and

burned the image of the heavy iron gates into the frightened eyes of the parishioners

closest to the where the bolt hit. The prostitutes and pimps and pick pockets scrambled

under the hay wagon. Everyone who could find room jammed themselves under any

overhang be it nothing more than eaves. The few shop keepers who happened to have

their keys with them opened their doors and allowed as many people in as they could.

The bishop, Mayor Renaldi, Monsignor Petri and Father Silva dashed down the few

steps of the dais and found shelter under the floorboards. The hail kept falling and began

to pile up. Out of breath and quite uncomfortable the bishop rested his back against one

of the upright supports and surveyed his parishioners in their panic. Those who had a

grasp of the situation disappeared from the square, beat it back to the church and found

refuge.

“I told you that today would not be very good for this thing,” Renaldi whined. “You

can never trust these late fall storms. Everyone will surely remember this day.” His voice

overflowed with irony. The touchstone for his reelection was now a millstone.

“Do not waste your time worrying Gino. It is not worth the effort.” The monsignor

covered his mouth as he yawned. He yawned three times in a row, each yawn greater and

louder than the last.

Father Silva who was the last one under the dais turned away from the others and

went back into the storm.

“Where are you going my son?” asked the bishop.

”I am going to the church. Hopefully, those out in the storm will come in.” He

disappeared into the curtain of hail and icy rain.

“What about our witches?” Renaldi’s concern was pragmatic and not sympathetic.

“The witches will burn just as well another day. After all, it rains all of the time but a

witch burning only comes along every so often.”

The bishop nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, we should do something.”

The monsignor shoved his cold hands deep into the folds of his cassock. “Why do

anything, they will be there after the rain stops. We might as well just wait.”

“Pshaw, I do not want those women dying in the dungeon of the black bile or

consumption. They should be brought in under cover.”

The monsignor spoke as he pulled his collar up against the cold, “And who of us

should do that? Surely not you, nor I. We are the Church. It might seem strange for the

prosecutor to also be the savior of witches.”

The bishop grunted. The rain dripped through the cracks and off the floor boards

onto the men. “Renaldi, it must be you. Look at it as a show of your compassion. People

like a compassionate man. You will appear saintly.”

He gave an ironic chuckle. “Patron saint of witches...we should have never done this

today. I told you Patriarca wanted us to wait.”

“Enough, let us salvage what we can. Have the guards cut them down and get them

to cover. Gino, tell the sergeant to give them dry clothes and feed them something hot. I

want them alive and healthy.”

“For both of our futures, eh?” Renaldi awkwardly climbed over the monsignor, who

did not bother to move a muscle, and into the rain. He dashed to where the sergeant and

the guards were huddled in the portico of the town hall and gave them the bishop’s

orders.

The guards collected the condemned. As an addition to the order, Sergeant Gagliardi

put his cape over Monica Longo. Shortly the wet and shivering women were ushered into

the Provost’s office, a large enough room and with a hearth.

The five shivering women were wet to the skin. They were pale and their lips were

more blue than pink. Sergeant Gagliardi cut the ropes binding the women’s wrists. The

course woolen shifts they wore were heavy with water. As they stood shaking with cold,

the water ran off the hems of their crude garments in ever widening circles that

eventually met and found their level in the low spaces between the floor tiles.

All the wood for the burning had been collected from Signore Mezzi. Vito Rizzo,

the youngest of the guards, was ordered to try to find some of the driest wood at the

stakes. The rain was still pouring down and all of the gutters were overflowing and

running back into the piazza. The young man did as he was told and braved the pounding

rain. At the first stake he dug out some sticks, small branches, and a few small logs that

were kept dry by the larger ones on top. The wind howled and drove the rain against his

face so hard he could barely keep his eyes open. Vito tucked as much of the wood as he

could under his cloak and ran back to the Provost’s office. He was admitted at first knock

and quickly went to the hearth and let the dripping wood fall onto the floor in front of the

fireplace.

His cousin Vincenzo already found some kindling and made a nice little nest that

would fire quickly. Vito wiped the water off of his face with the underside of his cloak

and wrung the rain out of his short ponytail. Meanwhile, Vincenzo knelt before the

fireplace and scraped the iron striker against the piece of flint until a spark landed in the

nest of dry moss and began to smolder. He gently blew, once, twice, thrice on the orange

speck until a puff of white smoke lazily drifted away into the draft of the chimney. He

added a few pieces of straw and some twigs. He watched the tiny fire consume the tinder.

He added sticks and smaller branches and the larger logs that Vito collected from the

pyre. Much to the amazement the guards who could not get the wood to ignite even after

it was sprinkled with oil, Signore Mezzi’s wood, although quite wet, immediately caught

and burned bright and hot.

Gagliardi, sergeant of the guard, a medium built, tanned face man guided the five

shivering women to stand in front of the fire. He told his nephew Carmen, the most senior

guard, to fetch the housekeeper Marta. He sent the other men out of the room.

Marta entered from an adjoining room. She was stout and her graying hair was

neatly tucked under a red kerchief that was tied at the back. Her face was round and her

eyes were deep brown and sincere. She was kind and she liked to laugh. Marta wore a

simple gray dress with a wide white collar and a bib style white apron. She wore heavy

woolen socks and wooden clogs.

Her countenance changed from its easy and happy demeanor to a guarded and

suspicious one. She turned to Gagliardi. “Why do you put me in a room full of Satan’s

brides?” Marta made the sign of the cross and started to back up toward the door.

“Stand fast, woman. On the order of the bishop, find these women something dry

and warm to wear. Get them something hot to eat and drink.” Then, as an afterthought he

pointed to Monica Longo, “Dry my cape and have it brought to me.”

Marta shook her head in mild disbelief, “Yes your highness.”

“Watch your tongue woman.” Gagliardi pivoted on his heel and left the room.

Marta looked at the exhausted women. Their faces were so sad and there was little if

any life in their downcast eyes. They looked so small and defenseless, broken and barely

alive. She knew or knew of each one of them. Quite often she bought herbs or spices

from Maria Cutri’s stall at the market place. Marta would never have expected her to be a

witch. As for Aurora Tocini, the poor thing was demented. She was turned out to the

streets after her son died. Now, she was a harmless shell that scuttled the alleyways and

back lanes looking for her dead son. With no family left, she lived on the charity of those

who knew her when her mind was clear and she was happy.

Marta knew Monica Longo best of all. As children, they played together. They

enjoyed each other’s company well enough, but neither one considered the other a true

friend. They made their first communion together and their confirmation, as well. They

both vied for the handsome young farmer Carlo Longo, but Monica won his love. Marta

was heartbroken at first, but she was never one to hold a grudge or wish anyone ill. As

she looked at Monica shivering naked under Sergeant Gagliardi’s rough cape, Marta was

at a loss for why her old acquaintance should have such an awful fate.

Marta brushed the hair away from Monica’s face. She took her old playmate’s icy

cheeks in the palms of her hands. Monica managed a tearful smile as she searched

Marta’s eyes.

“Let me find you something warm to wear,” she whispered. Marta then addressed

all of the women. “Warm yourselves. I will be back with some dry things.” When she left

the room, the women edged closer to the fire rubbing their hands together and taking in

the heat.

And So You Shall Reap

Father Silva entered the church through the sacristy door. He shook the rain from his hair

and rubbed his face dry with his hail bruised hands. The sacristy was dark but warm and

cozy. He looked through the little peephole into the nave. People were already crowded

into the small church. They filled the pews, stood in the aisles and even around the altar.

They were so close to each other that there was truly no room. The heavy animal scent of

wet skin, wet clothing and wet hair was almost intolerable. The only sounds came from a

few babies who cried. Almost everyone stood quietly and reflectively as the rain fell from

the heavens in an endless cascade of tears down the stained glass windows.

The hail became smaller, but the rain still raged outside. The thunder sounded like

distant cannon fire as it echoed all about the town, in and around every building and

through the close alleyways.

Another bolt of lightning streaked down from the black sky and again struck the bell

tower, this time ripping the bell loose and tossing it into the square. The bell landed in

front the dais not more than two paces from where Bishop DiMars and Monsignor Petri

were crouched. Steam poured off of the searing bronze. The bell quivered for a few long

seconds as if under the force of an invisible hand as it slowly rocked back and forth and

came to a stop.

“Dear God in heaven!” croaked the bishop.” Let us away to shelter. This rain will

never end.”

Even though the monsignor was fairly soaked he barely raised his head, “It will

end.” He hunkered down.

“Gaspare, what is the matter with you? You would sit here and be soaked to the skin

just to wait for the rain to stop? Why? Come now.”

“It cannot last much longer. I walk much better than I run.” Petri slumped back

down.

“The witch is right. You will be your own undoing,” then added under his breath,

“fool!”

DiMars braced himself, pulled his collar up and entered the downpour. He went the

forty odd paces as quickly as he could. The water was ankle deep and it seeped into his

shoes making his already cold feet wet and now freezing. He climbed the few steps,

waited under the covered portico, then crossed the walkway to the soldier’s barracks.

He opened the short, dark wooden door and entered. The cold wind that raced in

behind him was met by the swirling heat of two large bronze braziers on low tripods that

were aglow with orange coals. The room’s low ceiling and its hand hewn, heavy beams

were blackened by years of candle and fire smoke. The plastered walls were a dingy

white and quite plain. Except for a few small windows high on the wall, candles gave off

the only light. There were four rows of low cots with six cots each. The bishop was

surprised when he saw the victims of the storm and their kin clustered around some of the

cots.

Lorenzo Patriarca, a tall, brusque, middle-aged man was one of the most influential

men in the Republic. He stood with his distraught wife Penelope and two very concerned

and tearful servants, all looking down at his fourteen year old daughter Gina, who was

unconscious. When he heard the door open and felt the cold breeze on the back of his

neck he turned hoping to see his personal doctor, Jacopo Gallo. When he recognized the

bishop, he greeted him with a hateful glare.

“You and your cleansing. Look, look what you have done.” He pointed at his young

daughter. DiMars approached the cot and looked down at the girl. Her arms and hands

were covered with red welts and her scalp and forehead and face with sizable knots and

bruises where the hail had pelted her. There was a crescent of dried blood in the lower

corner of each nostril. Her half-opened eyes were terribly bloodshot and blank. A

crimson trickle of blood ran from her left ear, down her neck and into an expanding blot

on the coarse pillow under her head.

“I told Renaldi I did not want the burning today. Did he not tell you of my wishes?”

Patriarca roared. His wife began to make a calming gesture with her hands but withdrew

on second thought when her husband puffed out his chest and leaned toward the bishop.

“He may have mentioned it,” said Bishop DiMars softly. He looked at the girl. She

did not stir and her breathing was shallow and weak. He extended his hand to take hers.

Lorenzo Patriarca snatched the bishop’s hand away.

“You have done enough to this family today. Do not touch my child.”

On the other side of the room Anna Piccarello, the miller’s wife let out a tearful cry,

“Giani, oh Giani. No, no, no...” her voice tailed off in a most sorrowful way. She fell to

her knees, took her husband’s hand in hers and held it against her heart. She put her head

on his chest and wept. Her son, daughter-in-law and their three children all knelt next to

her, bowed their heads and prayed.

The bishop looked at Giani Piccarello lying on the cot. The heavy set man had a

blue-gray cast to his skin. In the excitement and rush for shelter, his heart failed him. He

was just able to make it to the soldier’s quarters where he collapsed. His wife and son

helped him into the barracks and put him on the cot where he now lay.

Doctor Gallo flung the door open and entered with his boy and the Patriarca’s

servant who was sent to fetch him. Gallo barely looked at Lorenzo and Penelope. He did

acknowledge them with a slight nod. With one sweeping motion, the doctor undid his

rain speckled cape and let it drop to the floor. His boy, Marco, picked up the cape, dusted

it off and draped it over a nearby table. The doctor was of short stature and to appear

taller he stood up very straight and held out his chest. He combed his thinning auburn

hair over in an attempt to cover his baldness. His hair had a natural wave that made it lie

in a severe peek down the center of his head, giving the appearance of a cockscomb.

Gallo’s face was pale and narrow; his brow was permanently furrowed, his eyes small

and dark with a slight bulge, his nose large, sharp and beak-like, and his thin lips were

framed in a well waxed goatee.

Lorenzo Patriarca approached and was about to say something, but Gallo held up his

hand, shook his index finger and cocked his head a little to the side. He abruptly turned

on his heel and looked down at the injured girl.

The boy handed the doctor his bag. The doctor opened it and took out a copper

hearing horn and placed the bell at different spots on Gina’s chest. He listened with a

very concerned expression. He handed the hearing horn back to Marco. He took the girl’s

wrist and felt her pulse, all the while nodding as if in thoughtful agreement with himself.

The doctor gently put the girl’s hand back down at her side. Gallo wiggled his index

finger at the boy. Marco came forth again with the doctor’s bag and opened it. The doctor

reached in and took out a small brown bottle of smelling salts. He uncorked the bottle and

with his boy supporting Gina’s lolling head, held the bottle under her nose. She did not

flinch. Her eyes rolled back showing only the whites. The boy placed her head back onto

the pillow and stepped away. The doctor crossed his arms over his chest and silently

looked at Gina. Gallo took the girls hands in his. They were icy cold. He slipped off her

shoes and felt her feet. Her feet were as cold as her hands.

The doctor squinted, pursed his lips, and pinched at his chin with his thumb and

index finger as he searched his mind. The Patriarcas looked hopefully as Gallo reached

an epiphany that opened his eyes wide and arched his eye brows. The parents leaned in

closer and waited for the doctor to say something. Their hopes were dashed as Gallo

dismissed his notion with a quick shake of his head, a wave of his hand, and a guttural

grunt that could not be mistaken for anything other than ‘no.’

“Doctor Gallo, tell us,” Lorenzo asked impatiently.

The doctor answered by holding up his hand for silence. He then knelt, gently

cradled the girl’s head in his left hand and gave her a sharp slap on the cheek with his

right hand. The girl did not stir. Gallo laid Gina’s head back on the pillow and grimaced

as he spoke. “I have done all that I can. It is now in God’s hands. Take her home and

keep her warm. I will stop by tomorrow in the morning to bleed the ill humors away.”

The Patriarcas were silent. Gallo’s boy picked up his master’s cape off the side table

and handed it to the doctor. The doctor whirled the cape over his shoulders, ruffled it into

place, and took a step toward Lorenzo and his wife. He cleared his throat and bowed his

head and held out his hand with his palm up.

Distracted, visibly distraught, and now irritated, Lorenzo took his purse off his belt,

opened it and fished out a gold coin. He handed the coin to the doctor who looked at it for

a second. Gallo, still with bowed head kept his hand open. Lorenzo sighed and placed

another gold coin next to the first. Gallo nodded and slipped the coins into his vest

pocket. ”Tomorrow then, do send word if anything changes. Right now prayers are the

best remedy.”

Before Doctor Gallo could leave, Anna Piccarello came to his side. “Please doctor is

there any hope for my husband?”

“What, your husband? Who are you? You want me to look at your husband?” Gallo

seemed perplexed, almost confused. He spoke quickly and with impatience.

“Please?” asked the tearful woman.

“I really have no time,” then he added in a quiet but condescending tone. ”But only

out of charity,” Jacopo Gallo followed Anna Piccarello to the other side of the room. He

avoided looking at the anxious people who were trying to get his attention. He stopped by

the cot and looked down over the heads of the kneeling family members who were deep

in prayer. He extended both arms a little ways from his chest, elbow bent and his palms

up, crooked his head forward, and frowned. “It does not take a doctor to see the obvious.

He is dead.”

On turning his back on the grieving widow, the doctor was stopped by the other

three families whose loved ones were injured. He reluctantly looked in on each one. A

five-year-old little girl named Angela Garabaldi, daughter of Fabio Garabaldi the

chandler, fell and was trampled in the rush to get out of the hail. She was covered with

dark red bruises. She was awake but in shock. Gallo told the parents to keep her warm,

give her bed rest for a week and feed her clear soup, spinach and toasted bread with

honey on it.

The next was an elderly, heavy set woman, with a permanent squint. She was Teresa

Orlandini, the seamstress. He took her pulse. It was racing. She was anxious. Though

bundled with blankets, she kept shivering and had difficulty breathing. She complained of

pain in her chest. The doctor told her not to worry so much and to trust more in God. He

prescribed as much brandy as she could hold, an infusion made from the chamomile

flower and honey in boiling water, bed rest and warm compresses on her forehead.

The last was a young man of nineteen. He was the gold smith’s apprentice, close to

becoming a journeyman. His name was Giancarlo Terranova. He was a victim of neither

the panic nor the hail. The youth lay on the cot and nervously looked past the doctor

toward the door. Giancarlo’s concerned mother watched as Jacopo lifted her son’s bloody

shirt and found three stab wounds, two in the young man’s chest and one in his belly. The

wounds hardly penetrated the muscle and were certainly not threatening. The doctor had

his boy apply a dark brown, pungent salve to the wounds. Gallo told the young man he

should recover in a week or two and to pick the scabs off when they formed. Gallo also

told him to be true to his master, to be sure to go to confession and to stay away from

dangerous people.

Giancarlo’s mother took her son’s hand. “You do what the doctor says. He is a wise

man. Now what did he tell you?”

Giancarlo reluctantly did as his mama asked. “I must be true to my master, I must

confess and I must stay away from dangerous people.”

ROLAND’S SONG

I

Roland and Liz sat outside at one of the tables shaded by a large yellow umbrella that

advertised a certain Italian vermouth. The restaurant had a spacious setback from the

sidewalk. Brian, the owner and self-appointed uncle/guru to both Roland and Liz, thought

it would be a good idea to offer the al fresco experience at The Edelweiss. He put half a

dozen tables out and installed a wrought iron railing to give the place a continental touch.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence. Roland was brooding and Liz was second

guessing her no sex policy. They sipped their coffee and whenever they made eye contact

they exchanged fleeting little smiles.

Silver gray clouds scudded in from the Pacific and although it was beautiful out, the

temperature dropped and things got chilly.

“They’ll probably have music at the street fair. Remember that guy who played the

harp last year? ” chirped Liz.

“They have music every year,” countered Roland who was oblivious and sounded

meanspirited. “You got his CD that you never play. Then there’s the ancient hippie who

sells incense out of the back of his VW van, and the ceramics guys, and the plant lady

and all the cheap jewelry, and let’s not forget that old witchy lady who reads the tarot

cards.” Roland looked into his almost empty cup and set it down. He noticed the hurt

look on Liz’s face. Roland gave a weak chuckle and included himself in his diatribe

somehow thinking that would soften what he said. “There are always a couple of cool

things there, but since I ain’t got no money, what’s the point?” It was too late. The

morning was soured.

“I can get you anything you want,” said Liz coolly. She didn’t try to hide her

disappointment. “Look. You obviously don’t want to go, so we won’t.”

“It’s not so much that.” He rubbed his cheeks with his palms and brought his hands

together with his index fingers touching his lips just under his nose. He looked like he

was praying. He felt a strange little flutter in his body that he shook off as a chill.

Liz reached across the table and took Roland’s hand. “What is it then? Roland, I’m

concerned about us. I don’t want to lose us. We’ve known each other for so long. You’re

the first love of my life.”

“Then how come all of a sudden we can’t make love anymore? Back at my place

you just said I could stay there as long as I wanted to but you want me to move in with

you. I don’t get it.” He looked up at Liz, and for a few seconds everything around her

flickered. The face of a girl with dark hair and dimpled chin filled Roland’s eyes. As

quickly as it appeared the face disappeared and Liz returned. He was shaken. He took

several deep breaths and blinked his eyes several times.

“It’s not so all of a sudden. I’ve done everything I can to help you. I’ve been there

for you.”

Roland didn’t answer. He drew his hands back. He was trying to get his mental feet

back on the ground. Roland slumped in his chair and had a pained expression on his face.

“What’s that look for? Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Were you even listening to me?”

“Something really weird just happened. Your face and everything around you

started to flicker.”

“What do you mean?” She put her coffee cup down and leaned closer.

“I told you, your face and everything around you began to flicker. Instead of you,

there was a dark haired girl with a dimple looking back at me. She was dressed like

someone who was in that dream.” Roland reached up and felt Liz’s cheek.

“I‘ve been here all the time, maybe it’s stress, you know, starting your thesis.”

Roland couldn’t readily connect this hallucination to anything. He hesitantly agreed,

“I guess that kind of makes sense. Maybe you’re right. Man, I guess I must be stressed.”

Roland gave a weak, nervous smile. He wasn’t really convinced, but he agreed anyway.

“The statement and outline for my thesis are due in a couple of weeks.”

Liz squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes. “That’s all it is. Don’t worry about

it. It’ll come to you. Just stick with it. You’ve come along this far. I’ve stuck with you.”

“Stick, stuck, stick, stuck,” said his inner voice. The dream certainly felt real enough

and now this breach of reality. Roland wondered if his sanity was ticking away. He

nodded his head in agreement.

“I’m going to the restroom and pay the bill. I’ll be right back.” Liz left Roland and

entered the restaurant.

Roland hunched forward in his chair. A bus went by and left behind its grinding

echo in his ears and that distinct smell of diesel in his nostrils. A lowered, small, metallic

blue car with darkened windows parked in front of the restaurant. The music, especially

the bass line, was so loud it passed through him, vibrated the water in his glass, and made

the plates on the table rattle against one another.

Liz finally returned to the table. “Shall we? We can walk. It’s only a few blocks.”

She took sunglasses out of her purse and put them on.

“I have a confession to make. I really don’t want to go the street fair.”

“Okaaay, we don’t have to go. I just wanted us to spend some time together.”

At the moment, Roland wanted company but he also wanted to be alone to consider

what was going on in his head. “We just went to that metaphysical symposium up at the

Huntington Library last Saturday. That was interesting, wasn’t it?”

“I only went to be with you.”

“Well, if you want to spend some time together we could go back to my place.”

Roland reached for her hand.

Liz let her limp hand lay in his. “Look, since you don’t want to go to the street fair,

how’s this? I’m going to the Foster Kids Retreat and hang out there.”

Roland let go of Liz’s hand. “Again?” he said trying not to sound miffed.

“I grew up in that place. It was my home away from my foster home. It was a place

I could go to if things didn’t work out after I was placed. There were people there for me

and now it’s my turn to be there for someone else.”

“So, there’s no chance of you coming back to Roland Manor for a little fun.”

“Do you even hear me?” Liz was exasperated.

“Do you even hear me?” was Roland’s calculated come back.

Liz took a deep breath and spoke calmly and clearly. “This is what I mean about us.

I want to know what our relationship is really about and where it’s going. I’m really not

in the mood to talk about it right now. Tomorrow we can talk. Right here, meet me here

for brunch, ten o’clock.” Then she added softly. “I do love you, and I better see you here

tomorrow. Now go work on your thesis. You can do it.” Liz bent down and kissed

Roland on the lips.

He returned the kiss. When she turned away, he held back giving her a playful swat

on the butt. Liz headed down the street and turned the corner.

II

Roland drove his faded green Jetta to the campus library. He stopped at a red light.

A half-dozen people were crossing the street. Roland recognized the Sikh in his turban

who worked at the 7-11. There was a plump little Mexican mom pushing a stroller with a

wobbly wheel, her two, cute little girls in tow. An old lady bundled in a black overcoat

and hat toddled along. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw a man surrounded by

what appeared to be a glowing red web. By the man’s clothes and trapping Roland

recognized him as a Renaissance or Medieval soldier. The man had greasy hair, a terrible

complexion and crooked teeth. A studded club hung from his belt.

The people in the cross walk took no notice of the soldier. Roland was dumbstruck

when the soldier stopped, faced the car, leaned on the hood and glared directly into his

eyes. Roland was entranced, unable to move. He looked away into the rear view mirror

when he heard a car behind him lay on the horn. When he looked back, the leering soldier

was gone. Roland took off slowly and looked down the sidewalk. His soldier was

nowhere to be seen. He pulled over to the curb the first chance he had and sat there trying

to make sense out of what he had experienced.

Roland spent the rest of the day and late into the afternoon in the library. He was

distracted by his unsettling visions but forced himself to focus on his thesis. He kept on

coming back to the idea of doing something on alchemy. There were hundreds of theses

that dealt with the subject. He read a little about alchemy during his studies but didn’t

delve too deeply into its philosophy or understand it as being more than an antique get

rich scheme. He preferred the sordid tales of the rich and their bold and outlandish ways.

People like the Borgia and the Medici and Machiavelli fascinated him.

Roland left a couple of messages on Liz’s phone and texted her a few times during

the day. He wanted to see her again. He didn’t like the way the breakfast ended or the

thought of waiting until tomorrow to discuss their relationship. He didn’t see what there

was to discuss. Roland wanted things to be the way they were before Liz got all antsy

about what “direction” things were going.

He knew she wasn’t ignoring him. It wouldn’t be like her. Liz always shut off her

phone when she did her volunteer work. He checked his impatience. She finally sent a

text around five that evening. She might be able to meet him at The Edelweiss around

eight that evening. That is if she wasn’t needed. But even that was a big maybe.

Roland drove back to the granny flat and parked the car under the cramped carport

off the alley. He was glad he wasn’t visited by another hallucination. It was a little before

six. As he sat in the car, he looked in his wallet. He had a twenty, three fives and seven

one dollar bills.

He needed most of the money for his auto insurance, but he didn’t really want to be

alone tonight. “Screw it,” he said. He grabbed his backpack and headed to The Edelweiss.

The dinner crowd hadn’t quite arrived and in that lull Roland had a chance to talk to

Brian. The two sat outside at the same table Roland sat at that morning with Liz.

“So, what’s new?” Brian was in his late forties, heavy set with dark hair cropped

close on the sides. He had a jowly face, fat fingers and black rimmed glasses. He was

quick to make a joke or give a tidbit of sage advice.

Roland took the books out of his bag and opened his laptop. “Girl trouble,” Roland

frowned.

“With Liz?” Brian was not too surprised.

“With Liz. She’s got this hands off thing going on. All of a sudden she’s wondering

about our relationship.”

“All of a sudden? Hum, let me guess, it started when you said ‘no’ to moving in

together.”

Roland reflected on what Brian said. “You know, you’re right, it was a few days

after that. I don’t get her. You know she’s helping out with my rent and says I can stay

there for as long as I need to. Now she’s bent out of shape because I don’t move in with

her. ”

“So why aren’t you guys living together? This is the 21st century. You’re not going

to be burned at the stake for fornication.”

“I don’t know. We both decided we needed our space.”

“Did both of you decide or was it you?”

“I kind of suggested it.”

“Did you now? “ Brian turned in his chair and took a plastic thermos coffee pitcher

off the bus cart and a couple of cups. He set the cups on the table, filled them and slid one

over the Roland. “You have to take her seriously.”

“I do take Liz seriously. God, that’s her problem. She’s way too serious. Some of

the time she’s my girlfriend and sometimes she’s like my mother.” The coffee was hot

and burnt the tip of his tongue when he took a sip.

“This isn’t rocket science. If you took her seriously and you’re treating her right,

well my friend, she wouldn’t be unhappy.”

“Now she’s withholding sex until I figure out what she wants.”

Brian blew into the steaming coffee and set it back down on the table. “You have to

be patient and listen to what she has to say. You know, she’s a special person. She’s

someone who never had a real family. There’s got to be some baggage. She’s pretty and

smart and it’s obvious she loves you. You’re lucky that way.”

“I know I’m lucky. But, sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Quit holding your breath and try smelling the roses.”

“I don’t know. I’m just tired the way things are going.”

“Well, are you keeping everything the same?”

“What do you mean?” Roland attempted the coffee again. It had cooled enough to

sip.

“You’re smart. You can’t stay in school forever. Being in school is your thing, so,

you being in school is her thing too. But even Liz can’t wait forever. Her biological clock

is tick-tocking away.”

Roland pondered what Brian said. Brian was right on both points and there was

nothing Roland could say to defend his non-action.

“Hey, Brian!” called out the leader of a party of eight who arrived for dinner.

“Gotta go. Duty calls,” Brian patted Roland on the shoulder and followed his guests

into the restaurant.

Roland opened one of the books on alchemy. He looked at the words but was unable

to concentrate. The same clock that was ticking for Liz was also ticking down his college

days as soon as he committed to a topic for his thesis. Roland had the bad habit of taking

something to a certain point and not going any further. It was almost as if he knew the

outcome of his efforts would be pointless. His first major was city planning then

computer science, and now Renaissance studies.

The last requirement to get his degree in city planning was a six month internship in

sleepy little La Mesa. He showed up on the first day, hung around until lunch time and

watched and listened to the men and women. There was something he didn’t like about it.

“Way too political. I can tell they don’t appreciate creativity,” he told Liz. Roland felt

like he dodged the bullet by sidestepping a nine to five office job.

As for the Computer Science degree, Roland enjoyed the study of theory and he

even became fairly proficient when it came to the hands on aspect of the electronics

involved. He didn’t want to admit it to himself and he never told Liz he was having

problems creating the simplest program. One class assignment was to attend a job fair.

Roland felt a wave of “nerdity” crash over him when he stepped into the Convention

Center. “Everyone I met was a geek. All they could talk about were computers and how

much time they expected you to spend sitting at the monitor. I just know I couldn’t be

around people like that.” The excuse sounded flimsy even to him. Liz commiserated and

after spring break Roland decided on Renaissance Studies. With a masters and a

doctorate in that discipline he hoped never to leave the halls of academia.

Right now his need for people usurped everything else. A steady stream of diners

passed him on their way to eat and drink. He would read a passage or two and find

himself looking up from the text when he heard a bit of conversation or the sound of a

girl’s voice. He was there long enough to see the people who entered eventually leave.

A black Lexus pulled up in front of the restaurant. Roland gave a quick glance and

looked down at his book.

“Roland, is that you? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Roland looked up and saw his former schoolmate Tim Idings. Tim was two years

younger than Roland and by the car, the way he was dressed and the attractive woman at

his side it appeared he was doing well. Roland and Tim were middle and high school

pals. They lost touch after Roland graduated from high school.

“Hey Tim, wow, how’s it going?” Roland grinned. He was glad to see his old

buddy. He stood, reached over the railing and shook Tim’s hand.

“You look great man.” Roland looked at the young lady holding Tim’s hand and

back to Tim. This was not the disheveled and unkempt kid Roland remembered. Tim was

well groomed. His clothing was impeccable, from his expensive gray turtleneck sweater

to his tan, creased slacks down to his shiny Italian penny loafers.

“Oh yeah, this is Mandy, my wife.”

She smiled and shook Roland’s hand. Mandy was a tall blonde with sincere eyes.

She wore a little black dress that showed off her shapely legs.

“Married, wow,” was all Roland could say. He took in Mandy in one long slow

glance.

“What are you doing here?” asked Tim.

Before Roland could answer, Tim turned his attention to Mandy, “Honey, do you

remember I told you about this place? This is where Roland and I and my brother Nick

used to hang out after school. We’d spend our lunch money here. It was always the same:

three large fries and three cokes.”

“I haven’t seen you since graduation,” Roland said. He could hardly believe it had

been that long.

“Yeah, I know, ten years. So, did you ever marry Liz?”

“No, not yet,” Roland said vaguely. He wanted to change the subject as quickly as

possible. “What happened to you? Where did you go after high school?”

“UCLA, got my doctorate in political science. It took me long enough but at last I’m

on track for my tenure. I teach over at UCSD. Mandy is a therapist. She has her doctorate

in psychology.”

“I opened my office at our house in La Jolla.” She leaned against her husband’s

shoulder. “Tim has been so good about everything and UCSD is right up the road. It’s a

short commute for him and even shorter for me.” They took each other’s hands and

smiled at Roland.

Tim looked at the open laptop and the books on the table. “So, what are you reading

there?” Tim picked up the book on alchemy and opened it.

“I’m doing research for my master’s thesis.”

“Oh, so you’re just now getting your master’s?” Roland could hear the enthusiasm

go out of Tim’s voice. “That’s great, which college?”

“San Diego State.” Roland noticed Tim rub his thumb on the large gold college ring

he wore.

“State’s a... a fine school,” Tim said. “Where do you work?”

“I do some part time at the Copy Hut, and I’ve got my student loans.”

“I see.” Tim looked at his wife and nodded. “Well honey, what do you think?

Wanna give the old Edelweiss a try?”

“Sure, but no fries or coke for either one of us though.” She winked at Roland and

then announced, “We’re almost vegan.”

“What’s old Nick up to?” Roland asked. He and Nick would ditch Tim and smoke a

little pot together.

“He’s doing fine. If you ever need a lawyer, look him up. He’s online. It was good

seeing you Roland. Keep plugging away. Sooner or later you’ll get that master’s degree

under your belt. Remember, carpe diem!” That was Tim’s tag line for everything.

“Nice meeting you Roland,” said Mandy. The couple headed for the entrance.

“Right.” Roland waved, sat down, picked up his alchemy book and opened it. He

couldn’t concentrate let alone read. The only thing he wanted right now was a grilled

cheese sandwich, a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of chocolate milk.

He ordered and ate slowly. Roland wondered why this was as far as he’d gotten. He

was still at his high school haunt waiting for his grade school sweetheart who he lately

found impatient with him but also maddeningly supportive. He felt more and more

hopelessly indebted to Liz. He was ready for something, but he didn’t know what.

Roland thought about his studies and his thesis and wondered why it had taken him

so long to arrive at this point in his school career. Roland didn’t want to be one of those

perpetual students. Seeing Tim was a wake-up call. Doctor Idings was well on his way,

career, good looking and smart wife, cool car and probably a beautiful house. Roland did

not remember Tim being any more intelligent or clever than himself. Why was his old

friend so far ahead of him? Roland didn’t know why it was so hard for him to get past

what should be a brief transitional period from high school and college to a career or at

least a decent job.

Roland bit into the gooey cheese sandwich and thought about his childhood. His

mom and dad were unexciting, practical and pragmatic people. His older brother, by

twelve years, was in the navy and his older sister, by ten years, eloped when she was

seventeen and moved to Albuquerque. Roland and his parents lived in a modest house.

His dad always bought and drove used Fords. Roland’s father was well beyond just being

handy, but he never let his talents go beyond hobby status. His dad answered every

situation from his lexicon of clichés such as: “no good deed goes unpunished”, “the road

to hell is paved with good intentions”, “nothing ventured, nothing gained, something

ventured could be lost”, “better half a loaf than none at all” “I love humanity. It’s just

people I hate”, a quote from Casa Blanca in his best Bogie imitation “I stick my neck out

for nobody” and of course Ben Franklin’s chestnut “mind your own business.”

Mrs. Hughes was an unfulfilled woman brimming with nervous energy. She stopped

seven credits short of her college degree in accounting when she gave birth to their first

child Elvin and never forgave herself for not going back. She did temp office work and

was a volunteer mom all during Roland’s grade school years. Roland hated when she

drove him to school. She carried his books and lunch bag for him. She kissed him in front

of everybody before he went into class. His classmates teased him. She always seemed to

be on playground duty.

One day he fell off the monkey bars, tore his pants and cut his knee open. Mrs.

Hughes raced across the playground blowing her whistle all the way. This alerted the

children and they followed in a stampede right behind her. No matter how stoic Roland

tried to be and no matter how much he insisted he walk, she cradled him in her arms,

found the strength to pick him up and carried him to the Nurse’s Office. He was not

allowed on the monkey bars again.

When Roland was twelve, he asked his dad if he could deliver the paper for the

summer.

“Fine with me, that’s a pretty thankless job. You have to deal with people and dogs.

Go ask your mother.” Mr. Hughes went back to listening to the Padres lose to the Giants.

“Mom, dad said it was okay if I did Nick’s paper route for the summer. Can I?”

Mrs. Hughes gave her nod with some trepidation. The route had one hundred forty

one deliveries and was spread out over twelve blocks. She lectured him on bicycle safety.

She mapped out his route for the utmost efficiency. At four A.M., Mrs. Hughes was in

the garage with the light on and the front door open. She wore a pink quilted housecoat,

sat at a shaky folding table and drank coffee. She listened to a scratchy transistor radio

while she waited for the young man named Rick to toss the three bundles of papers out of

his truck at the end of the driveway. She took it upon herself to carry the papers into the

garage; fold and rubber band them and load them into the two cloth saddle bags that were

draped over the back fender of the bike. At exactly four forty-five, she woke Roland up

and had his breakfast ready.

Four days in, Roland broke his wrist when he took a spill trying to avoid a dog.

Roland pushed his newspaper laden bike back up the driveway. Mr. Hughes looked at

Roland’s swollen wrist. He nodded and said, “Kids, ya gotta love ‘em.” Mrs. Hughes

went into a panic when she saw her little boy. Mr. Hughes talked her out of calling an

ambulance. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” He suggested they could save quite a bit if

they just drove him to the emergency room.

Roland was spared the responsibility of having to get an after school job to the end

of high school. Mrs. Hughes hunkered down and weathered the salvos of disapproving

clichés and homilies that came from behind the fortress walls of Mr. Hughes’s open

newspaper when she declared she would give her boy a twenty-five dollar a week

allowance when he started college. This one little act started a slow and unstoppable

disintegration of their marriage and helped instill a feeling of entitlement in their son.

They separated when Roland entered his sophomore year at college.

Roland ate his tomato soup slowly. The more he thought about Liz coming to join

him the more ambivalent he felt. If she showed up, fine. If she didn’t that was fine too.

The people came and went until the dinner rush was over a little after nine o’clock.

Somehow Tim and Mandy slipped out without him noticing. By nine-thirty, the cars

drove off and the street was almost deserted. Roland waited.

NOT IN THE STARS

The icy white glow of the halogen headlights of the large, black Mercedes Benz showed

up in the rear view mirror of Lila Thurston’s convertible Ferrari again. She first noticed

her pursuer five minutes after she hurriedly left her step dad’s office at Fifth and B Street.

Lila headed east on University Avenue away from downtown. She figured no one would

look for her in quaint and shabby North Park. In her effort to escape notice, she took

several side streets, but always headed back to University Avenue. She wanted to get to

the I-15 on ramp at 40th

Street. She would decide if she wanted to go north or south when

she got there. Once on the freeway she could easily outrun the Mercedes. Only rookie

cops stopped her for speeding, and they only made that mistake once.

At the next light, she made her move. She sped into the left hand turn lane and

through the next intersection just as the yellow arrow turned red. A quick glance in the

rearview mirror and she saw the Mercedes was stuck at the light behind four cars. She

frantically looked along the street. She saw a young man sitting at an open air table in

front of a restaurant. Lila pulled to the curb and revved the engine until she got the young

man’s attention.

“Hey you!” she called out.

Roland looked up from his book. He pointed to himself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. You’ve got to hide me before they come. They’re after me.” Her voice

trembled.

Roland was instantly taken by a very pretty young woman as well as the Ferrari.

Lila’s blond hair flowed over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were wild and primal. Her

features were fine except for her pouty lips. Roland looked from left to right taking in

every detail of the street. His gaze stopped on the signboard that advertised The

Edelweiss. The signboard was fitted with wheels and Brian rolled it in front of the dead

end alley between the restaurant and a cell phone outlet next door.

“I’m going to move that sign and you pull into the alley.” Roland pointed over his

shoulder and Lila eagerly agreed.

“Please hurry,” Lila pleaded.

Roland jogged to the sign and rolled it out of the way. Lila was already backing the

Ferrari toward the alley. The timing was superb. As the front of the car disappeared into

the narrow dark void of the alley Roland pushed the sign back into place and quickly

returned to his seat. His heart was racing and he calmed himself by taking a few deep

breaths and exhaling slowly until he felt at ease. He picked up his book on alchemy and

pretended to read it.

In less than a minute from his encounter with the blond in the Ferrari, the big black

Mercedes 400 slowly rolled down the near empty street. It pulled up in front of Roland.

The tinted window whirred opened and a gruff voice called out, “Hey you, you seen a red

Ferrari go by?”

Roland looked up at the car. “Yeah, a few minutes ago, beautiful car.”

“Where’d it go?”

Roland pointed in the direction the Mercedes was headed. The window whirred up

and the car headed down the street. Roland watched as the Mercedes slowed at each cross

street and alley. When the Mercedes turned the corner, he waited a little before he went to

the rolling sign board and pulled it away just enough for Lila to slip through.

Roland took a good look. Her Gucci high heels made her a little taller than most, her

perfect figure and long shapely legs were draped in Dior. Lila wore a gold necklace with

a geometric teardrop design, an emerald ring and matching ear studs. She nervously held

her clutch purse with both hands.

“Are you okay?” asked Roland.

“God, you don’t know how much I appreciate what you just did.” She answered in a

rush of airy words then gave a nervous laugh. “God, I’m still shaking on the inside.” She

began to shiver.

“You’re shaking on the outside too.” Roland took the sweater from his shoulders

and draped it over hers.

Lila pulled the sweater tighter around her. Still shivering she spoke. “Let’s get

inside, they might come back.”

“Good idea.” Roland followed Lila into the restaurant. She held her clutch purse up

to shield her face and quickly looked at the patrons sitting at the tables and the bar. When

she was satisfied that no one knew her, she brought her hand down.

Brian turned the corner from the kitchen with a bottle of wine in his hand. “Coming

in out of the cold?” He smiled at Lila and Roland.

“Restroom?” asked Lila.

Brian pointed toward the back of the room, “Ladies on the left.”

When Lila was out of earshot Brian continued. “Wow, she’s a classy one. Is she one

of Liz’s friends?”

“No. I just met her.” Roland was wide-eyed and he spoke quickly. “These guys in a

big Mercedes were after her. We hid her car in the alley behind your sign board. She

drives a Ferrari.”

“So, what’s her deal? Tell me, tell me,” Brian teased.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Are you going to find out?”

“I don’t know yet.” Roland wasn’t sure what he wanted to do.

Brian handed the bottle of wine to the bartender and turned back to Roland. “I’ve

seen her somewhere before. I mean you couldn’t forget that.”

“Yeah, she is pretty hot.”

Brian had a rush of memory. “I know, I know where I seen her. She was on that

Sunday morning TV show, the one where they tour the real cool mansions in Rancho

Santa Fe and La Jolla and Del Mar. Dollars to doughnuts, that’s Samuel Thurston’s

daughter. I just know it.”

“That name does sound familiar. That would be too cool.” Roland felt an adrenaline

surge.

“Thurston’s kind of like San Diego royalty, a real wheeler and dealer. Remember a

couple of years ago? She was all over the news. She was involved in some kind of sex

scandal with that assemblyman...oh, what’s his name...and then last year there was that

shoplifting thing at Nordstrom’s.”

Roland nodded. He did remember something about that in the news.

“That TV show interviewed her. I’ll tell you one thing though, she lives in a palace.

They got stables and everything.”

“You really watch TV on Sunday mornings?” Roland quipped. “Thurston’s

daughter, this is too cool. She’s hot and, whoa, a bad girl too.” Roland ended the sentence

with a chuckle.

Brian’s demeanor changed. “Hey some friendly advice, you might want to act like

Liz was here with you.”

“Well, Liz isn’t here, and anyway, right now this girl needs some help.”

“Careful.”

“Stuff like this doesn’t ever happen to me. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just go with it

and see where it takes us. You know... Carpe Diem!”

“So it’s ‘us’ already, slippery slope, dude. What about Liz?” Brian couldn’t hide his

disapproval.

“Who are you, my mother? I don’t have to explain anything to anybody. We’re not

married.”

“You’re right, none of my business. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret. These

princess types make snacks out of schmucks like you and me. Just call her a cab.”

Roland softened a little, “I do appreciate your concern. I seriously doubt anything is

going to happen. I was just enjoying the good kind of craziness which is certainly lacking

in the rest of my life at the moment. All I’m going to do is help her out, that’s all.”

Roland added as an afterthought, “One other thing, Liz might come by tonight. If she

does could you tell her I had to give a friend a ride home?”

Brian shook his head. “Ain’t going there. Use your phone and tell her yourself. I’ve

known you both since you were kids. I don’t think you know what you got, Roland.”

“Well, I think you don’t know what I got.”

“Look, just call miss moneybags a cab and beat it before she gets back.”

Before Roland could respond, Lila emerged from the darkness and gave Roland a

flirty shoulder nudge. ”Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” replied Roland.

Brian couldn’t help himself, “I’ll make sure to say hi to Liz if she comes looking for

you.”

Roland shot Brian a quick glare, “You do that, Brian.”

Roland found Lila’s perfume intoxicating. Once outside Lila quickly looked up and

down the street. As they walked over to the alley, she asked, “So, is Liz your girlfriend?”

“I guess so. Kinda, I don’t know. We’ve been together forever. But lately I don’t

know where I stand. I’m meeting her here tomorrow at ten for brunch, you know, for my

weekly relationship report.”

They stood in front of the rolling sign board. Roland reached up to pull it away. Lila

put her hands on her hips. “Not a good idea,” she said sarcastically.

Roland looked back at her. The shadows from the street lamp darkened and

distorted her features. “Why not?” he asked.

“B’duh, kinda hard not to miss a Ferrari don’t ya think?”

Roland was taken aback with her sarcasm. “I suppose you’re right. But you can’t

leave a car like that in the alley. Brian does put that sign away every night.”

Lila spoke with unexpected confidence. “Sweetie, I could leave that car, with the

keys in it anywhere in this city and I guarantee, no one, and I mean no one is going to

touch it.”

“Really, and by the way my name is Roland, what’s yours?”

“You don’t hear that one too often. My name is Lila Thurston. You know the retail

stores, the real estate and The Thurston Group.”

“I’m duly impressed.” Roland started to appreciate Brian’s advice. “Want me to call

you a cab?”

“No, no, no. No cab. Daddy has his fat little fingers in everything, including cabs.”

“I’ve got a car, it’s no Ferrari.” Roland gave a nervous chuckle.

“I’d be surprised if it was. Well look... Roland... is it? I’ve got to get something out

of the Ferrari, so why don’t you pull this sign back so I can get it and you go run and get

your car and I’ll wait for you in the alley until you get back.”

Roland had second thoughts and hesitated for a moment.

“Come on, pull the sign back and go get your car. I haven’t got all night,” she

insisted.

Roland stopped what he was doing, stood up straight, crossed his arms and looked

her in the eyes. He gave her a hard look and subtly shook his head.

Lila saw she irritated Roland. Her proud continence disappeared and she turned her

eyes away from his. She lowered her head and took Roland’s hands in hers then looked

up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I must sound so awful. I’m just so

scared.” Her voice became soft and childlike. “I’ll be waiting here for you.” She implored

him with her eyes. “You will come back, right? Please come back.” She let go of his

hands and gave him a quick hug.

Once free, Roland continued to pull the sign away from the wall. ”Don’t worry, I’ll

be right back.”

Lila disappeared behind the sign and Roland pushed it into place. He stopped by the

table and gathered his books and laptop and hurried home.

No sooner had Roland slipped out of sight than the Mercedes made another slow

tour down the street. The car stopped in front of the alleyway again. The passenger side

window opened and a cigarette butt arched out and exploded on the sidewalk. The

Mercedes started to pull away, traveled a few feet and stopped. The bright white beam

from a hand held spot light, aimed by the faceless occupant of the car, tore at the

darkness above and below the signboard. This went on for a good twenty seconds. The

light beam disappeared and the Mercedes pulled away and sped down the street.

No more than a minute later Roland pulled in at the curb in front of the alleyway.

He watched the signboard wiggle and move and Lila with a briefcase in hand ran toward

him. She frantically pulled at the door handle. Roland reached over and released the lock.

Lila opened the door, tossed the briefcase onto the back seat, jumped in, quickly slammed

the door and locked it. Her eyes were red from crying. Her makeup was smeared and

streaked. She threw her arms around Roland’s neck.

Lila held on to Roland. She spoke in a hoarse, quivering, whisper. “It was so awful.

They stopped right in front the alley. I thought for sure they saw me. They kept shining

the light.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Roland patted her shoulder. “You’re safe.”

Lila relaxed her grip a little, closed her eyes and put her forehead on Roland’s

shoulder. “Please don’t be mad, but I...I wet myself.” Lila lost her resolve and cried a

cluster of little sobs.

Roland returned her hug and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay,”

Roland said sympathetically. He let go and Lila sat back in the seat. “Two questions,

where to, and why are those guys chasing you?”

Lila regained her composure but spoke in a childlike way. “We’re going to

Coronado.” She sighed and wiped away the last of her tears. “Those guys work for my

step dad, good old Sammy. He thinks I took something of his. But I didn’t. My mom left

them to me. It’s my inheritance I was supposed to get when I turned twenty-five.”

“The bridge?”

“Better not. I hate bridges. Let’s take the Strand.”

Roland made a U-turn and headed west on University Avenue under the Florida

Street bridge, left onto Park Boulevard, then all the way to the horseshoe of the 5 South

on ramp and headed to the Silver Strand.

Lila wriggled around in her seat as she spoke. “My mom left me Krugerrands. Right

now they’re worth about 450 K. So I took them. They’re in your back seat right now. I

just went into his office and took them out of his safe. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. He

left the safe open.”

The news gave Roland a jolt and a much greater awareness of what he was doing.

He checked his rearview mirror. “Well, that explains a few things. If the coins are yours

already, what’s the big deal?”

“He wants the money. With him, it’s always the money. His lawyers wrote up

something that says since the coins were my mom’s and they were married, he gets

them.”

The traffic going south was sparse. He looked ahead to his right at the skeletal

cranes that pressed into the night sky of the National City shipyards. His peripheral

attention was drawn to Lila. She had her dress pulled up to her waist and slipped her wet

panties down her tanned naked legs, until she could catch the elastic with her toe and

push them past her ankle and heel. Roland’s car left the lane. When he heard a car horn,

he looked up and swerved back into his lane causing them both to jostle toward each

other.

“Holy crap, sorry about that!” Roland flushed with adrenaline and his heart

pounded. He looked down at Lila’s legs again and then away. ”Whew.”

“Don’t be sorry. You can look all you like.” Lila smiled, opened the window and

gave a throaty chuckle. She had her panties on her fingertip and tossed them out onto the

freeway.

“And just like that, woo-woo.” The breeze rushed through the window and made her

dress billow. “That cold air feels so yummy down there and on my legs too. I’ve got

goose bumps, feel.” She took Roland’s hand and slowly guided it up and down her thigh.

Roland swallowed hard. “Lila, you know, I’ve got a girlfriend.” Roland allowed

Lila to continue to guide his hand. She brought it closer and closer to her crotch and then

suddenly tossed his hand into his lap.

“So what, there’s a boyfriend out there somewhere. This is just between us, you and

me, right now.” She pulled her dress down a little and leaned her head on Roland’s

shoulder.

Roland found it difficult to resist being swept up in the moment. Not in his wildest

dreams could he have come up with a scenario that included explaining himself to his

mousy girlfriend in the morning, rescuing this amazingly hot, mysterious woman sitting

next to him, and having close to half a million dollars’ worth of gold in the back seat of

his car all in the same day.

“Take the Palm Street exit and go right.” Lila snuggled in a little closer and rested

her hand on Roland’s inner thigh. He felt the heat from her hand. “Does this make you

feel better?” She let her hand linger in his lap and gave his crotch soft little pats.

“Oh yeah, you feel great.” Roland had to catch his breath.

Lila leaned away from Roland and sat in the center of her seat. She folded her hands

in her lap and gave the instructions. “We’re going to go about three miles. It’s right after

the grade school, you’ll see it on your left. I’ve got my secret little hideaway at Bayside

Arms.”

“I actually know where that is. My aunt and uncle used to live there.”

They continued down the brightly lit causeway. The vertical shadows of the street

lamps rolled across the windshield. He quickly glanced to his left. The moonlight played

on the crest of the breaking waves. Roland knew they were getting close and he slowed

down.

“Now take the second driveway.”

Roland started to turn.

“No, not this one, it’s a little further. Take the second driveway. You’re going to

park in space 201.”

He corrected, entered the next driveway, and easily found the space. Roland parked

the car. Lila got out, opened the back door and grabbed the briefcase. When Roland came

around to her side of the car, she handed the briefcase to him to carry.

“So, this is what a half a million dollars feels like.” It wasn’t that heavy.

Lila carried her shoes in one hand and her purse in the other.

“Follow me.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. Roland smiled back. She

swiped her ID card through the reader at the front door. The lock clicked and lights

automatically came on. They entered.

The living room was large. The fireplace mantle was decorated with a beautiful

cloisonné vase in a glass case flanked by a set of silver Renaissance candlesticks. The

lighted painting over the mantle caught Roland’s eye. Lila gently took the briefcase from

Roland. He barely noticed she had. He was entranced by the antique chairs, the bronze

castings and the mid-century design furniture. Lila tucked the briefcase away behind the

drapery hiding it quite nicely.

“This looks like a Miro.” He studied the signature. “I’ve never seen this one

before.” Roland had his hands clasped behind his back and craned his neck to the left and

right as he studied it.

“Well, that is a Miro. It belonged to my mom. One of her relatives was in Europe

during World War II and he brought it back with him. Now it belongs to me. Yeah, and

the furniture is original too. Louie 14th

settee and there’s a couple of side chairs from

some Bavarian Duke Gunter, or somebody or other. I like these better.” Lila pointed to an

inviting black leather Eames chair and footstool.”

“These things are so cool. I’ve only seen things like these in museums or books.”

Roland was wide-eyed and impressed.

“Yeah, they’re all right. I see them every day.” Lila picked a remote control off the

granite countertop and dimmed the lights. She crossed the room and settled into the

corner of the plush leather sofa, put her legs up and stretched out, catlike. She pulled her

dress up to mid-thigh and bent her knees, leaving almost enough room for Roland to sit.

“Sit with me. I’m still a little scared.” The sexy way she spoke belied what she said.

“I’ll sit with you, but I might be the one who’s scared.” Roland sat and Lila draped

her legs over his.

Lila beckoned Roland with her index finger. “Kiss me.”

Roland hesitated. He hadn’t kissed anyone but Liz since that time when they both

decided to see other people as they first started college together. That experiment lasted

for three months and they came back together without another word about it.

Lila let out a little hiss and pulled Roland to her face. They kissed slowly at first

then again and again. Lila’s kisses were soft and lingering. She licked her lips and made

them wet and silky. They both began to breathe deeper and faster. She put her hand on

the back of his neck. Roland felt the smooth, soft flesh of her thigh and drew his hand up

the contour of her leg.

Lila put her hand on top of his and held it fast. “What do you think you’re doing?

This is my thing,” she whispered a little out of breath.

Roland took his hand away, but she put it right back where it was and waited for the

delicious touch of his fingertips on the cleft of her naked sex.

When Roland realized there was no undoing what had started, he returned Lila’s

kisses with more abandon. Roland wanted to be swept far away from the familiar into

deep unknown waters.

Lila pushed him off, stood up, took his hand and led him into her bedroom. She

stood him in front of the bed, playfully pushed him down and fell on top of him. Clothing

was awkwardly stripped off and tossed away. Lila straddled Roland and greedily took

him in. He looked up at her strained face, at her gently swinging breasts.

Like what happened earlier with Liz, Lila’s face flickered from its fine features

framed in ash blond hair to a face belonging to an olive skinned woman with dark curly

hair and a small strawberry shaped birthmark on her neck just below her right ear.

Roland closed his eyes. He did not want this lapse in reality to be happening right

now. He opened one eye to see if his phantom lady had left. She hadn’t. He closed and

opened his eyes twice more. He was frantic and scared. The fourth time he closed his

eyes and opened them Lila was back. She slowly rocked back and forth and brought them

both to a noisy, explosive, simultaneous orgasm. She immediately pulled herself away

and fell next to Roland.

Roland took her into an embrace which she cut short. Lila rolled over on her back.

When Roland tried to kiss her, she pushed him away. He thought she was teasing. He just

wanted to hold onto someone substantial, something real.

“Okay, enough of that,” Lila sat up and covered herself with the sheet. “Well, that

certainly was nice. But, you know, we’re done.”

Roland laid there near spent from his break with reality and his sexual release. “Is

this whole thing some kind of hallucination? What the hell is happening to me?” went

through his mind.

Lila threw off the sheet and went to her closet. She took out a pale yellow, silk

kimono and put it on. She turned the lights on. Roland had to shield his eyes until they

could adjust. Lila stood in front of her vanity and looked in the mirror. “Good lord, back

to the salon tomorrow.” She sat and began to brush her hair.

Roland rolled to his side, propped his chin on his hand and talked to Lila’s reflection

in the mirror. “So, am I spending the night?”

Lila rolled her eyes, not caring if Roland saw. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? No

Roland, you’re not spending the night. In fact, you’re getting up right now and dressing.

Then you’re leaving.” She gave a throaty little laugh, “Woo woo, just like that.”

“So, that’s it?” Roland tried to hide his disappointment. He swung his legs over the

side of the bed, snagged his underwear with his toe and brought his foot up to his hand.

He put on his underwear and blue jeans, then his socks and shoes. He crossed the room

and took his shirt that hung on a drawer pull on Lila’s dresser. Roland turned the shirt

right side out and put it on.

Lila looked at Roland’s image in the mirror. “You know, before you start, we really

have nothing in common.”

Roland leaned on the footboard with his backside and crossed his arms, “Even after

what happened tonight?”

Lila turned around in her chair and looked Roland in the eyes. “What am I supposed

to do? Fall in love? You don’t know me. You don’t want to know me.” Lila lowered her

tone and spoke gently, “Tonight was great, let’s leave it like that.”

“You mean you don’t feel anything for me?”

Lila shrugged her shoulders and gave Roland a hapless smile, “No, not really. Don’t

worry, I won’t forget you.”

Roland spoke with the slightest hint of a whine, “But I want to get to know you.”

“No, you don’t. I can tell you this though. I’m a spoiled little rich girl. I get what I

want when I want it. Tonight worked out for the both of us. I got away from daddy

dearest and we both had some fun. So, why don’t we just leave it that way? Okay?”

“How about your phone number?” ventured Roland.

“You’re kidding, don’t make this hard.” Lila put the brush down, stood and faced

Roland. “If anything, you’re not someone I really want to know. You got no money. You

drive a joke of a car and I’m sure you live in some dumpy little apartment in North Park.

And hey Mr. Commitment, I’m not the one who cheated on my boyfriend, because I

don’t have one. You obviously have a girlfriend though.”

“You don’t? But I thought you did.” Roland was flustered.

“Nope, no boyfriend. Would that really make it okay if I did? You just jumped in

the sack with whoever. I would have thought more of you if you said no. Now, just like

that, go! Woo woo.”

“Right back at you,” he didn’t care how lame he sounded.

Roland quietly left the apartment. The electronic lock made a loud hollow click as

the door shut behind him. Once outside, the cool ocean air brought Roland back to the

moment. He was angry at Lila. And what did Liz expect for pushing him away and

questioning their relationship? He also wanted to know why Brian had to put tables in

front of the restaurant just so he could sit at one. He made full circle, “stupid, stupid,

stupid! Jesus Christ, I could be an accomplice to a robbery. What the hell was I thinking?

God, I’m such an idiot,” he said out loud.

It began to sprinkle and then rain. Roland got into the car and slammed the door. He

knew he could never undo what happened. He would have to keep his secret. He

continued to scold and berate himself until the sting of his punishing words and his self-

directed insults somehow eased his conscience. As he crossed over the graceful arch of

the Coronado Bridge Roland thought about Liz. He had to put what just happened out of

his mind. That is what he’d do. Act like it never happened. The solution was so simple.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t wait to get home and take a shower.

But in Ourselves

While Doctor Jacopo Gallo did his work pro bono, Bishop DiMars quietly slipped out of

the Provost Office and stood under the overhang that was above the barracks door. He

watched the raindrops run along the edge of the tiles, collect at the lowest corner and drip

onto the ground. The rain had eased to a drizzle. DiMars felt terrible. This was supposed

to be the day that was to make his name as destroyer of witches and a champion of good,

especially in the eyes of the upper echelons of the church. He blamed the rain. He blamed

Mezzi and the confounded wood that refused to burn. If the wood had lit none of these

terrible things would have come to pass. He cursed Renaldi for not insisting more to

honor Lorenzo Patriarca’s demand to change the day of the burning and lastly he blamed

his ambition and his vanity. He headed across the courtyard to the rectory. He desired,

no, he needed the privacy and refuge of his chamber. Already wet and cold DiMars saw

no need to hurry until he saw Renaldi with a few others waiting at the front door. Grateful

that he was unobserved, Bishop DiMars quickly changed his route, took the garden path

and hurried to the kitchen door instead. He tried the door handle. The door was barred.

His servant girl, Annamarie, by good fortune was in the kitchen sitting on a stool by

the fire. Her embroidery hoop was on her lap. She had her thimble but was anxious and

sad because she could not find her fine golden needle. She even turned her sewing pouch

inside out. Annamarie opened the door when she heard the bishop call her name. The

bishop entered. His clothing was soaked and dripping. His hair was plastered over his

forehead and his face was wet. The rain collected in little drops just under the tip of his

nose and chin. Annamarie almost did not recognize him. His usual jovial demeanor was

dull and dark.

“Sir, do you want hot cider or broth?” she asked with an unsure smile.

Bishop DiMars said nothing. He picked up a dish rag and dried his face and hair.

“No, nothing, I must not be disturbed. Let no one in.”

“Yes sir.” Annamarie, not unaccustomed to seeing the bishop so quiet and

reflective, bowed and watched him slowly leave the kitchen. She went back to her stool

next to the hearth. Before she sat she made one more scan of the floor hoping to find her

golden needle.

DiMars mounted the narrow staircase and stood for a moment on the landing in

front of his heavy door. He entered the dark, damp apartment and took pains to close the

door as quietly as he could. Then he locked it. The bishop went to the small window over

his bed and drew the curtain making his room a secret twilight world inhabited only by

him and he hoped the Holy Ghost.

DiMars felt dull and detached as he took off his wet clothes and left them in a pile

near the door. He was naked and covered in gooseflesh. He shivered uncontrollably. His

teeth chattered. With some difficulty, he knelt before his dressing chest and with shaking

hands opened the bottom drawer. Hidden deep under some odd bits of clothing and linens

he found and retrieved the black velvet sack. He untied the drawstring, took the scourge

out and held the leather handle in his hand. Moments earlier as he crossed the church

grounds on his way to the rectory he imagined this moment.

“I have failed you dear God,” he whispered. His respect for Lorenzo Patriarca

turned to resentment because of the sway the man had in Rome. He would be mocked.

There might even be an inquisition. Patriarca’s Gina must live. She must become well.

When he finally stood up he felt the flush of anticipation. He drew the thin leather

strips that made up the business end of the scourge through the palm of his left hand. He

felt the little lead bead sewn to the end of each narrow leather strand. One at a time he

took a bead between his index finger and his thumb and gently rolled it in a tiny circle.

He went from one bead to the next almost as if he were saying the rosary.

The bishop crossed the room and looked at the large gilded crucifix that hung on the

wall. It was the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes. He made the sign of the cross

and knelt down on the cold stone floor. He found it difficult to swallow. His face grew

hot, and his heart raced. DiMars whispered, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be

thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done.” When he spoke the words ‘thy will be

done,’ he swung the whip over his shoulder quenching his thirst for atonement. And so he

repeated his mantra again and again, each time accentuating the word “will” with each

stroke. The first three lashes stung. As he punished his vanities the sting and the sound of

the leather cracking against his flesh faded into an ecstasy of release and redemption.

SUCH AS WE ARE MADE

The rain stopped. It took forever for a rather impatient Roland to get back to his granny

flat. It was a little after one-thirty. He pulled under the carport, grabbed his backpack and

went inside. He didn’t know how to feel. The evening seemed so bizarre. Lila was so

pretty but also terrible. He might have been part of a half million dollar robbery, and he

felt awful for cheating on Liz.

He never did anything like that before. And now acting as if nothing had happened,

well, that wasn’t going to work. Something did happen, something he wanted to happen.

He betrayed Liz and once again he was angry with himself. How could he do that to her?

Brian was right. He should have acted as if Liz was there with him last night. He tossed

his ethics and self-respect and his relationship for a three hour adventure that came to a

bad end.

Roland thought about the first time he met Liz. It was in Mr. McCloud’s sixth grade

class at Normal Heights Middle School. Mr. McCloud assigned Liz the empty desk next

to Roland’s.

At recess, the girls in the class gave Liz a lukewarm welcome. Her quiet demeanor,

her completely uncool pink, unicorn emblazoned backpack, her matching pink outfit that

was two years out of date and the fact she didn’t even have a cell phone set her apart.

At lunch, Roland sat in the cafeteria and ate his sandwich. He watched Liz push her

orange tray along on the narrow lunch line counter. It was pizza day. She got pizza, a

carton of milk and a fruit cup. She could have asked for ice cream too but she didn’t. Liz

recognized some girls from the class and walked over to their table.

“Okay if I sit here?” Liz asked with a smile.

Lindsey rolled her eyes at the other girls. “Sorry, these seats are saved for our

friends.”

Liz nodded and turned away. She heard the girl’s giggle and some loud whispering

about her backpack. She looked back and forth at the strange faces. Roland gave an

unsure wave and Liz smiled. She went to his table and sat down.

“You sit next to me in class.”

Roland nodded and looked at the piece of pizza. “Yeah, those girls, Lindsey, Brooke

and Heather, they’re not very nice.”

“I noticed.” Liz picked up her pizza and took a bite.

“What school did you come from?”

“Roosevelt Middle School.”

“Where’s that?” Roland wrinkled his brow.

“It’s on Park Blvd.”

“Was it cool?”

“I wasn’t there very long.”

“I guess your parents must move around a lot.”

“I do.”

Roland gave her a quizzical look again.

“I don’t have a mom and dad. I just moved in with my new foster parents. We live

on Meade Avenue.”

“What’s that like?”

“Okay, I guess. At least these last ones seem pretty nice. What about you, where do

you live?”

“On the corner where Felton meets Monroe.”

“Is that close?” Liz sipped some milk.

“I walk to school. I guess it’s close.”

When school was out, Roland walked home. He saw Liz up ahead walking by

herself. Ahead of her he saw Lindsey, Brooke and Heather. Heather looked over her

shoulder and said something to the other two. They slowed their pace until Liz was right

behind them.

Roland wondered why the three girls were so nice to let the new girl walk with

them. Lindsey dropped behind and walked next to Liz. By this time Roland wasn’t very

far behind and he could hear what they were saying.

“That’s such a pretty pink backpack. Can I see it?” Lindsey said with a smile.

Liz slipped it off her shoulder and handed it to Lindsey. Lindsey laughed and tossed

the backpack to Brooke who ran a little ahead and Heather got on Liz’s other side. It

turned into a game of keep away. The backpack was tossed among the three tormentors

just beyond the Liz’s reach.

“Catch it if you can, Pinky,” Lindsey taunted Liz.

“Yeah, Pinky,” echoed the other two.

Liz became upset and was on the verge of tears. Mrs. White just bought the

backpack the night before last. It was the first new backpack Liz ever owned. Heather

saw the look on Liz’s face and held the backpack out for her to take. Then she snatched it

away at the last second and tossed it to Brooke.

Roland jogged up to the four girls and put his hand on Lindsey’s arm.

“Don’t touch me, creep.” She pulled away, and the other two stopped to look.

Brooke held the backpack up over her head. She was just that much taller than Liz that

even jumping up for it, Liz still couldn’t reach it.

“I’ll tell my dad you hit me,” Lindsey hissed, “and he’s a lawyer.”

“Give it back. What’s the matter with you girls?”

“Well, if she wants it back so bad maybe she should call her mother.” Lindsey faked

an epiphany, “Oh, that’s right she doesn’t have a phone.”

Roland ran up to Brooke and jumped for the backpack. She threw it out into the

street. He quickly looked both ways, dashed out and grabbed it.

He handed the backpack to Liz. Liz tried very hard to rub the grime off the corner of

her new backpack.

“Why do you three have to act like witches?” Before the three girls got back in step

ahead of them on the sidewalk, Roland added, “She doesn’t have a mother either.”

Brooke’s and Heather’s shoulders noticeably drooped. Lindsey stood up that much

straighter.

“Come on girls, let’s run. We can go to my house. My mom will make us

smoothies.” The three girls trotted down the alley between 34th

and 33rd.

streets.

“They’re kind of jerks,” said Roland.

Liz didn’t say anything for another block. “Why did you have to tell them I don’t

have a mom?”

“So they would be nicer to you, I guess.” Roland shrugged. He didn’t realize that

might have been the wrong thing to say.

“Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. If you want, I can walk with you tomorrow too.”

“I’d like that. See ya in homeroom.” Liz turned down Meade Avenue when she saw

the apartment building.

Roland related the story to his mom and dad at dinner.

Mr. Hughes wrinkled his brow. “You know that girl Lindsey’s dad is Bradley

McCoy the lawyer. You didn’t hit her did you?”

“No dad, I touched her on the arm to get her attention. Like this.” Roland tapped his

father on the arm.

“You know what I told you about sticking your neck out for other people.”

“You did the right thing, sweetheart,” said Roland’s mom. “You did look both ways

before you ran out into the street didn’t you? I worry so much about you when you’re not

here.”

“Yeah, I looked.” Roland asked to be excused. He lost his appetite.

Roland missed that innocent time of his childhood. He didn’t have much of an

appetite now either. He looked in the refrigerator and pulled out his last beer. His mind

was still buzzing with Lila, Liz, the gold coins, his thesis and of course the vivid dream

and the unsettling hallucinations of Renaissance men and women that shoved their way

into his conscious reality.

So Foul and Fair a Day

1

The five reprieved witches soberly waited for Marta and her daughter to return to the

Provost’s Office. The room was warm and lit by many candles. Marta carried some

simple dresses; clothing donated for the poor, that would be warm and comfortable.

Rosina had heavy woolen socks and opened back slippers for everyone plus an armload

of towels and small blankets.

Upon seeing her charges, Marta was struck by the irony. They stood quiet and sullen

in a semi-circle around the raging fire. Marta felt ambivalent toward the entire situation.

She knew these people and did business with some of them. She saw them in church and

at the market place. As far as she could tell they were faithful wives and good mothers

and honest traders. But they confessed to being witches. The Word of the Church is true

and sacred and to be obeyed. Marta had to consider her own immortal soul. For now,

witches or not, they were her concern, and she would treat them kindly with warmth and

true Christian charity.

Rosina and Marta went to each woman, one at a time, and helped them out of their

soaking shifts. They gave the shivering women towels and helped dry their hair,

shoulders and backs. The kind and gentle treatment changed the somber mood of the

room. When Rosina helped Bianca Molina step out of her clothes, Bianca looked down at

her chest, arms and legs. To her happy amazement the sores were gone. The pain was

gone. Her skin was healthy and clear again. Naked, she fell to her knees and sobbed for

joy as she thanked God over and over.

Marta put a warm blanket over the woman’s shoulders. “Go fetch the bishop,” an

excited Marta called out to Rosina, “hurry girl, hurry. Tell him it is a miracle!”

Rosina opened the door. The rain had stopped. The sky, though still dark, was much

less overcast and was beginning to clear as the last of the cold wind was replaced with an

unseasonably warm, westerly breeze. The afternoon sun tinted the bilious clouds with

gold and rose and gray hues. Sunlight poured down in grand, wide beams illuminating

and warming the piazza. Steam began to rise from the paving stones. Birds returned from

the shelter of the eaves and the belfry, and they alit at puddles and drank and bathed and

sang glorious little songs.

Those who were pent up in the church and shops and wherever they could find

shelter began to reappear. Parents were reunited with children. Some boys and Sergeant

Gagliardi circled the church bell that was lying on the ground in front of the dais.

Monsignor Petri finally climbed out from his den under the dais and lumbered like a large

black bear toward the sacristy. He thought how good the wine would taste and how it

would warm and refresh him.

People looked at each other differently, more thoughtfully. Although the external

trappings of class still divided them, they shared in a deep communion that was revealing

and humbling. A quiet politeness shown by all, rich to poor, sinner to saint, dispelled the

morbid and visceral shadow that darkened those self-righteous souls who were so blood

thirsty just a few hours earlier.

Pieces of firewood piled up against the city gate, against the fountain and the dais.

When the gutters backed up, the neatly stacked logs and branches floated away on

rivulets of rainwater and were driven by the wind willy-nilly ending up in the most

unusual places. The six naked stakes stood like the ruins of some pagan temple.

“Where is the bishop?” Rosina asked the first few people she saw. They did not

know. Rosina answered their curious looks with, “Mama says it is a miracle. I saw it with

my own eyes! It is Bianca Molina, go look. They are in the Provost’s office.”

As she ran to the rectory, she shouted to everyone in earshot that a miracle took

place. The word “miracle” was now on everyone’s lips. When Rosina saw Mayor

Renaldi, Doctor Gallo, Father Eduardo and Lorenzo Patriarca at the front door of the

rectory she immediately headed toward them.

“Mayor Renaldi, sir, sir, Father Eduardo, there is a miracle.” Rosina, out of breath,

was excited and happy to be the bearer of such good news. As an afterthought, Rosina

remembered to curtsy.

“Rosina is it? A miracle you say?” The others smiled and looked at the red cheeked

girl whose eyes were glowing. Renaldi tried not to be too patronizing. “Tell us child,

what miracle is this?”

“Bianca, Bianca Molina, she is cured. Her sores are gone; her skin is clear. In the

Provost’s office, I saw it with my own eyes. When I left the room, she was kneeling

down and crying and thanking Our Savior. Mama says it is a miracle, yes?”

Renaldi’s arrogant smile faded and his brow furrowed. “Those terrible oozing sores

are gone? Is that possible?” The mayor addressed the question to Doctor Gallo.

The doctor cocked his head to the side and looked past the mayor as he lost himself

in thought for a few seconds, “Not in my experience. I have never seen or come across a

spontaneous healing such as this. If that is what it is. But, that is not to say it is not

possible.”

“It cannot be a miracle,” said Lorenzo Patriarca bluntly. “Our Lord Jesus would not

heal a confessed witch and then strike down my daughter, would He?”

“Signore Patriarca, it is the hail that struck down your daughter, not our dear Lord,”

said Father Silva gently.

Before Lorenzo could speak, Gallo took the reins of the conversation.

“We must examine the woman. This talk of a miracle is just that... talk!”

Renaldi spoke to the girl. “Fetch the bishop, go to the kitchen door and knock loud.”

Rosina dashed off toward the rear of the rectory, over the stone path that ran through

the little garden then up the steps to the back door. She knocked and waited. Rosina heard

the shrill sound of a chair leg being moved over the stone floor. Then she heard footsteps

and Annamarie’s voice.

“Who’s there?”

“Rosina.”

Annamarie opened the door and let her friend in. “Rosina come in, come in. What is

it?”

The girl burst into the room. She took her friend by the hands. “I must get the

bishop, Mayor Renaldi told me to. It is a miracle! “

Annamarie met Rosina’s joyful news with a confused stare. “Miracle?” she finally

said.

“Yes, I must get the bishop.” Rosina wriggled her friend’s hands as she spoke.

“Bishop DiMars said he was not to be bothered.” A look of concern crossed the

girl’s brow. After a few seconds of deliberation Annamarie spoke. “Let me ask him.”

“I will go with you.” Rosina took Annamarie’s hand and they mounted the stairs.

Annamarie lightly knocked and waited for a reply. When she heard no answer, she

looked over to her friend. Rosina who needed to deliver her message had no problem

pounding on the door. “Bishop DiMars, Bishop DiMars, Mayor Renaldi sent me. There

has been a miracle.”

Annamarie, though shocked at Rosina’s actions could not help an impish smile as

she held back her friend’s hand as Rosina was about to knock again. “No, no,”

Annamarie whispered.

“Mayor Renaldi sent me and so did Doctor Gallo and Signore Patriarca,” called

Rosina.

DiMars was finished with his penance. He sat in the dark on his bed. He wore a

shawl around his shoulders. His back hurt but he was at peace. He had to digest the news

before he answered. Since Patriarca’s name was mentioned the miracle might involve

Gina, his daughter. With Renaldi involved it could have something to do with either one

of their futures and with Gallo, it might be of a celestial or mundane nature. One never

knew with that man. He rubbed his forehead and cheeks then finally called out to the

girls. “Have them wait in the parlor, I will be down shortly.”

Rosina and Annamarie scampered down the stairs. Rosina left her friend and headed

back to the Provost’s office. Annamarie ran through the rectory to the foyer and opened

the front door. The four men entered, followed Annamarie into the parlor and sat.

“Bishop DiMars will be down shortly.” Annamarie left the men and returned to the

kitchen, put the big copper kettle on the fire and prepared a tray with five cups and a

pitcher for hot cider.

The bishop entered the kitchen. He was dressed in black and wore a large silver

cross. He had on warm wool socks and his comfortable slippers. Annamarie was putting

the spices in a small, woven brewing basket. He spoke in a familiar and lively tone his

young servant was used to, “No... No cider... Be a good girl and set out glasses and fetch

the brandy.” Annamarie nodded. He stopped her before she left the room. “The miracle,

what do you know?”

“Only that Bianca Molina is cured. Her sores are gone. That is what Rosina said.

She said she saw it with her own eyes.”

“Bianca Molina,” the bishop repeated, “cured?” He let out a sigh then nodded and

accepted what had happened. “Find some biscotti or maybe some cheese and bread, one

or the other and set it out for us.”

“Yes sir.” Annamarie left the room and headed for the pantry.

Bishop DiMars stood there for a moment and twiddled his thumbs. “Perhaps that is

what this day needs, a miracle,” he thought to himself.

He left the kitchen and walked through the dark hall. The parlor was awash with

light that poured through the tall windows. Renaldi, Gallo and Father Silva stood when

the bishop entered. Lorenzo crossed his arms, remained seated and frowned.

DiMars nodded to all and bid them to return to their seats. “Signore Patriarca, your

daughter, any change?”

Lorenzo Patriarca did not answer directly so Doctor Gallo spoke up. “She is still

asleep. She has been taken home and I will look in on her tomorrow.” After a slight pause

and a quick glance at Patriarca and then back to the bishop he continued, “It is good of

you to ask.”

“And well he should. If it was not for him, Gina would be well and happy.”

Renaldi took his turn, “Lorenzo, the good bishop is no more responsible for the

weather than anyone else. Please, your daughter is in all of our hearts and our prayers.

Please, make peace with yourself and with a man you have known for most of your life.

As leaders, it is our duty to deal with this new situation. A miracle, is it possible?”

Bishop DiMars looked at Father Silva. “Eduardo, none of us has seen this miracle.

Go to the Provost’s Office and look in on the Molina woman and the others. Remember,

they will say what they think you want to hear. They are confessed witches. Do not be

fooled by any of them. Come back and tell us what you think.”

“Go alone? Do you not want to see the miracle for yourselves?”

“There will be plenty of time to see Bianca Molina. We trust your judgment.” All

nodded in agreement with the bishop.

Father Silva checked his feelings of pride by biting the inside of his lip. “As you

wish,” he nodded to each of the men and left them.

“He is a good boy,” said Renaldi with a wistful smile on his lips. “Now, good sirs,

now we can discuss this puzzle we have on our hands. You know how these plebs are so

superstitious. We must consider how to deal with Bianca Molina, as well as the other

four.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Patriarca. Jacopo Gallo leaned in and

nodded in agreement with Il Signore.

“I am talking about this. How are we going to look? This morning we were

condemning these women to death and this afternoon God bestows a miracle on

undoubtedly the most docile of them.” Renaldi and the bishop nodded in agreement.

“I do not give a fig for what these peasants think, or for that matter your schemes.

You, DiMars, all you can think of is getting out of here and going to Rome and

eventually the Vatican. Your future does not ride on the apron strings of a witch; it rides

with me. If I were you, I would be on my knees right now praying for my daughter. Her

outcome is your outcome. You, Renaldi, all you can think of is the next election.

Remember where your votes come from.” Lorenzo laid his finger on the side of his nose

and gave it a few soft taps.

“Yes Signore, our concerns are certainly not your concerns,” Renaldi agreed. “The

people will believe what we tell them. I see no need for you to be bothered with our petty

lives.” Renaldi used his best self-effacing tone.

“Please, that is enough,” was Patriarca’s exasperated rejoinder.

“Annamarie, where is our brandy?” Bishop DiMars called.

As if on cue the girl entered the room. She carried a silver tray with glasses and a

decanter of brandy. She had more than an adequate amount of cheese and thin slices of

bread on a plate. She placed the tray on a side table.

“Thank you, dear girl. You will find my wet clothes by my door. Be a good girl and

tend to them. Now, away with you.” Annamarie curtsied and smiled at the bishop.

Lorenzo Patriarca gave a disgusted shake of his head, and sighed as he spoke. “You

treat that little wench like a daughter, not a servant.”

Renaldi shot a wide-eyed glance at the bishop. The bishop looked at his old friend

as he checked a flinch and remained as expressionless as he could. He took a deep breath.

Doctor Gallo studied the looks on both men’s faces and immediately surmised the secret.

“You must forgive me Signore Patriarca if I aspire to be as gentle as the Lamb of

Christ.”

“Yes, as gentle as a lamb. Believe me, there are no lambs at the Vatican.” Turning

away from DiMars and Renaldi, Lorenzo Patriarca looked at his doctor. “Jacopo, I am in

need of your carriage,” then to the bishop and mayor, “I must leave, and I leave you to

your fortunes or follies. Good day mayor.” The bishop felt the sting of being snubbed, but

he let it go and gave a nod and a halfhearted smile.

When Patriarca and Gallo left the room Renaldi got up and poured two glasses of

brandy. He handed one to the bishop. DiMars looked into the glass, swirled the amber

liquid around, held the glass under his nose and drew in the heady bouquet.

“Do not fret my friend. Lorenzo is angry and you, unfortunately, are his Judas. He

will soften as soon as Gina gets better,” reassured Renaldi.

The bishop took a sip, trapped the brandy between his tongue and the roof of his

mouth, held it there for a few seconds and then swallowed. “You did not see her,” he said

thoughtfully.

“A few little bumps on her head, she is probably sitting at home before a nice fire

and eating custard as we speak.”

“Let us hope.”

11

Father Silva was caught up in a swirl of excited parishioners pushing their way

across the piazza to the Provost office. A bobbing crowd, some in prayer and others

wiggling forward and insisting on being the first to see the miracle, already blocked the

portico that led into the courtyard of the civic buildings. He heard the word “miracle”

several times enter the different conversations.

Father Silva broke free. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Monsignor Petri ,

Sergeant Gagliardi, Vito, and Vincenzo Rizzo along with a half a dozen youngsters all

standing in a circle looking down. Silva walked briskly toward the men. He felt it proper

to have the monsignor with him when he witnessed the miracle.

Petri looked up at the young priest, “Look Eduardo, there lies the voice of the

church.” One of the boys tried to move the bell with his foot. “It seems lightning does

strike the same place twice,” the monsignor added with a twinkle in his eye.

“Our bell, this is awful.” Silva knelt down and placed his hand on the bell. It was

still warm. Irritated, he pushed the boy’s foot away and then sternly added, “You children

go back to your families, now.” Father Eduardo shooed them away with both arms. The

children reluctantly obeyed at first. The oldest, a lad of eleven, clapped his hands and

took the lead. The boys laughed and shouted as they held out their arms like wings and

zigzagged across the square, running through every puddle they could on their return to

their families.

“You know, it nearly struck the bishop and me. A few feet to the left would have

been very unfortunate for us. It is good to know the Lord watches over his servants.

Speaking of whom, have you seen the bishop?”

“Yes, I just came from the rectory. He, the mayor, Patriarca and his doctor are there.

I am to go to the Provost’s office. They say there is a miracle. Bianca Molina, she is

cured.”

“No longer a witch, eh?” Petri said with a smile. “I will walk with you; the

Provost’s office is much closer than the rectory.”

Father Silva didn’t quite know how to take the monsignor’s flip comment about

Bianca Molina no longer being a witch. There was just enough playfulness in his tone to

cause the young priest to pause. This was sacred business that dealt not only with the

lives of the five women but their immortal souls. Eduardo always carried self-doubt about

his fitness, or for that matter the fitness of any mere man to pass judgment on another

human being. Of course, he understood there must be penalties for breaking any of the

commandments. After all, those are the words of God.

In the seminary he held back sharing his doubting thoughts during lectures, or to

even admit to having them. Is it a sin not to heed one’s calling? Were not these women

called to become witches as he was called to become a priest? And since God has created

everything and everything God has created is good, how can one who follows the path

given to them by Our Lord be bad or evil? Who is more to blame, the person who claims

to practice witchcraft, or the person who seeks out the witch’s cunning and craft?

The two men walked with their hands clasped behind their backs and their gazes on

the ground just ahead of them. Silva had to check his pace not to get ahead of the

lumbering monsignor. The young priest mulled these pestering questions over as he

walked. Petri’s concerns were more venial. He hoped there would be a nice fire and some

brandy in the Provost’s Office.

A boisterous crowd, now forty or fifty people deep, surged against the barred door

that opened on to the small courtyard of the civic buildings. Sergeant Gagliardi along

with Vito and Vincenzo Rizzo jogged ahead and vigorously cleared a path through the

noisy and jostling faithful. The collection of curious men and women called to and

reached out trying to get the attention of the two clergymen as they struggled through the

crowd. The opening immediately closed behind them as the men pushed all the way to

the front door of the Provost’s office. The remaining guards, the escorts for the

condemned earlier that day, were stationed at the front door with their halberds crossed.

The men gave Gagliardi a look of relief at seeing him and the Rizzo cousins.

“Open for the Monsignor and Father Silva,” Gagliardi yelled at the closed door. He

heard the sound of the bar being raised and the door opened no more than to see who was

there. Upon recognizing his uncle, Carmen opened the door. The men entered quickly.

Gagliardi along with Vito, Vincenzo and the two guards felt the brunt of the crowd as it

pushed in against them. Those at the forefront tried to steal glimpses of the women, and

the more rowdy were roughly turned away as they tried to gain entrance.

Once inside and the thick door secured behind, Petri and Silva hardly recognized

their witches. The rain washed their faces clean, and their hair was dry and neatly

combed. Their clothing was fresh, and their faces were no longer so pale and careworn.

They barely resembled the hated heretics who were going to be burnt to death. They were

sitting on a bench Marta and Cinzia brought in from an adjoining waiting room and

placed in front of the hearth.

Trancelike they ate steaming hot porridge that Cinzia prepared. Not one of the

women looked up at their accusers. The little iron caldron that contained the porridge was

sitting on the hearth stones very close to the fire. There was a bowl of apples and some

dried figs in a basket sitting on a side table well within reach of the women.

Monsignor Petri and Father Silva stood in front of the hearth to warm themselves.

They faced the accused. The clergymen cast a dark shadow and were awe struck when

they saw the faint luminescence that surrounded the women. The glow was exceptionally

strong and bright around Bianca Molina who sat at the center of the bench. The women

on either side of her gave her loving, sidelong glances. The clergymen saw the light and

stood in silent wonder. The monsignor’s lips parted, and his eyes opened wider. Father

Silva felt a shiver of joy fill his entire being. The two men eagerly looked into the eyes of

each woman. The women looked back with expressions of calm and serene love. Neither

man was capable of saying a word.

The monsignor finally broke the spell by clearing his throat. Without a word he

nodded to Eduardo, and they headed off to the adjoining office and closed the door. The

young priest could not contain his excitement. “You saw it, yes? You saw the halos?”

“I saw something,” the monsignor replied. “We should send for the bishop. He

knows so much better what to do.”

“Monsignor, can we really wait for him? We must do something to protect these

blessed women.”

Before the monsignor could answer, the Provost’s office resonated with the sound

of breaking glass, shouts and other chaotic noises. Then the noises abruptly stopped. It

was obvious to the clergymen that the crowd had broken through and entered the room.

Father Silva headed for the door. He was checked by the monsignor, who through great

effort grabbed onto the young man’s sleeve.

“Do not be foolish, nothing good can come if we interfere with such a crowd. I am

going to remain here. I suggest you do the same. We must be very quiet.” For once the

monsignor’s words had gravity.

“Stay if you like. We may be the only authority here. Who knows what has

happened to Gagliardi and his guards? We must do something!” That said, Eduardo Silva

broke the rather loose hold Petri had on his arm and opened the door. To his surprise the

Provost’s office was empty. The women were gone. Anything that was lying loose was

gone, even the bench was gone.

Father Silva turned back to the monsignor. “Nothing to fear, everyone is gone. You

may come out now,” he said a bit disgusted.

The monsignor looked past Eduardo into the empty room. He entered and surveyed

the damage. “They took the candle sticks, the ink well, even the quill, and the drapes

from the windows. Oh my, oh my,” his casual tone returned. He sighed, “It looks to be

out of our hands now.”

Father Silva shook his head slightly and left the monsignor whose farewell was a

shrug of his rounded shoulders. Once outside he saw Gagliardi and his guards standing

off to one side conferring. Each man was injured. Carmen was the worst with a few

loosened teeth and a swollen jaw.

“What has happened?” Silva asked Gagliardi.

Gagliardi shook his head and let out a very uncharacteristic chuckle.

“I have seen many things over the years, but I have never seen anything like this.

The Provost’s Office emptied out. This mob of idiots hoisted the bench up above them,

put the witches, who I think are now saints, on it, and carried the whole lot of them back

to the piazza.” He turned and pointed. Silva and Petri and the guards looked past the

broken down door and watched a now reverent and sober procession. Bianca Molina sat

alone on the bench that was held up high over their shoulders by a host of the faithful and

carried to the dais. The other four women who shared Bianca’s fate followed her with

their heads bowed and prayed while they walked.

When the procession reached the steps of the dais, a number of men and women

fought for the honor of having their cloaks or shawls used to cover the rain soaked

armchair and side chairs so recently reserved for the contessa and the churchmen. With

great respect Bianca Molina was placed in the center, flanked by Monica Longo and

Aurora Tocini on the right and Maria Cutri and Lillo on the left.

The crowd stood before the women and talked in hushed tones. More and more

people joined in the discussion. Rich and poor crowded to the front of the gathering.

Father Silva, Gagliardi, his men and the monsignor also came forth, not as those of

authority, but now as children of God. Everyone waited until the last stragglers, which

included Renaldi and DiMars, joined the rest.

“Show us, show us the miracle,” called out Alberto Superchi, a dealer in perfumes.

The request was repeated in a gentle and coaxing way by more and more people.

Bianca stood up. She untied the straps at the shoulders of her dress and let it fall to

her feet. She stood there naked. Her face was raised to the heavens; her arms lifted up in a

sign of prayer. “In the name of God I show His divine gift to me. I am no longer

unclean.” It was true; her sores were gone. Her pain was gone. Her skin was free of scars.

From the belfry a white dove flew down and circled her three times, then flew straight up

into the sky and out of sight. People dropped to their knees. Prayers were said and

offerings, such as coins, were tossed to the dais. Even the coins that rolled off into the

crowd, instead of being kept were tossed back onto the stage.

If the white dove wasn’t sign enough, Carmen Testo, the young man who escorted

Bianca to the stake, balanced himself on the bell to make himself a head taller than

everyone and turned to the crowd. “It is true! I had not the courage to even touch her

when I took her to the stake, and now she is clean. It is true!” He pointed to Bianca and

the crowd broke into applause and hurrahs. Bianca looked down on the people before her

as if it was the first time she saw them. In a fit of modesty she let out a surprised

whimper, covered herself with her hands and quickly turned her back to those watching.

The other women on the dais sprang from their places, excepting Aurora Tocino as God

did not feel the need to restore her reason, and stood in front of Bianca Molina. They

helped her dress and calmed her fear of immodesty. They concluded she was in the state

of grace and, therefore, unable commit a sin. Reassured with this reasoning, she returned

to her seat and accepted, with an open heart and humility, the reverence being shown her.

While this was happening, Bishop DiMars and Mayor Renaldi were pushing their

way through the crowd. They were met with catcalls and ‘boos’.

Bianca Molina held up her hand and the crowd stopped. The bishop and the mayor

were now on the dais. Before the bishop or the mayor could speak, Bianca spoke. “I

thank almighty God for the miracle He has bestowed upon me. From this day forth please

let it be known that my four sisters and I will be called the Sisters of Mary and Jesus.”

She looked over her shoulder up at the bishop who was standing behind her. “Will you

give us your blessing, your eminence?”

As he was making his way through the crowd, DiMars thought of many things to

say to discredit her and many things to say to justify his actions. All of his rhetoric fell

away like petals from a dying flower. He acquiesced to the wishes of the many and gave

Bianca and her four sisters his blessing. The people in the square cheered and called out

the name, “Bi-an-ca, Bi-an-ca, Bi-an-ca...”

Reflection

Two days had passed since the miracle. Outwardly things returned to normal. The stakes

were pulled down by the townsfolk that very evening. The dais was disassembled and

stowed, and the bell with some difficulty was loaded into a wagon and taken to the

blacksmith.

The air of mystery and the joyful awe of the miracle were tempered by a collective

self-reflection that caused many feelings of shame and guilt for what could have

happened. The bishop quietly rescinded the execution orders. He waited for a papal

legate or an inquisitor to arrive from Rome to begin their investigation. The small

convent of Santa Dorotea, twenty miles to the south, agreed to take in and care for the

women. Monica Longo and Maria Lillo decided to forgo convent life. Monica returned to

her farm, and Maria headed off to an uncertain future after packing up her scant

belongings.

A Gift of Chance

Dawn unfolded its golden wings over the awakening town. Silvery fog hung heavily in

the surrounding hollows causing the hill tops to appear as islands. Father Eduardo awoke

at his usual time. He finished his morning prayers before the four bells. He was sitting on

the edge of his cot eating his breakfast of a boiled egg, an orange, and three of the

crucifix shaped biscotti graciously contributed to the church by the Bakers Guild. His

small garret had a large window affording a view of the town’s southern roof line. He

liked to see the shops and houses come to life as lamps were lit behind curtained

windows, and white smoke swirled out of chimneys. Just before six o’clock every

morning he watched with mild fascination as fifteen year old Christina DeLucia, bucket

in hand, hurried across the empty square to the fountain where, for just a few

unchaperoned minutes she and Francesco Turro, the tanner’s son, would meet and steal a

kiss.

“Father Eduardo,” Annamarie called from outside his door.

“Yes.”

“Father Eduardo, it is Cesare Lippo. He is the furniture maker. He must talk to you.”

“What brings him to the church so early?” Eduardo slipped a wedge of the sweet

juicy orange into his mouth.

“He would not say.” After a moment of silence Annamarie asked, “What should I

tell him?”

“Tell him to wait by the front door and I will see him anon.” Father Silva finished

eating the orange and put on his house robe and his open back slippers. He put a heavy

shawl over his shoulders. The hemisphere of the sun sat on the horizon and sent its

warming rays into a grateful sky. The air was still cool and crisp and damp.

Earlier that morning, when the cock crowed, Cesare Lippo, as was his habit, quit his

bed and started the day. Cesare was not a particularly religious man although he

considered himself of a spiritual nature. He felt the entire world was his church, the sun

and moon his god and goddess, and the planets his saints. His heaven was here on earth.

His heaven was in the sunrise, the birdsong, the smell of roses and the taste of honey. His

daily actions toward his fellow men and women were the true test of his soul.

The story of the miracle started him thinking. He was intrigued by the strange

qualities of the wood that was used for the witches’ pyres. He heard from a young man

how the wood came from Signore Mezzi, the wood was the remains of the Sacred Apple

Tree. Cesare found it curious the wood would not burn, though it was seasoned and quite

dry and, at one point, even soaked with oil. He learned how the same wood, after being

drenched in that terrible downpour for a good hour and a half, caught on fire immediately

and burned hot and bright when it was used to warm the room where the five women

were kept and the miracle took place.

Cesare knew in his excited heart that this special wood must possess some rare

mystical quality. He wanted that wood, and he came to ask Father Eduardo for it.

Father Eduardo opened the door. Cesare bowed, removed his cap and held it in his

hands, “Good day to you father.”

“And to you Cesare, Annamarie said you wanted to talk with me.” The young priest

looked at the older man in front of him. Cesare was in his early forties. His youngish face

belied his age, and he still had most of his youthful strength hidden in an unassuming

body. His face was quite regular, and his features though not too remarkable were

pleasing enough. He had a warm smile, and he could express himself quite plainly be it

pleasure or disdain with the subtle flash of his eyes.

“Yes father, it is the wood.”

“Wood, what wood?” Eduardo was slightly puzzled.

“From the burning,” Cesare expected Father Eduardo to understand immediately.

“The firewood, is that what you are looking for?”

Cesare nodded eagerly.

“There are some pieces here and there. Most of it was collected by whoever wanted

it.” Cesare slumped with disappointment. Father Eduardo thought for a moment. “As I

recall, there were quite a few larger pieces, some as tall as a man, dragged behind the

blacksmith’s shop. Go ask Antonio, tell him I gave you permission to take what you

need. And Cesare, I would like to see you at mass now and again.”

Cesare bowed and smiled, “Yes father, thank you father.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, Father Eduardo, nothing more, and thank you again.”

Father Eduardo stepped back inside the rectory and closed out the cold morning air.

“We men have such peculiar desires,” Father Eduardo thought to himself. He tightened

his robe and pulled the shawl a little closer onto his shoulders and made his way back to

his garret.

Cesare headed for the blacksmith’s shop. He walked quickly and took long strides.

The front door to the shop was slightly ajar. Cesare entered the dark cavern of a building.

At the center, Antonio Delatorre, a short, stocky, red-faced man stood in the glow of the

orange fire. The backdrop of the wall behind him and the ceiling above was brought to

life by the surreal, elongated shadows of his movements as he worked the bellows. He

worked so intently that he did not see or hear Cesare enter.

Cesare watched Antonio for a moment and then spoke. “Brother Antonio, are you

well?”

The blacksmith gave a start when he realized he was not alone. “Who’s there?

Come forward and show yourself.” He picked up a hot poker and held it a little in front of

him.

Cesare took a step closer and stood in the orange halo that now engulfed both of

them. “It is I, Cesare Lippo.”

“Cesare Lippo, yes, I am well, and you?” Antonio put the poker back into the fire.

“Well enough, and your wife, well, I hope?” Cesare could never understand how a

beautiful woman such as Antonio’s wife could ever be attracted to such a dark, homely

man who smelled of smoke, soot and sweat.

“She is well enough to do whatever she wants, it seems. Why do you ask?”

Antonio’s tone rang with resentment. More than once he suspected her of cheating on

him. On the day of the burning, he surely would have caught his wife, or someone who

from behind greatly resembled her, on the arm of a young man. Had it not been for his

bad limp and hobbling gait he would not have lost sight of them in the crowded piazza.

When he returned to his forge, he took out his anger over this latest and her other

suspected affairs by beating the white hot metal so hard that sparks took frenzied flight

and filled the seething air around him.

“Just extending a courtesy my friend, that is all.” She was beautiful, and tall, and

well-formed and her voice and manners were naturally alluring. Men, old and young

alike, were drawn to her. When she saw men she liked, she was hard-pressed to refuse

their company, much to the jealous blacksmith’s consternation.

“Well, keep your courtesy to yourself.”

“And so I shall.” Cesare remembered why he was there, and he did not want to

queer things over something he might say or unknowingly insinuate.

“How can I help you? Iron straps? Hinges? Do you need steel tempered?”

“No, none of those things, I came about the wood, the firewood from the burning.”

“The wood?“ He thought for a moment. “You know, there are some large branches

behind the shop. Big ones, and part of the trunk, that stands as tall as a man, taller than

me for sure.” He chuckled. Antonio warmed the chill that came from his unfounded

suspicion over such a simple and polite question. Cesare smiled.

“You can have at it. I tried to use that cursed wood in the forge, and it just will not

burn. All it does is smolder, even when I pile white hot coals on it and work the bellows.

I have never seen anything like it. Did you bring a wagon?”

“No, but I shall get one.”

Antonio nodded and Cesare followed. The two men went to the back door of the

shop. With some effort, Antonio dragged the door open. They entered the yard. The place

was strewn with different pieces of iron, brass, bronze, and copper, all lying on the bare

earth. The metal scraps were mostly covered with vines; some like tan twine from years

past and others still green. A rusted section of ornate iron fence was propped up against

the back wall of the shop and looked to be used as a ladder. Cesare looked up and saw

more scraps of metal stacked on the sagging roof. There was a jumble of broken tools and

broken weapons and even pieces of outdated armor thrown into a pile. The bronze bell

was on a pallet and covered with a canvas tarpaulin at the left side of the yard. The wood

was next to the bell.

“There it is.” Antonio pointed to the stack of wood. “Are you going to try to burn

it?”

Cesare shook his head. He went to the stack and ran his hand over the coarse bark.

At his touch, he felt a delicate tingle in his fingertips. The sensation grew and slowly

went up his arm, circled his neck and then flooded his mind with a wonderful feeling of

peace and happiness. He took his hand away and caught his breath. “No, I am not going

to burn the wood. I am going to make something with it.”

“No doubt you will... no doubt you will.” Antonio smiled at his acquaintance.

Cesare Lippo was a master furniture maker and his pieces graced many a salon in some

of the oldest and riches villas and estates for a hundred miles around.

“Have at it Cesare Lippo.”

Cesare smiled and looked over at the bell. “The bell, is it cracked?”

“No, it is a miracle. Is it not? It was struck twice by lightning and then for the bell to

fall from the top of the campanile and hit the ground as hard as it did and not crack, it

truly is a miracle. The problem is that the striker is fused on its pivot. No more than heat

and a few hammer blows to free it up.” Both nodded to each other. Antonio went back

inside, forced the door shut and hobbled back to his forge.

Cesare left the yard by a side gate. As he crossed the square he happened upon a

carter, Giovanni Billini, who was leading his donkey and small cart out of an alley.

Cesare hired Giovanni quite often to deliver his pieces.

“Hey Giovanni, here, over here,” called out Cesare.

Giovanni waved to Cesare, “Salve Cesare, what brings you to town?”

“I have come to collect some wood.”

Giovanni laughed. “You live in a forest, my friend.”

“So I do.” Cesare grinned and shook hands with Giovanni.

They first met when Giovanni asked for lodging one night nine or ten years past.

Giovanni was just let out of the army. He lost his left eye in a battle with the Turks and

was returning home to his little village to the south, very near the Convent of Santa

Dorotea.

Giovanni was a well-built man of average height. He had a dark complexion and

wavy dark hair and would be considered handsome except for the deep diagonal scar that

crossed his cheek, over his left eye socket and ended just above his eyebrow. With the

help of a few stitches by the attending field surgeon, the wound healed as best it could.

Now his eyeless socket was sunken.

He returned home to find that his parents had died in one of the many outbreaks of

the plague and that his sister, out of hunger and desperation, left with a rather brutal

cavalry officer and was not heard of again. The news saddened him greatly. Giovanni

never lost, though, at times, it was very difficult to maintain, his positive outlook on life.

He kept himself sane with a sense of humor and the firm belief that he was part of God’s

plan.

“Where is this wood, Master Lippo?”

“At the blacksmiths, behind his shop.”

“You lead, and I will follow.” Giovanni took the bridle and tugged on it. The fat

little donkey gave resistance, pulled her head back and then brayed loudly. Giovanni

smiled and patted the beast on its muzzle.

“Come on, Jezebel, be a good girl, pull the little cart for Giovanni.” He stroked

Jezebel’s ear and gave another tug. The donkey took a few steps and the cart creaked

forward. The three settled into a leisurely pace on the way back to Antonio’s shop.

“You still have your Jezebel, I see,” said Cesare.

“Ah yes, a match made in heaven. She is a faithful partner, as long as she gets

enough to eat.” He gave her an affectionate pat on the muzzle and made a kissing sound

with his lips. If it were not for Giovanni, Jezebel would have been slaughtered and eaten

long ago.

When Giovanni found out the fate of his parents and sister, he decided to leave the

tiny hamlet. There was nothing to keep him there. Giovanni enlisted in the army as a boy

of fifteen and so he had no trade. If he stayed, he could either be a woodsman or a

shepherd. He found neither choice very appealing after seeing a bigger world. His

father’s few stony acres were barely the trouble to work, even for a simple vegetable

garden. His parent’s little house was in a terrible state. It was not abandoned long before

the neighbors took the doors and windows and even the tiles from the roof. The roof was

no more than open rafters. With the inner walls exposed to the rain and wind, large

chunks of plaster fell and lie on the floor.

Giovanni walked away preoccupied with the future. At the end of the third day of

walking he approached a farmhouse to ask for a place to sleep. The farmer’s wife opened

the door and could not hide her revulsion at the ugly scar and sunken eye. She called her

children to come see the man with the evil eye. They stood with mouths agape and their

gazes transfixed on Giovanni’s war wound. After this sobering moment, she told

Giovanni he could find her husband in the corral behind the barn. She made the sign of

the cross, kissed her thumbnail, and quickly closed the door.

The children, three stair steps, curly headed boys under the age of eight, excitedly

ran ahead to announce the man with the evil eye was coming. Giovanni followed. When

he turned the corner the stench of manure took him back a step, but he continued. The

farmer was in the muddy corral. He was bald and lanky, wore a blood smeared apron and

held a large knife with a dull gray, curved blade in his right hand. He had his left arm

crooked around the neck of a healthy young donkey. He held the animal’s head back to

expose its throat to the track of the blade. The boys scurried up and hung off the rails of

the corral to watch.

Giovanni proposed the request for lodging. The farmer let the little donkey go and

stood up straight. He was agreeable to the idea to let Giovanni stay the night and the two

men fell into conversation. As was expected from any traveler, Giovanni shared his story.

All the time he spoke the donkey was gamboling about much to the delight of the

farmer’s three sons who laughed and hee-hawed right back at the impish animal. Even

Giovanni and the farmer had to smile at the animal's antics. When Giovanni finished his

narrative, he could not help but ask about the scene. Why was the farmer going to slit the

donkey’s throat? There were plenty of chickens scratching about, and he could hear the

not too distant bleating of sheep. The farmer said with a bit of dark humor that Giovanni

and the donkey were very much the same. Giovanni gave the farmer a quizzical look. The

farmer coaxed the donkey up close with kind words, snatched it by its ears and dragged

the animal to where Giovanni stood.

“Look.” With difficulty, the farmer turned the donkey’s head and pointed to the

animal’s right eye.

“Look, she is blind, like you. She is no good. No one will buy her.”

It was true. The donkey’s right eye was as dull and gray as the knife blade the

farmer earlier held to her throat. The farmer let the animal go and again she frolicked

about, prancing from one end of the corral to the other. Giovanni had an epiphany.

Without any thought of financial consequence, he offered the farmer the unheard amount

of one piece of silver for the donkey. The delighted farmer gladly accepted. Giovanni

went from wayfarer to an honored guest.

To the very vocal dismay of the farmer’s wife (which was quashed by a threatening

glare from her husband) Giovanni, evil eye and all, ate with the family that night. He

slept deeply and peacefully as he had not done so for a long time.

Giovanni and his little donkey that he named Jezebel were gone before sunrise the

next morning. With some trouble, he wound up half carrying her out of the corral. She

was quite timid and lost when she left her familiar world.

The field they had to cross to get to the road lay ahead of them. Jezebel was

unwilling to move. Giovanni tugged on the rope that was around the donkey’s neck. She

held firm with all of her strength and went into a long and loud bout of braying and

bucking. He slackened the rope and she settled down. Giovanni next tried to entice her

with an apple he was going to eat for his breakfast. The loud crunch and the sweet scent

that perfumed the air around them when he bit into it immediately piqued the donkey’s

curiosity. She stopped her fussing, leaned in close and cocked her head to see with her

good eye what this new delight might be. Giovanni dropped the bite of apple from his

mouth into his cupped hand and held it under the donkey’s nose. Her nostrils flared and

her lips quivered. He felt her warm, moist breath against his hand. He tried to coax her by

pulling his hand away from her mouth in the direction he wanted to go. She did not

move. She was not obstinate. She was afraid.

It dawned on Giovanni that he had to be on the animal’s right to lead her. He

changed sides and like magic, they began their journey. That morning an unlikely bond

was formed between man and animal. She would be Giovanni’s faithful servant and

friend, and he would complete Jezebel’s sight and be her protector.

Cesare, Giovanni, and Jezebel entered Antonio’s yard. The two men loaded the cart

and left the town by the west gate. The road narrowed from a broad entryway of ancient

paving stones to smaller cobblestones and then to a rut scarred country lane of packed

clay that followed the lay of the land.

The four mile walk was uneventful, brisk and quiet. The road to Cesare’s cottage

wound through low hills sparsely covered with evergreens. The ground was carpeted with

dry golden grass and low dark scrub. Along the roadside, they came across an occasional

fruit or walnut tree. Their leafless, leaden branches captured shards of sky and clouds,

sun and shadow within a myriad of intersecting angles creating the effect of looking

through a stained glass window. The two men spoke very little. The air held the sounds of

birds, the whispering breeze and a monotonous moan made as one of the cart wheels

rubbed against a dry axle. Jezebel pulled her cart at an even pace.

Around the next curve in the road they could just see, if one knew where to look, a

sliver of the stone chimney of Cesare’s modest cottage. The cottage sat on a level area up

a slight, winding incline a hundred yards in from the lane. The men and beast with her

load left the road and followed the fern lined path. The ground was damp and coffee

brown. The ferns that filled the embankment to their left and right were jeweled with

dew. The path, as well as Cesare’s house, was in the constant shade of the pine, cypress

and cedar trees. The trees protected the cottage from the winter winds and rain and the

intense heat of the dry summer days. They breathed in the humid, spicy air that was

crisscrossed with delicate, diagonal shafts of dusty sunlight.

Giovanni gave Jezebel’s bridle a final jerk. The rear wheels of the cart were stuck in

a rut at the very top of the path. With one last effort, the donkey and Giovanni bounced

the cart onto the level. He patted the little donkey on the head. Jezebel announced their

arrival with a few loud brays and a sneeze for good measure.

Cesare looked in at the load of wood. He held out his hand and ran his fingers over

the thick branches and trunk. Again he felt a surge of energy travel up his arm that

stopped the instant he took his hand away. “Giovanni, my friend, I feel it in my soul. I

will make something from this like nothing anyone has ever made.

Merely Players

From inside the house Marcella heard the donkey bray and the muted voices of the men.

She cautiously opened the shutter so very slightly and looked out of the kitchen window.

Marcella exhaled a breath of relief at seeing Cesare.

Two years earlier when the first winds of fear that witches and demons were afoot

swept through the region; Marcella came to live with Cesare. At first he was unsure and

curious why any townswoman’s family would want their daughter to be hidden away in

such an out of the way cottage with a recluse such as himself. Cesare’s needs were so

minimal and the cottage he offered could only be kindly described as cozy.

Cesare knew the Andano family slightly, and he recently had dealings with Marcella

and her sister when they came to him looking for a coffin. Though the circumstance

could be considered morbid, Cesare found he was quite attracted to her. She had a gentle

continence. When they spoke, he became lost in her large and kind eyes. He liked her

girlish face, the straight nose, her fine thin lips, the small pearl like teeth and the deep

dimple in her round pretty chin. She was not buxom and her hips were boyish. Her arms,

hands, and fingers were delicate as were her legs and feet. Marcella wore simple clothing

and a small gold cross that was a gift from her Great Aunt Prunella given to her when she

made her First Communion.

Cesare was also taken by Marcella’s complexion. It was milky white, clear and

luminescent. He could hardly know that as a child she often wondered how she happened

into a family of sturdy, olive skinned hat makers. In fairy tales, the princess always had

fair skin. It was a sign of nobility. More than once when she had the rare luxury of a

daydream, Marcella would trace the paths of the pastel blue veins on the backs of her

hands or, in the looking glass, on her neck with her fingertips, close her eyes, and

imagine they were roads leading to distant castles where she would be recognized as a

long lost daughter and be embraced by joyful parents who would offer her innumerable

choices of nearby kings and princes to marry.

Marcella came to live with Cesare after her Great Aunt Prunella, who was close to

seventy-five, made the long slow trek accompanied by her grandnephew. Cesare

welcomed Prunella into his humble home. Prunella sent her grandnephew off on an

errand to buy some honey from the apiarist who lived a good ways further down the

country lane. She sat at the table and produced a small flask of brandy. The two shared

the brandy as Prunella, after making Cesare swear on the “Blood that flowed from the

wounds of Our Savior,” never to tell a soul what she was going to divulge, and only after

he did make that oath would she relate the Andano family saga.

Her story began with Farintino Andano’s wife Amelia, Marcella’s mother. Amelia

was a pretty, light-hearted, naive and happy girl of seventeen when she married the

milliner’s son, Farintino, who was her senior by almost as many years. Amelia came

from simple, gentle people. At the time of his son’s marriage, Farintino’s father, Fausto

Andano was fifty six years old. He was slightly taller than most with a trim and sturdy

physique that he inherited from his father’s side of the family. His mother, Louisa Parma,

bestowed upon him her fair complexion, waveless, light colored hair and the deeply

dimpled chin that defined the Parma clan. Fausto, an only son, grew up with three sisters,

one older and two younger. He was precocious and catered to by a doting mother and

grandmother. With his good looks, his light hair, his dimpled chin and a little charm he

exacted his childhood privileges from those who gave in to his charisma. Fausto happily

went from maiden to maiden.

Beatrica Patatucci was an only daughter and youngest of six children. She had dark

curly hair, dark eyes and an olive complexion. She was a romantic and spoiled young

woman of sixteen. Thinking she was under Fausto’s spell, she let herself be conquered by

her own passions.

Much to Fausto’s consternation, they were married on orders of Fausto’s and

Beatrica’s parents just as the baby that grew inside Beatrica began to show. Fausto’s son

was dark skinned and curly haired. They named him Farintino, and he was the image of

his mother Beatrica. From thence Fausto harbored a childish resentment toward his new

wife and the baby who caused him to lose his freedom. Within two years Fausto’s parents

died of cholera, and he inherited the business and the responsibility that went with it.

For Farintino and his wife Amelia, their first year of marriage was exciting and

joyful for the young bride. Amelia brightened the dreary house with her youth and

energy. She would sing or whistle or recite clever rhymes for her own amusement as she

swept and cleaned and cooked.

The house had been without a woman since Fausto’s wife died six years before.

Amelia’s presence pleased Fausto. She kept a good house and was an excellent cook. She

was so pretty and alive and warm.

Amelia always had something good to say, and she readily shared her smile with

everyone she met. More than once her natural kindliness and warmth elicited flirtatious

responses from the men. Amelia was oblivious to the advances of these hopeful suitors.

Ever respectful and polite, Amelia relied too much on her smile to be the only answer to

those veiled invitations, innuendos and layered intimations she did not understand or

know how to tactfully counter. Of course, to some, her smile was taken as a tacit maybe.

One fine day, Fausto’s older sister Prunella, when at market, heard people

discussing Farintino’s young wife. “She is not from around here... she is from the south,

and you know how the women from the south are!”

“Look at the way our men fawn over her. It is disgusting.”

“That Farintino is so old. I am surprised he is not a cuckold.”

“I have never seen her go to confession.”

“I do not know who she thinks she is, singing and always smiling all the time, why?

And do you see the way she walks, swinging her hips back and forth. She always sweet

talks us sellers to give her the best price. She is even done it to me.”

“She is nothing but a tramp.”

These baseless remarks were made by unhappy and small people who, for a myriad

of sad reasons, felt it necessary to check the joy and goodness of others because they

found no joy or goodness in themselves. In reality, they had only seen Amelia briefly at

market with her basket on her arm, or after mass in the escort of her husband.

Prunella mentioned these conversations to Fausto. Fausto in his gruff manner

dismissed the notions as mere gossip spread by men of desire and jealous women. Fausto

thought it not worth mentioning to his son.

That little kernel of doubt about Amelia imbedded itself in Fausto’s mind, and the

dangerous little seed lay hidden in a fecund fold of Fausto’s subconscious.

11

Three things happened after Prunella’s visit. It was Fausto’s habit to rise with the

sun, dress, and prepare his two hens eggs beaten in diluted wine for his breakfast. He

would drink his concoction on the way across the front room, open the front door, look

out and survey the weather.

On a certain morning at the beginning of July as he just completed the second step

of his morning ritual he heard a rustling noise and footsteps on his front stairs. As he was

almost at the front door, he quickened his step and threw the door open. He saw a hooded

figure heading away from the house and passing through the gate. Fausto called out. The

person turned away quickly and then ran, as only a young man could, across the piazza

and into an alley. Fausto was irritated that the person did not stop and identify himself.

Why would someone bother him so early in the morning? The answer lay at his feet. It

was a letter. Fausto picked it up. It was addressed to ‘The beautiful girl who lives under

this roof.’ Fausto unfolded the paper. It was a love letter with phrases like “My heart is

on fire. You are so fair and beautiful. Your smile is like the morning,” and on and on. The

letter was not signed.

“Ugh, young fool!” Fausto crumpled it up then on second thought he un-crumpled

the letter and smoothed it out on the table. He reread the letter and gave a tiny smile.

After a moment’s reflection, he locked it away in his desk. In a rare moment of empathy

for the misguided suitor, Fausto was harkened back to his youth and his attempts to woo

women with the written word. He was reminded of his first love Sondra Falconi, whom

he had not thought about for a long, long time. In another rare reflective moment, he

looked on each day that passed as a heavy and sad step taken away from his callow and

interrupted youth. Now he inhabited this lonely place in his life. Fausto missed being

tended to by a woman, he missed someone who would listen to him go on and on while

lying in bed on a still night. He missed performing his marital privileges.

Later that week, on a hot and humid night, the inside of the house was like an oven.

Fausto, Farintino and Amelia hoped to find relief outside under a magnificently black sky

that sparkled with flickering stars. Even at ten o’clock the walls of the house and the

paving stones under their feet were still warm from the day’s intense summer sun. The

three sat at a wooden table dedicated to their al fresco meals. The table was on a

rectangular pad of paving stones next to the garden. The men sat squarely facing each

other. Amelia was the third leg of this triangle. She sat on the end of the table making a

bridge between her husband and father-in-law.

Crickets and frogs chirped in the garden and insects buzzed around an old fashioned

oil lamp in the middle of the table. The lamp’s swaying flame sputtered giving off a soft

light that illuminated their faces. The men drank diluted wine, and Amelia drank honey

water with mint. They silently ate from a platter of dried black olives, cheese and bread.

The air was still and the heat was stifling. There was no breeze.

Amelia fanned herself with her open hand. Sweat shone on her face and neck and

upper bosom. She pulled her long, curly hair into a pony tail. Fausto looked at his

daughter-in-law’s graceful neck, her perfectly formed ears and took in her pretty profile.

For the first time, he saw her not as a child, or his son’s wife but as a woman. Amelia’s

sleeveless blouse, wet with perspiration, clung to breasts. A lone whippoorwill made a

soulful call.

They were tired and dulled from the heat. Farintino sighed just as Amelia sighed.

They looked at each other and smiled. “Too hot for bed,” he said lazily.

“Much too hot, good husband,” Amelia agreed and sipped at her honey water. Then

in a fit of exasperation she said in a huff, “I cannot stand it.” Amelia stood, pulled her

sweat dampened blouse away from her chest several times in quick succession. She rolled

her long skirt up at the waist. With each roll, she exposed more of her legs and stopped

when the hem of her dress was just above her knees. “Ah, that is so much better. I am just

so hot.”

Fausto’s eyes were drawn to her well-formed legs. With some effort, he looked

away. His attention went to the platter of food. A moth had landed on a piece of cheese.

Its wings fluttered in a blur as it aimlessly scuttled about. His son and daughter-in-law

watched Fausto pinch the moth’s wings between his thumb and forefinger. “You are

mine.” Fausto slowly moved the struggling moth toward the flickering flame of the oil

lamp.

“Papa, no please, he is one of God’s creatures. He can act no other way.”

Fausto held his hand still. The moth’s legs crawled frantically in the naked air. He

looked at Farintino for a second. His son shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes and

gave a patronizing smile as he glanced over at his wife. She looked back with a knitted

brow.

“You are right dear Amelia, we are all God’s creatures and we can act no other

way.” He let the moth go. The moth flew on his now ragged wings in shaky circles,

slowly tightening its orbit around the oil lamp until it flew into the irresistible flame and

blindly embraced its mortality.

Farintino shrugged at the whole affair. Fausto looked at Amelia and then brushed

the dead insect off the table. “It was his fate to come here on this night and die. Do you

believe in fate, Amelia?”

Amelia was a little shaken by the question. “I believe in Our Lord Jesus Christ.” She

never heard Fausto discuss anything but the millinery craft or himself.

Fausto smiled and took a drink of wine. “Perhaps it is your fate to believe in Jesus

Christ, just as it is, let us say, the fate of a man to write love letters to a beautiful young

woman.”

Not quite knowing what to do, Amelia cautiously glanced at her husband. Farintino

looked at his father and then to his wife. “Father, perhaps it is all of our fates to go to bed.

The air is a bit cooler now, what do you say Amelia, ready for bed?”

Amelia did not like this talk of fate. “Yes Farintino, let us go to bed.”

“Are you coming father?” Farintino asked.

“You two go ahead. I want to finish my wine.” Farintino already slipped into the

shadow of the garden gate. Amelia was left to clear the table. Fausto continued after he

heard the gate squeak and the handle’s dull click. “Come let me give you a kiss good

night.”

This surprised Amelia. Being respectful, she obeyed her father-in-law’s request. She

placed the platter and glasses on the table and approached him. Fausto put his hands on

her shoulders and pulled her in a bit closer. He closed his eyes and gave her a gentle and

lingering kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well, dear one.” He left his hands on her shoulders

until she pulled away.

“Good night, papa.” Amelia saw this as something good and hopeful. She lived

under his roof for close to a year and tried to do her best in everything she did, but she

never felt Fausto accepted her. This was the first sign of affection he showed her.

Three days later Farintino left to buy supplies. He would be gone for the better part

of a week. In the three days before Farintino left, three more love letters, one each

morning, were slipped under the door just before sunrise. Fausto read the letters and

locked them away.

At Fausto’s insistence, Amelia would take this time to clean and scrub the hearth

while Farintino was away. They were alone together in the house, Fausto at his desk

attempting to work on his ledgers and this pretty young woman he put before him.

Amelia knelt before the fireplace on a little piece of tattered carpet she put under her

knees. She had two buckets by her side; one full of clean water and the other bucket was

empty. She held a brush, made of willow twigs bound together with a leather cord, in her

two hands and scrubbed to and fro dislodging more than six years of soot and smoke

from the hearth stones. It was slow work. As was her way, Amelia made a happy little

ritual out of cleaning. She would scrub perhaps ten strokes and mop the dirty water away

with a rag and wring the water into the empty bucket. Every part of her body scrubbed

the blackened stones. From sitting on her heels, she would push forward with her thighs

raising herself over her straightened arms and then ride the brush forward to complete the

cleaning stroke, pull back and start again. Before long, Amelia started to hum.

Fausto’s attempts at his work were in vain. All along he knew they would be. She

was the only object of his attention. The room melted away. He let himself be entranced

by the rhythm of Amelia’s body as she cleaned. He wanted to play with the errant strands

of hair that peeked out from the colorful kerchief she wore. He could feel his hand

touching her. He watched her shapely hips and bottom rise and fall with each thrust. He

greedily drank in the olive tones of her naked arms and neck, calves and feet, how her

clothes either defined and caressed her feminine form or hung loose allowing his

imagination to come to life.

Amelia began to sing. Fausto put his pen down, sat back in his chair and listened.

He found her voice intoxicating.

“You sound like a love bird.”

“You are so kind.” Amelia turned her head toward him and smiled. She had

smudges of soot on her face. The compliment warmed her spirit. She looked away and

continued her work.

“And why do you sing?” Fausto went on.

Amelia looked back at Fausto once more. “I sing because I am happy.”

“And what makes you happy, dear one?”

“To be here under your roof, to be able to tend to this house and to make both of the

men in my life happy.” Amelia sat back on her heels and then stretched, arching her back.

“You must be tired, come over here next to me. There is something I want to do for

you.”

“For me?” Amelia was touched by this act of kindness. She got off her knees,

crossed the room and stood next to Fausto.

Fausto turned in his chair and motioned with his hand for Amelia to lean in closer.

Not more than a few inches separated their faces. Fausto gently steadied Amelia’s chin

with his left hand, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the soot marks on

her forehead and cheeks. “You are all smudges. Let me help, such a pretty face,” he

sighed.

Amelia blushed. “Thank you, papa,” she shrunk back slightly.

Fausto fought back a grimace at her use of papa and coaxed her back with a smile.

“Now, now you must not be afraid of me or shy away if I say nice things about you.” He

continued to wipe away the smudges. “So, you like living here and making me happy,

yes?”

Amelia humbly looked down. “Yes,” her voice was soft and small.

Fausto let the handkerchief fall and took Amelia’s head in his hands. In an

unforgivable and irrevocable rush of bravado, he pulled her toward him. Amelia lost her

balance and fell forward onto Fausto. Fausto pulled her body against his. He felt her soft

breasts roll against his chest. He lost himself in a sea of her warmth, her scent, her youth,

her hair, her skin, her mouth and her lips. Fausto kissed her parted red lips and pushed his

cheek against hers.

Amelia tried to wiggle free. Because of her awkward position, stooped over, half

lying across Fausto’s chest and with her arms held fast at her sides encircled by his

surprisingly strong arms, she could barely move. She tried to twist her shoulders, but he

only tightened his grip. She wagged her head from side to side to avoid his hideous

attentions. With all of her strength, she pushed with her legs toward Fausto tipping the

chair back past its balance point.

To Amelia, it seemed like an eternity for the chair to hit the floor. Fausto hit the

back of his head and his left shoulder on the tiles. They rolled out of the chair and ended

up next to each other on their backs. Fausto felt the lump on the back of his head. Amelia

tried to get up, but Fausto’s hip pinned her dress to the floor. She propped herself up on

her elbows and looked over at her surprised and angered father-in-law.

“Papa, what are you doing? This is not right.”

Fausto saw that Amelia could not move. He rolled over on top of her making sure to

kneel on her dress between her slightly spread legs. He leaned over her and pushed down

against her chest with his left hand. “Fate has brought you to me. That same bitch Fate

who took Beatrica away has delivered you to me.”

Amelia squirmed. “But Papa I am Farintino’s wife. I am your daughter.”

“You are a woman, and you live under my roof.”

“Please let me up. Please stop now.” Amelia’s heart was pounding and her eyes

began to tear.

“I have heard how you tease the men at the market place. The way you walk around

this house like you own it. You think you are so pretty and smart. You do not fool me.”

Amelia said nothing. Her silence drove Fausto deeper into his delusion. He ran his

thumb roughly over Amelia’s lips. “You think you are so pretty do you not? So pretty

that you can make any man do whatever you want, you and your lovers. Ah, these

cowards who leave their love letters at my front door before the sun comes up. You

bewitch them... you bewitch everybody. You think you can use your beauty for whatever

you want.”

“I do not think I am pretty. That would be vanity. I am just a girl, your son’s wife.

Please papa, please stop now.”

“Vanity? If it were not for vanity, we would have nothing.”

In the darkest moment of her life, Amelia felt Fausto’s hand slither under her blouse

and roughly cup her breasts. Everything stopped and Amelia felt strangely calm. She did

not resist. She closed her eyes. She could hear only the beat of her heart.

Fausto’s hands eagerly explored and exploited the sacredness of her still body. He

was surprised when she did not move when he clumsily pulled her dress and underskirt

up and away. She felt the raw shock of the initial penetration, and she felt the weight of

his body on top of her, but the sensations were distant, mechanical, dreamlike.... Amelia

floated between reality and the surreal.

She opened her eyes. She was cradled in silent shimmering clouds. She looked

down on an immense coastal city with so many buildings, houses and roads, so many

roads. A thousand specks of different colors moved along those roads so far below her.

She saw enormous silver birds. There were great ships, without sails, churning their

deliberate paths over the green water. She saw a long arching bridge that connected a

slender silver isthmus to the bustling shore.

Amelia felt a jolt. Next to her appeared a perfect little girl, and Amelia could see

nothing but the beautiful and illuminated face of this little girl. The great city disappeared

along with its buildings, houses and many roads. There was only the two of them floating

just below heaven. Shimmering tendrils of light coursed between their eyes and fingers

and minds and hearts and souls. This communion between the two was so warm, so deep

and tranquil, so complete and loving. Amelia never wanted to leave the moment.

“Cover yourself, girl!” said Fausto out of breath. At the sound of his words, Amelia

returned to the moment. She looked up and saw Fausto standing over her, tucking his

shirt into his pants. His wizened face was flushed. He looked down at his daughter-in-

law. He felt a mixture of self-loathing and disgust for her. “Not a word of this to anyone.

Do you understand me?” he hissed.

Amelia did not answer. She did pull her underskirt in place and her dress down. She

sat up and tucked her knees up under her chin.

“Well, do you understand?” Fausto snapped.

Neither Fausto nor Amelia imagined her answer. “What is done can never be

undone. Nor should it be,” she said softly and thoughtfully. There was no fear or remorse

or accusation in her voice. “I would like to rest now. The hearth can wait until

tomorrow?”

Fausto said nothing. He could not get past Amelia’s glowing serenity. He was at a

loss. “Yes, it can wait until tomorrow,” he said sternly, and then he added, “Now...now

leave my sight.”

“As you wish, papa.” Amelia stood and straightened her clothing. Not quite

knowing why, she stopped at the doorway and turned to Fausto. He glared at her and

made an impatient display by angrily fussing with some papers on his desk. Fausto

quickly looked away from Amelia and then just as quickly back again hoping for some

reaction on her part. There was none.

Her nature would not let her treat him any other way than she already did, with

daughterly love and respect. Fausto was disgusted with her. He pouted, crossed his arms

high on his chest, and frowned. Amelia turned away and left him to his impotent anger.

When she entered Farintino’s and her cramped room at the sunless back corner of

the house, Amelia knelt, made a sign of the cross and rested her elbows on the bed. She

closed her eyes, bowed her head and recited the Hail Mary to herself. She repeated the

phrase “...blessed is the fruit of thy womb...blessed if the fruit of thy womb...”

From the moment Amelia left the room, he hated her. He hated her because she did

not try to fight him off, she did not cry, she did not become ashamed or afraid. He hated

her because she did not hate him back. He hated her because she did not buckle under his

will or need his good opinion. He knew Amelia was lost to him and that he could never

forgive her.

111

Farintino was his father’s creature. As a scrawny child, he was browbeaten and

belittled out of his childish enthusiasm and curiosity until he mechanically and meekly

did what he was told. Fausto believed compliments and praise made one lazy and weak.

The boy grew up under the critical eye and tongue of his father and a silent and

submissive mother. All through his adolescence and even into his late twenties Farintino

wandered in a wilderness of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Farintino was told so many

times that whatever he did was never good enough that he took it as the truth. He grew

into a man without confidence, self-respect or ambition.

Even now, he still felt an icy prick when Fausto demeaned him or made light of him

in front of Amelia or for that matter anyone who might be visiting be it customer, family

or friend. Onlookers of Fausto’s cruelty were shocked or surprised but always kept silent.

Fausto was oblivious to his son’s feelings and thought he was clever and witty. It was just

a good natured ribbing, a good laugh. Farintino laughed right along with the others. He

did not laugh at the pun or the jibe or the barb that was at his expense. He laughed at his

absurdity and the meanness of his life.

“The Andano family name must live on,” Fausto announced to no one in particular.

The unfortunate image Fausto perpetrated of his only son as inept, unmanly and stupid

made Farintino a poor candidate for marriage. After several attempts to find his son a

wife from local and suitable families, Fausto turned to a matchmaker. With her help and

the desperate poverty of Amelia’s family eager to marry their daughter into a better life,

Farintino resigned himself and fulfilled his duty to his ancestors and his impatient and

nagging father. Farintino had little interest in marriage and absolutely no desire to bring

children into his hopeless world.

With the news of the coming baby, Farintino was somewhat surprised. They

certainly did consummate their marriage but with some difficulty, but not on Amelia’s

part. Their lovemaking was perhaps once or twice a month, and this was at Amelia’s

gentle coaxing. Farintino looked on his marital duty as just another opportunity to fail

and disappoint. Now that Amelia was going to have a baby he felt differently about the

situation and better about himself.

The wound Fausto inflicted on Amelia and himself scabbed over and his attitude

toward Amelia though barely civil, with Farintino present, was aloof and toxic when they

were alone. Amelia held herself constant and would never counter Fausto’s coldness and

snubs with the same. He questioned her silence to her face. He took that silence as some

kind of unspoken approval of what happened. He told her so and said how it disgusted

him. She could have no other woman in the house other than his sister Prunella. She

would not sing in his presence. She would not speak to him unless he spoke to her first.

He forbid her to call him “papa”. She would address him as Fausto. Amelia’s upbringing

did not allow her to call him by his Christian name, so she called Fausto “sir” on those

rare occasions he did ask her a question.

She kept silent to spare her unborn daughter, to protect her unaware and powerless

husband and to try to maintain some kind of peace with her father-in-law. Amelia bore

these burdens alone with only the strength of her prayers. She also found solace and

innocent happiness in her coming baby.

During the time between conception and birth Amelia and Farintino naturally

became closer. This did not go unnoticed by Fausto. He heard his son and Amelia laugh

together. He saw his son run his hand over his wife’s belly and they would both smile at

each other. He watched them embrace. He listened to them share the details of their days.

One morning it all became clear. Fausto would court his son. It would be so easy to

gain him as an ally with smiles and compliments. Since the unpleasant incident, they ate

in silence. Fausto no longer dominated the mealtime with his sermonizing or end his

harangues with, “Now, am I right or am I wrong?” He would stare coolly at Amelia all

the while they ate and give an airy sigh of disappointment. This went on at every meal

until Amelia, unable to bear it anymore and in tears, excused herself and hurried out of

the room. Farintino started to follow his wife, but Fausto grabbed his son by the arm and

held him back. Fausto shared his worldly observation with his son and loud enough for

Amelia to hear where she stood right outside the doorway wiping away her tears.

“Women, they get themselves knocked up and become impossible bitches until they have

the little bastards. Then they forget all about the husband.” Fausto’s mocking chuckle

was a sly invitation. Farintino hesitated for just a second but joined his father with an

uneasy smile. Fausto gave his son a pat on the shoulder, “Ah, women, who wants to

understand them...why?” Farintino gave his father a nod of agreement and without

another thought continued to eat. The comment was punctuated when Amelia slammed

the door to her and Farintino’s dark little room. Fausto dismissed Amelia’s behavior with

a smirk.

Then as if it had always been a matter of course, Fausto asked his son for his

opinion on some such detail in the making of a hat. Farintino was dumbstruck and

flattered. His father asked him his thoughts. Farintino cautiously gave his opinion and

waited for the sarcastic slam. There was none.

Fausto began the habit of placing his hand on his son’s shoulder and pulling him in

a little closer when they spoke, which was more and more often. Fausto made cutting

remarks about some such townsman or woman and Farintino was invited to add his

comments, which he did more and more often and after a while without Fausto’s

encouragement.

Looking directly at his son, Fausto would be all smiles as he began the retelling of

an old family story. As the tale was told, Fausto turned away from Farintino and leveled

the biting humor or the ugly moral ending of the story directly at Amelia, hoping his

words would find their marks. Farintino had heard these heavy and humorless stories

many times before.

With less and less forced gayety Farintino laughed more easily along with his father.

They shared hearty laughter at the expense of any and every one. Amelia became the

object of belittlement more and more often. Farintino did not counter these attacks. If he

did, he laid the onus on Amelia to “not be so serious” it was “just papa having a little

fun.” From then on Amelia would serve her father-in-law and husband their meals and

eat alone either in the kitchen or in her room.

It was not long before Farintino was entwined in the tight coils of his father’s

confidence. Farintino was giddy with his father’s acceptance. He saw his father in a new

shining light. They stood together. Farintino’s armor of shyness and humility and

obedience was replaced with the over-bearing righteousness of a recent convert anxious

to please and praise and prove himself to his master. The toll of emotional neglect and

abuse sloughed off and Farintino came into his own just as his father had hoped: a copy

of himself.

1V

Amelia met Farintino a week or so before their wedding. She mistook his humility,

passivity and awkwardness as signs of a gentle and shy nature. After a short time living

under Fausto’s roof, she realized her husband was little more than a shadow living in the

bigger shadow of his father. Farintino was unused to her gentle ways and encouragement.

He did not understand or trust her motives. Amelia hoped that familiarity would lead to

friendship and friendship would be a path to love. That path was forever darkened and

made near impassable by Fausto’s deed.

Amelia tried to stay strong as her husband was lured away. She prayed to the Holy

Virgin but always felt unworthy to take communion. Her silence that was to protect her

baby, her husband and herself now seemed to be a sin. If she had only told Farintino the

moment he returned from his buying trip, maybe things would be different. If she spoke

out now against her father-in-law, who would believe her? She found herself desperately

alone, with nowhere to go. She could not return to her mother’s home in disgrace,

penniless and with another mouth to feed.

Her only companion was to be Fausto’s sister Prunella, senior to Fausto by four

years. Prunella was practical, thrifty and fair. She thought she was an excellent judge of

character. She listened to the gossips but never said a bad word about anyone.

Prunella was ageless. She was of average height, full figured and unlike her brother

Fausto, had an olive complexion, soft features, and of course the Parma dimple. Her hair

was white with a few random dark streaks. Delicate wrinkles were lightly etched around

her eyes and in a very fine cross hatch bordering her upper and lower lips. Her eyes were

a penetrating deep, dark brown. She was three times a widow and a mother of eight. She

lost three children as infants, another under the wheels of a runaway wagon and two girls

to the plague. Her two surviving children were her sons, one a monk and the other a

soldier stationed in Sicily.

In November Fausto asked Prunella to come live with them and take over the

household chores. Prunella was to escort the young wife to the market place and church

and to generally look after Amelia during her confinement. Fausto instructed his sister to

remain close to Amelia and become her confidant. He told her to keep a keen eye out for

any young man who spoke to or smiled at Amelia. “Any one of them could be the lover.

We owe it to Farintino.” Prunella was surprised at her brother’s concern for his son and

the vehemence toward his daughter-in-law. She agreed to help out of familial duty and

her own curiosity.

After Prunella was settled in she did not understand what could change a happy and

exuberant bride into such a morose and beaten down figure. She noticed a change in her

nephew, as well. Farintino had become just as mistrusting, judgmental and cold toward

his wife as Fausto. For all the murky rumors of infidelity, all of Fausto’s insistence that

Amelia was an adulteress, Prunella trusted her intuition. She found Amelia had the

simple, loving heart of a child and that the poor girl needed a friend.

Amelia was glad Prunella was there, but she stayed at an emotional distance and

kept her secret. Prunella did not understand her brother’s and nephew’s cool stance

toward Amelia. This should be a time of happiness and excitement. It was not. Prunella

felt Amelia was holding something back. After living in the house for just a few weeks,

Prunella recognized the gentle, honest and pious qualities in Amelia’s everyday behavior

and that endeared her to the young mother-to-be. Prunella opened her heart and could not

help but love Amelia as she might a daughter.

On a cold and rainy morning in late January, Prunella and Amelia sat in the kitchen

at the well-used wooden work table. Outside, the sky was filled with a silver grey cloud

bank that opened in fierce and short downpours. Cold, damp drafts would sneak through

any little openings and chinks in the window or door casings and chill the room. The fire

danced and crackled in the hearth. The women bundled in woolen shawls. They drank hot

chicken broth spiced with leeks and a sprinkling of oregano and pepper. They warmed

their hands with the clay mugs they held close to their lips, enjoyed the steamy aroma and

took long lingering sips.

“Have you and Farintino picked out a name?” she asked as she licked the little bit of

honey off the ends of her forefinger and thumb from the small sweet rolls that were set

out.

“We barely talk. When I asked, Farintino said he did not care,” was Amelia’s

lifeless reply.

“If it is a boy, Fausto, and if it is a girl, Faustina. You cannot go wrong with the

master of the house with those names,” suggested Prunella with a smile. She blew on the

steaming broth and took a sip.

Amelia’s hands began to shake. She put her mug on the table and clasped her hands

together. She began to shiver. She unclasped her hands and wrapped her arms around

herself tightly and closed her eyes. Her pregnant body convulsed as wave after wave of

shame, guilt and anger seethed inside her and found its way out from the depths of her

soul in a stream of salty tears that ran down her cheeks.

Prunella was stunned. She went to Amelia, put her arm around her shoulder and

stroked her hair. “What is it dear girl?” she asked. “There, there, what can it be?”

Amelia’s chest was heaving and she held back her sobs long enough to reply. “I

cannot tell you. I cannot tell anyone. I cannot even tell the priest.”

Prunella was surprised at Amelia’s words. “I cannot believe you committed so great

a sin that there is no forgiveness,” Prunella said gently.

“If I tell you, you will hate me too, and you will never believe me.”

Amelia closed her eyes and hid her face in Prunella’s bosom.

“You can tell me child, you can tell me,” she spoke softly and continued to stroke

Amelia’s hair.

“Promise you will not hate me, promise me.”

Prunella smiled at Amelia’s innocence. “I promise never to hate you, sweetheart.”

Prunella gently kissed Amelia on the top of her head. She wiped away a tear with her

fingertip and returned to her seat.

After Amelia composed herself, she told the sordid story of the rape, about her

dream, the supposed love letters that were slipped under the door, about Fausto’s constant

insults and reproaches, how he isolated her from Farintino with his false love for him,

and how he made her life a hopeless hell. As the story was told, Prunella was flooded

with her own memories.

“Please do not hate me.” Amelia wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands and

sighed several times. Her concerns were dispelled by Prunella’s gentle tone of voice. She

took Amelia’s hands and held them in hers.

“Believe me child, I do not hate you. I love you more than I thought I could.” Her

eyes narrowed and her voice became defiant. “Fausto is my brother, it is true... but he

does not act like a brother should to a sister. When he was fifteen, he tried the same thing

with me. I fought him with all my strength. I kicked and slapped, pulled his hair and

scratched his arms and face. That is what it took. Then crying, he begged me not to tell

our papa. His tears and apology were very convincing. So I did not tell. I told myself he

got the worst of it, what harm is done? I wish I did tell papa.

Fausto tried the same with two of my daughters, one when she was only eleven and

the other when she was thirteen. I sent them to Santa Dorotea Convent to protect them. I

never saw them again. They died of the black sickness a month after they got there.”

Prunella pulled Amelia’s hands to her lips and kissed them. “Now, what are we going to

do my dear daughter? You are sure the child in you is Fausto’s?”

Amelia nodded her head and spoke softly, “oh yes, I knew the very moment. Poor

Farintino barely made me a woman.”

“More of my brother’s handiwork, I am sure.”

Amelia averted her eyes and barely shook her head in the negative.

“You must not blame yourself. You did nothing wrong.”

Amelia thought for a moment before she answered. “I blame no one. I trust in the

Holy Virgin and Our Savior to guide and protect me. I do not seek vengeance or wish

anyone ill. I only want a safe and happy place for me to raise my daughter.”

V

In the fourth hour of a windy and wet third of March, in the year of Our Lord 1482,

Marcella Andano was born. Mother and daughter both exhausted from the ordeal lay

together as one. The midwife had already tidied up, was paid and left. While Marcella

struggled through labor and gave birth, Prunella relived the most sacred and spiritual

moments of her own nativities. All during labor, time was so elastic and fleeting. The

hours were compressed into minutes and the seconds stretched into painful eternities.

Prunella let Amelia squeeze her hand through the pain. She wiped the sweat from

Amelia’s face with a cool, damp cloth and gave her words of encouragement.

When Marcella finally entered the world Prunella was just as exhausted as the

young mother. While mother and daughter were still in the inexplicable wonder of the

moment, Prunella looked on happy and relieved there were no complications. She

contentedly looked at the two as she sat in a chair next to the bed, with a rosary in hand,

on the brink of nodding off.

On that very same day Fausto awoke as he always did, just before sunrise, dressed

in the dark and headed off to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast of two hens eggs

whisked together in a glass of diluted wine. He walked and whisked to the front door,

opened it, surveyed the dark, dreary weather, returned to his seat in the candlelit kitchen

and drank his concoction.

Fausto had mixed feelings about the birth of the little girl. He knew it was a girl

because he overheard the midwife talking with his sister.

Fausto drank down the last swallow of his breakfast, wiped his lips on the back of

his hand and left the kitchen. He stopped in the main room and opened the shutters. It

was still very early and the sky outside was as dark as the inside of the house. There was

a chill in the air. He looked down at the silhouette of Farintino who slept in the only

upholstered chair in the house; his feet were propped up on a footstool that had been

recovered many, many times. He was still fully clothed and asleep under a rumpled

blanket. The chair was near the hearth and by the morning the fire was reduced to a few

ash covered embers. He was not admitted to the room so he could only wait. Farintino

faithfully stayed awake for as long as he could but finally dozed off.

Fausto did not notice Farintino stir as he quietly passed by him and left the room.

Fausto went down the hall, stood in front of Amelia’s door, pondered for a moment, and

finally pushed it open. The room was warm and lit by a few candles in wall sconces and

on the dressing table. The soft golden halo of candlelight surrounded and caressed

Amelia and Marcella. Amelia was exhausted and barely awake. She held the sleeping

Marcella in her arms. Fausto looked at his sister who was asleep in the chair, head

hanging down and rosary in hand.

Fausto leaned in close and looked at the baby’s small, puffy red face. Marcella’s

hair, of which she had quite a lot, was light, unlike Amelia’s and Farintino’s. Marcella

had the Parma chin with its deep dimple. That trait was not passed down to Farintino.

Amelia, still dazed by the experience, looked up at Fausto. Their eyes met and for an

instant there was an uneasy and deep connection that neither one wanted to acknowledge.

“A girl, is it?” Fausto spoke in a loud whisper. “Oh well, that figures it would be.”

Prunella recognized her brother’s voice. His presence pulled her to the edge of

wakefulness, but she was still too much in a dream state to open her eyes.

Fausto touched the dimple on his chin, thought for an instant, then pretended he had

an itch, left his fingers there and rubbed as he spoke, now in an audible but low voice.

“She is not one of us. Look at her... that hair. She does not look like you or my son. Are

you sure Farintino is the father?”

Amelia started at the accusation and made a slight sound, something like a whimper.

She closed her eyes and prayed to the Holy Mother for strength.

A bolt of anger shot through Prunella when she heard Fausto’s awful words. She

was wide awake now but kept her eyes closed. Prunella wanted to jump up, take her

rosary beads, wrap them around her brother’s neck and squeeze with all of her might. She

held herself in check. She forced herself to keep her eyes closed. She did not move. She

feigned sleep and with a racing heart thought of Amelia and Marcella and her nephew.

Prunella asked herself “what good would it do? Why ruin the most wonderful and holy of

days with something so awful, something that will lead to nothing good?” This was not

the time for confrontation. But it also pained her that she would repeat the past and allow

her brother to not be held accountable for his deeds.

Unbeknownst to Fausto, Farintino had followed him into the room and stood behind

him but did not quite hear what his father said to Amelia. When Fausto turned around to

leave the room, he was startled to see that his son stood directly in front of him in his

way. Fausto grunted and made his intentions known by sticking his chest out as he

advanced toward the door.

“Father, where are you going?” Farintino asked. He did not understand why his

father would walk out on one of the most important days of his life.

Still pinching his chin he looked back at his son. “I leave you to your little wife and

that baby, not a son I might add. Oh yes, yes least I forget, congratulations.” Then with a

characteristic smirk Fausto added, “May you have as much joy in fatherhood as I have

had.” With that said, Fausto left. Outside of the room the rest of the house was cold and

damp. He felt a shiver run up his spine. He took his thumb and forefinger away from his

chin and decided to grow a goatee.

V1

For all of Fausto’s sarcasm and affected disappointment, parental love would not be

denied. Farintino and Amelia, and for a while Aunt Prunella, enjoyed Marcella. As soon

as Amelia was capable of taking care of both the baby and the house Fausto ordered his

sister to be gone. Farintino fell from his father’s grace and was again the brunt of jibes

and jokes. Things returned to normal or as normal as the Andano household could be.

Fausto never held Marcella, or for that matter even acknowledged her existence, and only

spoke to Amelia when he wanted something done.

Fausto held sway until a very hot and humid August afternoon. All that morning the

two men worked in the sweltering shop. Fausto went on and on until Farintino could no

longer stand to hear his father berate Amelia, his Aunt Prunella, himself and now even

little Marcella. It was time to eat and rest for the afternoon until the heat of the day broke.

The two men entered the cool and dark main room of the house. They drank water

that Amelia left out for them and stood near an open window where they could feel a

mounting breeze that heralded a hopeful change in the weather. Fausto drank from his

cup, yawned, looked at his son and began again. “Another thing, that brat kept me awake

with its crying...crying all night. Cannot that wife of yours shut the little thing up?”

Farintino put his cup of water down on the side table next to the window. He had

heard this kind of thing all morning and he was hot and tired. His blood pulsed and

surged through his entire being. His lips parted as the air rushed in and out of his lungs.

His face contorted in an uncontrollable glare as he turned toward his father. Fausto was

about to deliver another complaint but was stopped in mid breath when he saw the

threatening look on his son’s face. For an instant, Fausto feared his son. He quickly

looked to the left then to the right for an escape. Farintino grabbed Fausto high on the

shoulders, lifted him to his tiptoes and held him against the wall.

Farintino forced his face into Fausto’s. “That is enough! Enough! She has a name,

its Marcella, Marcella.” Farintino set his father down and continued with heated

impatience. “Why is it you treat my daughter and Amelia with such contempt and hate

and for that matter, myself? Be the man, be the father you should be.”

As soon as Farintino loosened his grip Fausto wiggled free and pushed him away.

“You question me? You threaten me in my own house? Who do you think you are? I treat

you the way I do because that is all you know and that is all you deserve.” Fausto took a

step away from the wall and Farintino backed up. Fausto shook his head slightly, almost

with pity and continued. “You are such a glutton for punishment. I treat your precious

wife the way I do because she is nothing more than a common slut. You are so blind. I

allowed her in my house and let her marry you out of kindness, and what do I get in

return? Do you not see the way she acts, the way she carries on with any man she meets?

She gives everyone that... uh...charming... smile of hers. She even tried to work her wiles

on me. It was your Aunt Prunella who told me what they say about her at the market

place. Everyone in town is sure you are wearing the horns of a cuckold.”

Farintino was dumbfounded by what Fausto said. After he caught his mental breath

he went on, “I cannot believe what you are saying. What are you talking about?”

It was Fausto’s turn. He grabbed Farintino by his shirt, high on his shoulder as one

might a child, and hurried him across the room to his desk. Fausto dug in his pocket for

his key fob and pulled it out. He unlocked the desk drawer and with a gesture that was

more exaggerated than he wanted, pulled the drawer out completely spilling its contents

on the floor. The packet of love letters fell between the two men. A few more papers

floated in a seesaw motion and gently landed around the tightly tied packet. With the toe

of his boot, Fausto kicked the letters toward Farintino.

“Pick them up, look at them... read them.” Fausto crossed his arms and watched

Farintino stoop down and pick up the letters. He untied the string, unfolded the first letter

and began to read. After the first few sentences, he understood what they were. He

glanced at the next one and the one after that, then shuffled his way to the last one.

Farintino put the letters back in order and tied them together with the string. He

quietly tossed them on the desk. The confidence and courage he had just moments ago

when he confronted Fausto flagged. He stood there numb. He felt lost. “Where did you

get these?” Farintino finally asked.

“Let us just say I found them in the house,” Fausto answered coolly.

“Does she know you have them?”

“No, no she does not, and anyway she will deny ever seeing them.”

Fausto became impatient as Farintino deliberated what to do next. Finally, he looked

to his father for some advice. Farintino did not have to say a word. It was obvious by his

expression.

“Send her and that brat of hers back to the sorry village she came from.”

Farintino shook his head, “No, I care for the child. She is an innocent.” Farintino

thought of the pure, loving look Marcella gave him when he held her.

“I suppose you cannot send the mother away and leave the baby behind.” Fausto

rubbed his forehead and thought for a second. “Well, you could give your wife a good

beating from head to toe, front and back. You must break their spirits. You know, I had to

beat your mother when we were first married. She came to me spoiled and with strange

notions. I think after the fifth of sixth time she came around.”

Farintino thought for a few seconds. “I must talk with her.”

“Talk? What is there to talk about?” Fausto nodded toward the packet of love letters

that sat on the desk and raised his eyebrows in a quizzical and incredulous way. “Be like

me. Be a man, or you can go to her like a school boy with your hat in your hand. I am

sure that would suit you just fine. Yes, Il Signore, you go talk.”

Let No One Who Loves Be Unhappy

For the next three days Farintino was in a turbulent state that swirled in eddies of

disbelief, anger and dark imaginings. He could not sleep and when he did finally pass

from consciousness it was to a dreadful dreamscape where the love letters dripped with

blood and faceless phantoms glistening with sweat and smelling of carnality mounted his

insatiable succubus of a wife, who lay in their bed with her legs spread wide and her eyes

half-closed in ecstasy. No matter how many of these interlopers he stabbed or clubbed or

choked there was always another waiting for his turn. He lost his appetite. He shut out

Amelia and Marcella. He imagined everything Amelia said or did was suspect or a deceit.

He was unable to concentrate on his work. He ignored his father’s diatribes and rants as

so much babble.

Farintino quietly put the half-finished hat he was stitching onto his bench. He

looked at the hooked needle in his hand and dropped it onto the table, as well. Fausto was

prattling on and asked a rhetorical question that sent Farintino walking out of the shop at

midmorning and into the house. He went to the desk. The letters were still sitting out

where he tossed them a few days before. He calmed himself before he called out.

“Amelia, where are you? Amelia.”

Amelia was surprised and glad to finally hear Farintino’s voice. It had been three

days of silence, sleeping alone and cold stares. “I am here in the kitchen.” Marcella was

in her cradle, snug under a soft yellow and blue checked blanket. Marcella rolled her eyes

open at the sound of Farintino’s voice; then she closed them so very slowly and settled

back into sleep. The cradle was on the floor next to the work table and Amelia gently

rocked it with her foot while she cut up vegetables for the omelet she was going to make

for the midday meal. She looked toward the door when she heard Farintino’s footsteps.

He entered the room with the packet of letters that he held by his side.

“You have come in early. Are you not well?” She tried to read the concerned

expression on his face. She could not and could only wait for him to speak.

“How many are there?” His face flushed red and his words were sharp and cutting.

Amelia looked at her husband. She was puzzled and she shook her head. “How

many are there? I...I do not understand.”

“Do not mock me. How many? How many lovers have had your body?”

“Lovers?” Amelia was at a loss. “Had my body... what are you talking about?”

“Explain these.” Farintino wagged the packet of letters in front of Amelia’s face.

“Who wrote you these love letters?”

She glanced at the packet in his hand and again shook her head. “I have never seen

them before.”

He tried to give the letters to Amelia, but she refused to take them.

“Yes, I am sure. Father said you would deny it.”

“I have never seen those before. Dear husband, how would I know? You know I

cannot read.”

This time Farintino spoke in a loud, hoarse voice and he demanded an answer.

“Who wrote you these, who was it?” The tension between Farintino and Amelia filled the

room. They stood staring at each other uncertain of what to do next. Marcella awoke and

began to cry. Amelia turned away from her angry husband and picked up the baby. She

held Marcella close and turned back to Farintino.

“I beg you good husband, please calm yourself. Please.” Amelia, always showed the

greatest modesty when she breastfed and so turned away from Farintino. She untied her

blouse and guided Marcella’s lips to her breast.

Farintino came to ask the question that he dreaded the answer to. “Am I Marcella’s

father?” His chest tightened as he waited for an answer.

Amelia was glad she was turned away. The question pierced her heart. Tears welled

in her eyes. “I have never been unfaithful to you, Farintino, never, never.” A sole tear

spilt from the corner of Amelia’s eye and made its way down the contour of her cheek

and for a second was suspended from the tip her chin before it fell onto her bosom and

trickled down to Marcella’s lips where it mingled with her mother’s milk.

Farintino accepted Amelia’s indirect answer. He wanted her words to be his truth.

Farintino looked into Amelia’s soft eyes. He knew all too well the hopelessness that

saddened her. She was so small and vulnerable standing before him holding her baby to

her breast. It was as if he finally saw her clearly and she became real to him again. She

was his wife. He felt terrible for her when he realized he was responsible for much of her

hurt. From then on Farintino silenced as best he could the echoes of doubt that brought

them to this moment. He smiled and slowly extended his arms to a woman who was

consumed by her own terrible secret. Amelia and Marcella came to Farintino and they

embraced. From that moment on Amelia and Farintino hoped to find love.

The Serpent’s Tooth

Fausto was still the master of his house. He still had influence over his son and daughter-

in-law, never letting the embers of doubt completely burn out. Amelia tried to be a good

mother and a good wife but her haunting secret lead her away from her motherly and

wifely duties down a path to a destination of mild madness that could only be held at bay

by an obsessive amount of prayer. A pot might boil over or Marcella might fuss. Amelia

would hear the fire hiss when the pot boiled over and hear Marcella’s cry when she

needed tending and know these things were happening, but to Amelia they were

happening a world away and she was unwilling to leave that safe and holy place she

inhabited when she prayed.

When Amelia was taken to pray, Fausto would look at his son and say things like,

“anyone who prays that much must be guilty of something,” or “a good wife does her

duty to her master here on earth as well as in heaven.” Farintino had no argument. For his

own sake and peace he overlooked Amelia’s obsessive praying and after a time he

convinced Fausto, who didn’t much like his food burned or the sound of a crying baby, to

take on a servant.

Farintino, when his doubts about his wife’s fidelity and Marcella’s parentage were

in abeyance, cared for Amelia. Farintino remembered when she first came to live in the

house how Amelia was always happy and bright and singing. Such a pretty girl, Farintino

felt he was lucky to have such a wife. But since her confinement and the birth of the baby

she had changed so much. When he looked at Marcella, he could see only how different

in appearance she was from him and Amelia. Of course, Amelia saw the glaring

similarities between Fausto and Marcella immediately and was glad Fausto grew his little

goatee to hide that telltale dimple.

Amelia’s and Farintino’s relationship was defined by the hundreds of daily details

and decisions that had to be made and of course, Marcella. Once in a while they would

escape Fausto’s hold. Farintino did not spend every day second guessing his wife’s

faithfulness and Amelia wasn’t always at her kneeler with her head bowed praying for

strength and guidance. There were bright and light moments, but they were few and that

fragile world of ease and happiness eventually slid back under the somber and sober pall.

Marcella spent her first years in this emotional twilight and could have received more

affection and care if her parents weren’t so burdened.

Marcella was an only child until the spring of her fourth year. Three days before

Easter Amelia gave birth to a baby girl. Marcella’s new little sister had a head full of dark

curly hair and a dark glowing complexion. The household was abuzz over the baby.

Fausto warmed up to his new granddaughter immediately and sincerely congratulated

both parents.

In the three years that followed, Farintino and Amelia had two more children, both

dark headed, dark skinned girls. Fausto looked on with a strange satisfaction knowing

that his son could do no better than himself in creating an heir and someone to carry on

the Andano name.

Marcella became a great help to her mother. Her three sisters took up all of her time

as Amelia was at her kneeler praying or needed to work more and more in the shop.

Fausto’s hands were riddled with arthritis so he spent his time pacing between his son

and daughter-in-law pointing out any flaws or imperfections in their work.

When the youngest was weaned, Marcella took on all the motherly tasks. More than

once Amelia would come into the house to find an exhausted Marcella sitting in a chair, a

baby in each arm and rocking the one in the cradle with her foot.

Marcella was just that much different in looks and in age to feel the outsider. She

felt more like an aunt than on older sister. Her three sisters were entwined tightly with

each other in their own little knot. They were lively, curious and constantly giggling and

exploring the house or playing in the garden. Marcella was either cleaning up after them

or preparing them something to eat or kissing a bump or bruise, singing to them or

teaching them their prayers.

When the oldest, Maria, turned eight she took over the care of her two younger

sisters. For the first time in that many years, Marcella was free. Amelia and Farintino

made no great demands on her. They left her to herself. Marcella spent lazy mornings

walking the sunny paths that took her into the country. She found a pond that she

especially liked. She would sit under a tree in the late afternoon and when the sun was

just right the air would be glazed with a delicate ivory glow, and she could see countless

insects of all sizes and shapes on the wing diving, darting and dancing on the breeze.

On one such afternoon, Marcella sat on the cool ground, rested her back against the

trunk of an old walnut tree and looked out on her favorite pond. Bits of golden light

filtered through the branches and leaves and made a pattern that twinkled and shifted

back and forth in the breeze that was alive with the dusty scents of summer. Long wisps

of almost transparent white clouds hung motionless in the sky.

Marcella opened her pouch and took out her lunch of a crust of bread, some cheese

and a good size bunch of red grapes. She spread her bandana over her lap and lazily ate

as she looked out at the meadow that was more gold than green. Her eyes slowly closed.

She listened to the leaves whisper over her head and heard the sweet songs of birds as

they called to one another. The last thing she heard was her own breathing as she slipped

into an afternoon nap.

Whether it was a dream or a vision Marcella could not tell. But she took it to be real

and remembered it as something special and though she did not know it then it would be

a defining moment from that day on until the end of her life. When she awoke, she

quickly gathered up her uneaten scraps of cheese and bread, tossed them in her pouch

along with her bandana and started quickly back home. She was bursting with the

excitement of what she just experienced and needed to tell someone.

The country lane seemed to stretch on forever as she passed certain landmarks she

used to measure the way: the little tufts of weeds that looked like horses tails, then further

on by the dead tree with the broken branch, then she finally came to the little pile of

stones that were stacked knee high right before the bend in the lane. As she walked up the

last hill, a young man came toward her. They stopped for a moment and exchanged

greetings. She commented on his hat. It was one of theirs. Once past the stranger she

started to run when she saw the walls and gate of Terra Sanctus.

Marcella ran through the gate, past the ragged beggars, who looked up hopefully

when they heard footsteps, then returned to their chatter when they realized it was only a

girl. To save time she ran behind the last aisle of stalls and tents that made the far border

of the open air market. She headed across the piazza, stopped in front of the church,

genuflected, made a quick sign of the cross and hurried on her way.

Out of breath she arrived at the front gate. She opened it and ran into the house. She

was just about to speak when Maria brought her finger to her lips and shushed her to be

quiet.

“I have just put the girls down for a nap,” she whispered rather impatiently.

“Mama?” whispered Marcella back.

“At her kneeler, in her bedroom,” she whispered back.

Marcella nodded to her sister. Maria fell into the chair and stretched her legs out

then let out a long tired sigh.

Marcella went to her mother’s room. The door was ajar. She peeked in and saw

Amelia at her kneeler. Her head was bowed and she was fervently praying. Marcella went

in as quietly as she possibly could, sat on the bed and watched her mother. She tried to

remember every detail from her dream.

Amelia finally looked up at her daughter. She looked at Marcella very closely and

did not say anything. She kept her eyes on Marcella, made the sign of the cross and put

her rosary in the pocket of her dress.

“Tell me...have you seen it too?” Amelia nodded all the time she spoke.

Marcella leaned a little toward her mother. “Mama I saw something, I think I was

blessed with a vision. I think it was a sign from the Holy Ghost.” Amelia smiled at the

thought. She arose, went to her daughter’s side, and sat next to her on the bed.

“Tell me, Marcella.”

“Mama, I went to my favorite place, by the pond on the Longo farm. I ate my lunch

under the walnut tree. It was so peaceful that before I knew it I dozed off. Then it was

like I heard voices but they were whispering. I opened my eyes and I was in the clouds. I

was not afraid of falling, I just knew I would not. Below me, there was a big city. It was

on the seashore. There were so many houses and roads. Then I went up higher in the sky,

above the clouds where the sky was so blue. Then I saw you floating along with many

other people. The people behind you were all white. They were like statues. You called to

me and all I had to do was think I was next to you and I was. You told me to stand in

front of you and look ahead. When I did, I could see so many people in front of me.

These people would flicker like a candle flame in the breeze, some of them would glow

and others would turn into a sparkly dust and just float away. Then all of a sudden,

somehow I was whisked to the front of all the people where this man was. He looked lost,

but he smiled when he saw me. It was like I knew him, but I know I have never seen him

before. He reached out his arms to embrace me. Then I woke up. Do you think it was the

Holy Ghost?”

Amelia was all smiles. She pulled Marcella close to her and hugged her. Amelia

thought about her own similar experience. She could feel the excitement bubbling in her

daughter as Marcella fidgeted and wiggled in her embrace. Amelia let go of her daughter,

held her at arms-length and looked into her eyes. “Tell me more about the city.”

Marcella sighed, “Mama, I saw so little of it and it was so far away.”

“Did it have a long curving bridge?”

Marcella thought for a moment. “Yes, I do remember seeing a bridge and it did

curve over the water. It was so far below me. But it was you and the other people behind

us and the ghost people ahead of us that I remember most. Do you think it was a sign

from the Holy Ghost?”

“Our Lord Savior works in mysterious ways, Marcella. You should not ask a sinner

like me about the Lord. I am unworthy to even speak His name.”

This reply confused Marcella. She could not remember even once her mother do

something so wrong that she should consider herself so low in the eyes of the all

forgiving Lord.

“Should I tell the Monsignor Petri?”

Amelia pursed her lips then spoke quite deliberately. “I would not mention this to

anyone. What you think is a sign from our Holy Father others may think is a sign from

the Dark One.”

“But it is not. It was so beautiful and peaceful where I was. I did not want the dream

to end.”

“It will always live in you. I think that is where it must stay.”

Marcella did not understand why her mother did not celebrate the notion that she

might have been chosen to receive a sign from God. “You mean I am not to tell anyone?”

“No.” Amelia had a note of finality in her voice.

“But why?”

“Girls and women who think they might have heard the words of the Lord are

sometimes thought to be possessed by Satan. Sometimes these girls and women, who

seem to be good and devout people, are called witches by those who are jealous.”

“A witch?” Marcella was worried. Granted she did not tell anyone but her mama,

still she was scared.

“Dear girl, I have heard stories of witch burning from a young traveler who has just

purchased a hat yesterday. His name is Rene Hermes, he came from Padua and he is

returning to his home in Bavaria.”

“Yes, mama, I did pass a young man. He wore one of our hats. It must have been

him.”

“He told your father and me some towns and villages near where he is from; there

are no women left. They have all been burned at the stake, and some with their children,

too.”

“That will not happen here, will it?” Marcella’s eyes widened and she was shocked

by these terrible revelations.

“Let us hope it will not. You have told me, and I promise on the blood that flowed

from Our Savior’s wounds never to tell a soul. And you should not either, not even in

confession.”

Marcella reached up haltingly to her mother. Amelia smiled at her daughter and

gave her a loving hug.

Marcella came to realize that her mother was right. She should remain silent about

her spiritual experience. She figured it was a sign only for her, so why would other

people be interested? Marcella went about her young life with its dramas and discoveries,

but now having had this experience, and for this first time in her life she was spoken to as

an adult by her mother, she felt self-satisfied and secure in who she was. She didn’t feel

aloof or arrogant. She didn’t look down on anyone, ever. Marcella felt fulfilled and

excited about the future.

Respite

Marcella found that her curiosity brought her to every shop, some she entered and others

she just peered in through the open door or the windows. She loved the different spicy

scents and distinctive odors of the market place. She loved the colorful people with their

funny rhyming chants they would sing-song to attract buyers. One man had linnets that

sang beautiful songs from behind the bars of their little gold colored cages. Marcella

wished she had the money to buy all of them and set them free.

Marcella saw everything in a new and thirsty light. The buildings in the town and

the town itself that had never been more than a backdrop for its citizens, all of a sudden

became a wonder of organization and a testament to human ingenuity. Marcella had seen

the church almost every day of her life. In the midpoint of her thirteenth year, she

realized what a truly breath- taking achievement it was.

One morning on the way to the fountain she saw a lead pencil that had rolled into

one of the cracks between the time worn paving stones. She snatched up her find and

thanked Saint Anthony, then ran to the bookbinder and begged a few scrapes of paper.

That evening she sat out at the garden table, and by the light of an old sputtering oil lamp

she drew her own fanciful versions of buildings and towers and castles.

A few months after her spiritual experience, she had her first period. Marcella

became a family concern. One morning she was told by Fausto to leave the shop because

she dropped two spools of thread and as they rolled across the floor they became quite

entwined. The more she tried to separate them the tighter the tangle became. Her little

ego was smarting from Fausto’s rather indelicate words.

Marcella headed for the kitchen to see if she could help her mother prepare the

midday meal. She heard Farintino and her mother talking. When she heard her name

mentioned, she stopped outside the kitchen door unnoticed and listened.

“Good husband, I feel Marcella is too young for such a thing.” The two sat at the

old gray work table in the kitchen. They drank lemon water. Amelia had sent the three

little ones out to spend the blustery afternoon with their Great Aunt Prunella.

“She is ready. Any man with half a brain would snatch up such a clever and fresh

young thing.”

“Good husband, she is still no more than a girl.” Amelia idly ran her finger tip over

one of the many long slice marks that crisscrossed the table top, then sipped her water.

The wind blew outside and the leaves on the orange tree squeaked on the window pane.

“Father thinks it is time. You know he has never taken to her.”

In a rare show of impatience, she repeated her husband’s words. “Yes, I know, I

know he has never taken to her, or taken to you or to me for that matter.” Amelia looked

up, “She is a good girl and has always done what she was told and never complained.

Farintino, she is still a girl. Look at her, she is so skinny. She has not even the beginnings

of a curve to her body.”

“You were a girl when you came here,” Farintino said gently.

“Yes I was, so young and such a silly child even at seventeen.” Amelia felt a shiver

stir in her. “Let us not rush her out of the house. She is my daughter. The girls and I

would miss her.”

After a pause, Farintino finally agreed. “Yes she would be missed, but we have

other fine Andano daughters. You will not be all alone.” Farintino’s attempt at levity fell

short. He could read the concern on Amelia’s face at finding a husband for Marcella.

Marcella backed away from the kitchen door. She was stunned at the thought of

being married off, of being sent away. Panic drove her out the back door and through

garden to the back gate and into the alley. She ran down the alley and across the piazza.

She could see nothing but her feet, hear nothing but her footfalls against the paving

stones and feel nothing but the strong cool breeze against her face and bare arms.

Marcella ran toward the east gate. She dodged around the busy people and wooden carts,

past a barefoot country girl with a long crook who ushered a flock of shirking geese, past

a dozen or so gray and brown donkeys laden with colorful crockery or bolts of fabric or

firewood. Marcella ran past a few idle laborers who lounged in the shade of the gate’s

arch and laughed and mocked some beggars who were arguing about who was to sit

where and who was there first.

She finally ran under the arch and outside the town’s walls. When she was a good

hundred yards or so past the gate she slowed, and stopped, bent forward, put her hands on

her knees and tried to catch her breath. Her heart raced in her chest. Her blood surged and

pounded in her veins. She could not seem to get enough air in her lungs. The early

autumn breeze rushed over her and cooled her flushed and sweaty face.

Marcella slowly caught her breath, her heart beat less fast and she regained her calm

and composure. She continued to walk along the path away from the town. “I do not want

to get married,” she said out loud. “I am not going to get married, no matter what any of

them says.” Hearing the words made her feel better. She was both hungry and thirsty and

wished she ate something or least drank something before she ran off.

She followed the lane to a little side trail that went up over a low hill. Marcella

wanted to get to her special place, sit alone in the shade of the walnut tree and look out

over her beloved pond. The side trail to the pond shrunk to a foot path that was now no

more than a faint line crushed into the dry grass that descended into a wide golden

pasture bordered by low hillocks studded with large granite rocks and boulders.

Marcella looked ahead and saw a number of rust-colored, shaggy cattle under the

walnut tree. Some were sitting, some standing and some drinking from the now muddied

brown pond. She slowed and stopped at the sight of the cattle. Her refuge was taken.

Marcella stood there. The grass around her knees rippled and hissed in the breeze.

Before long she saw the farmer, Carlo Longo, cross his pasture headed for his cattle.

Nero, his very energetic black and white dog raced ahead of him, barking the entire time.

The dog stopped and impatiently waited for his master to catch up. The moment his

master was within a few feet, Nero with his tail wagging wildly ran back to him, jumped

up and nudged Carlo with his paws. The dog lost itself in a few frenetic circles, bounded

ahead of his master and threw a few sidelong glances back at Carlo to make sure he was

still coming. Carlo waved when he saw Marcella. She waved back and left Carlo and

Nero to drive the cattle away. With some disappointment, Marcella decided to turn

around and head back home. Neither Farintino nor Amelia knew she knew.

Marcella hadn’t gone fifty paces on the lane when she looked up and saw her sisters

and Great Aunt Prunella. Marcella was never so glad to see her aunt and sisters. She ran

up to them and threw her arms around the surprised and smiling woman.

“Hello sweetheart, have you come to greet us?” She gently pushed Marcella’s hair

out of her eyes and laid the longer strands over her ears. “You are a sight, all sweaty and

red, have you been running?”

Before Marcella could answer Maria spoke up, “We just got some honey. I am

carrying it.” With some effort, she held up a small crock that was tied with a cloth over

its mouth.

Marcella’s other two sisters, Miranda and the youngest Rini, were engrossed in

eating chunks of honey comb. Honey was all over their hands and faces along with a

good sprinkling of dark brown dust. Marcella offered to carry the crock so Maria could

eat her honey comb, but only on Maria’s condition that she would be the one to carry the

crock into the kitchen and give it to mother.

The girls and Prunella made their way back to Terra Sanctus. Marcella was on the

left of Prunella and the three sisters on her right. Marcella ached to tell her aunt the awful

news, but she decided to wait until they were back home and alone.

Wills and Fates

Marcella’s worries were moot. Shortly after she ran out the back door while Farintino

and her mother were discussing her future, Fausto, who was in the main room looking

over the ledgers, felt a sharp pain in his right temple. He heard a crackling noise in his

right ear and his vision was crowded out by a storm of red and black flotsam. He fell, hit

his head on the corner of his desk, and lay there unconscious until Farintino went looking

for him. Amelia hurried out of the house and asked the first doctor she found to come

with her.

The doctor happened to be a certain Jacopo Gallo, an army surgeon who just bought

his release from military duty. He sat outside on a bench in front of the barber shop and

was just finishing his lunch of soft cheese and some garlic biscuits he bought from a

pretty young girl. He still wore his uniform and the caduceus insignia was in plain sight.

He left the carnival of mangled bodies and gangrenous limbs that always lead to pointless

amputations that would nine times out of ten become septic and just prolong the soldier’s

misery on his eventual march to eternity. Amelia’s urgency was quelled as Gallo raised

his hand to calm the excited woman. To his surprise it worked.

“It is my father-in-law. Master Fausto Andano has fallen and is unconscious.”

Gallo looked at the biscuit in his hand took a bite and looked up at Amelia. “And,

why do you tell me this?”

Amelia was annoyed by the doctor’s indifferent manner and that he spoke with his

mouth full. “I see on your breast you wear the caduceus. Are you not a doctor?”

Gallo slipped the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and gave the impression of deep

thought as he slowly chewed and swallowed the morsel. “You are correct. I am a trained

doctor and surgeon.”

After a pause Amelia said, “We have money.”

Gallo nodded, stood and followed Amelia back to the house.

Gallo’s diagnosis was that Fausto had had a stroke and hit his head when he fell to

the floor. There was nothing Gallo could do for him. “Keep him warm and he may wake

up or he may not. Pray for his soul and recovery.” He stood tight lipped, craned his neck

and leaned in a little toward Farintino. Gallo raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

Farintino thought for a second, then took his purse from the desk drawer and handed

Gallo a silver piece. Jacopo looked at the coin in his palm. “Call on me again,” he said as

he left the house. The moment he was clear of the front door he turned his hand over,

looked down at the silver piece and smiled. Then he chuckled. “That was too easy, much

too easy.”

11

Marcella sat curled up in the chair next to the bed. She had a blanket over her lap

and leaned to the side with a pillow behind her head. The room was dark and still except

for Fausto’s slow and regular breathing that was accompanied by a wet rasping sound

every fourth of fifth exhalation. Marcella was given the task to sit with Fausto and

awaken Farintino and her mother if Fausto should wake up. She tried her best to stay

awake but nodded off several times.

At the first stirrings of dawn when the sun was just beyond the horizon and the dew

drops dripped from the leaves and eave outside the window in a steady, gentle rhythm,

both Marcella and Fausto opened their eyes.

Fausto was confused. He was unable to sit up. He let out something of a gasp.

“Sir, sir, you are awake.” An excited Marcella uncurled her stiff legs and arms,

jumped up, and with a timid smile touched Fausto on the shoulder. She opened the

shutters to let in the light then quickly left the room to fetch her mother.

Fausto was flat on his back. He looked up. The ceiling beams twisted and

straightened. The walls grew and shrunk in height and width. He did not know where he

was. He tried to prop himself up on his right elbow, but it was no good. He fell back onto

the bed. Fausto did not understand why he could not move. He did not understand why

everything was so strange. The room was alive with twisting, ghastly grey shadows.

Fausto tried to call out, but his words were trapped inside his head. He was afraid

and he went into a panic. He frantically felt his face with his right hand. His left cheek

was as hard as stone. He felt the warm wet spittle at the corner of his mouth. He patted

his left shoulder and ran his hand down his arm. His left arm was bent at the elbow and

wrist and held crooked by tightened sinew and rock hard muscles. He tried to call out

again, but his speech was reduced to gurgling slurs.

Marcella led Farintino, Amelia, Maria, Miranda and Rini, into the room. The three

girls stood at the foot of the bed. Their curly hair was uncombed; their eyes were laden

with sleep. Rini, more asleep than awake, held her rag doll in her hands and leaned her

head against Maria’s shoulder.

Farintino and Amelia stood on the right side of the bed and Marcella on the left.

“Papa, thank God you are awake.” Farintino leaned in close and looked into his

father’s eyes. Fausto’s left eye drooped and the lid was outlined in red. He looked blankly

at his son. With a few forced jerks of his head, he was able to look at his granddaughters.

They looked back with sad and puzzled expressions. The three little girls could not

understand why their grandfather’s face was contorted into something that resembled half

of a shocked smile, or why his eye looked so funny and why his left hand was in a

constant palsy.

More sunlight streamed through the window and surrounded the bed and those who

stood around it. The room became unbearably warm and everyone felt uneasy, impatient

and helpless. Amelia backed away from Fausto and stood a little behind Farintino. A sick

feeling crept from the center of her stomach into her lungs and into her head. She had to

look away. “I must leave,” she whispered into Farintino’s ear as she slipped past him. She

gave a nod to Maria. Maria understood and gently nudged her sisters to follow her and

their mother out of the room.

Fausto noticed them leave and looked at Farintino with the same frightened look he

gave his son when Farintino finally confronted him so many years ago concerning his

treatment of Amelia and the then infant Marcella.

“Do you need water?” Farintino asked.

Fausto looked away from his son and then to Marcella. He grabbed her wrist and

held on so tight that it began to hurt. He looked up at her and tried to speak. Even though

he hurt her wrist, she bore the pain and gently placed her other hand on top of his. Fausto

relaxed his grip and let go of Marcella’s wrist. He then took her small hand in his and

guided it to his heart. He closed his eyes and slipped back in the arms of Morpheus.

Marcella left her hand in Fausto’s for a good while and looked to Farintino who quietly

watched. He picked up the chair that Marcella slept on the night before, brought it around

to the other side of the bed, placed it behind her and silently bid her to sit. She sat, still

holding Fausto’s hand and looking curiously at this man who shunned her for her entire

life.

Marcella’s fears of an early marriage were certainly over. By pointing and

mustering whatever expressions with the half of his face that still responded to his will,

and whatever guttural croaks he could produce with his tortured throat, Fausto conveyed

to Farintino that he wanted Marcella to be the one to take care of him. He took to heart

those words that Amelia said those dozen plus years that passed since the morning he

raped her. He could still see her in his mind as she calmly straightened her clothing and

spoke in a sure and unnerving voice, “What is done, can never be undone, nor should it

be.” Fausto understood now that Marcella was obviously born to tend to his needs at this

time in his life.

And so she did. Marcella dutifully spent the last tiny bit of her childhood and lost

the next six years of her youth taking care of Fausto. She watched over him, cleaned and

washed him, wiped away his drool. She fed him, turned him at least once or twice a day,

recited verse from memory and sang to him. She put up with his tantrums and

frustrations. Marcella watched him cry. His broad chest and muscular arms shrunk to the

bone. In time, his hair fell out, and his teeth, one by one became loose and slipped from

its socket.

Early on, when Fausto could still hobble about with the help of Marcella under one

arm and a cane in his other hand, there came word of a man who, through the power of

the Holy Ghost was able to heal those whom God thought worthy. Marcella broached the

subject to her mama. Amelia gave her some money and she hired Giovanni Billini and his

cart to take Fausto and her to see this man. The healer went only by Pietro, wore a white

shift tied at the waist with a coarse hank of rope, crude sandals and he would never

perform his “miracles” in sight of any church.

On the morning of the excursion, Giovanni arrived at the appointed time. Marcella

told Fausto she had a surprise for him and they waited on a stone bench by the back gate

that opened into the alley behind the garden. When Giovanni pulled up at the gate, Fausto

became agitated. Marcella stood and took Fausto’s left hand to help him to his feet. He

did not cooperate. “Giovanni, please help me,” she called out. Giovanni went to Fausto’s

left side and offered his shoulder for him to lean on. Fausto made a feeble attempt to hit

Giovanni with his right hand.

“There, there, we will have none of that.” Giovanni spoke to Fausto as if he was a

spoiled child.

“Sir, sir, please,” Marcella coaxed. Fausto grabbed onto the bench with his right

hand and would not let go. He threw a frightened glance at Giovanni and tried to speak.

Angry and frustrated Fausto finally bowed his head and began to shudder and whimper.

“There, there, old fellow, calm yourself. All is well.” Giovanni tried to pat Fausto

on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, but Fausto shrunk away from him as if the man’s

touch was poisonous.

Giovanni shrugged and smiled. “Well, signorina perhaps today is not a day for

miracles.”

Marcella offered Giovanni the two coppers they agreed on for the fare.

Giovanni refused. Always the gentleman he asked if he could be of any assistance.

When she nodded no, he tipped his hat and left Marcella to deal with Fausto.

111

During the time Marcella took care of Fausto, her sisters grew into industrious,

clever, down to earth and vivacious young women. They were referred to as the Three

Andano Angels. They were robust and fiery and the picture of classical Mediterranean

beauty with their thick dark curly hair and olive complexions that captured the glow of

the summer afternoon sun. They were well proportioned and beautiful. They were always

together and the boys and young men would flirt with them constantly.

At age sixteen, Marcella started to show more womanly traits in both her looks and

her actions. She kept her straight, light brown hair cut short. Her round face was still very

girlish, almost childish, and the most noticeable feature was the deep dimple in her chin.

Unlike her sisters, Marcella’s breasts were small and flat and her hips were narrow. When

she was with the Three Andano Angels, she felt plain and unattractive. She knew she

would never be sought after like Maria, Miranda and Rini.

Marcella did not spend every waking moment at Fausto’s side. Occasionally one of

her sisters at the request of Amelia would take over the duties. At these times, Marcella

would join the others in the workshop. As for the trade, she tried very hard, but her

stitching was never as straight and precise as her sisters’. The pieces she did sew together

might bulge or pucker and the needle hurt her fingers after a short time.

Marcella did have a flair for design but that wellspring was tainted by her lack of

practical skill. Farintino, who could have shown some regard and encouragement for her

artistic tendencies, didn’t. “People buy what they know,” was his dull reply.

When her sisters came of age, they were courted and wooed. One by one they

married young men who were as vigorous as themselves with bright and certain futures.

They moved away and started their new lives. Trade slowed in the shop when Rini, the

last of the Andano Angels married. The young men no longer came into the shop or

loitered outside waiting to get a glimpse of the sisters. Farintino and Amelia were tired

and getting old. The family work force was gone. Marcella was not even considered as a

viable heir.

As if Fate smiled on Farintino and Amelia, Prunella’s oldest son Anselmo and his

wife Cianina and the eleven year old twin boys Paulo and Pietro returned from Sicily.

Anselmo had his army pension and Cianina came from a well-connected family who left

her financially secure. Hints were dropped and overtures were made and Anselmo who

still had many ties to the military thought it a good idea to start his sons in a business that

would always be in demand, whether it was for military caps or hats, gloves or capes and

all other clothing or accessories.

Farintino’s and Amelia’s needs were small. For a lump sum and eight percent of the

yearly gross, they were able to retire and live the rest of their lives comfortably.

Marcella’s life did not change much. She was happy for Farintino and her mama. They

had worked long and hard and now they could rest. But the bloom of her youth opened

and closed and at the age of twenty two she was left with her task of tending to Fausto.

That would end in less than a fortnight. After the papers were signed and the greater

amount of the gold was buried under a paving stone in the garden with some kept on

hand in the locked desk, Farintino broke the news to his father.

Fausto heard what his son had to say and at first did not understand. He had

inherited the business from his father, and his father from his father and on and on and so

the lineage went back to the eleven hundreds, even before the church and the piazza were

built Andano hats graced the heads of many a rich signore or signora. Farintino could see

the frustration and horror in his father’s eyes. “Papa, it is still in the family. Calm

yourself, calm yourself. Prunella’s son, Anselmo, he and his wife are the new owners. It

is still in the family.”

Marcella looked on as Farintino delivered the bad news. Fausto was pale, his face

twitched and his eyes glistened with tears. His jaw quivered and his lips squirmed but he

was unable to speak.

“There, there, papa, things will be just fine, nothing is really going to change.”

Farintino stood, nodded to Marcella, and extended his hand as a sign of re-assurance but

Fausto slapped it away and with all of his strength turned himself ever so slightly on his

side so he did not have to look at his son. Farintino looked at his father with annoyed

impatience and then to Marcella and shrugged. Farintino shook his head and left the

room.

Marcella looked at the old man who was still pushing his body with all of his might.

“Sir, please relax, he is gone.” At hearing her words, Fausto rolled onto his back. His face

was wet with sweat. Marcella stood up and went to the dressing chest. On top was a

basin, three small towels and a pitcher of water she had just filled at the fountain that

morning. She took a soft white towel and soaked it in cool water, wrung it out in the

basin, returned to Fausto and ran it over his brow and cheeks. He closed his eyes and

sighed. “Things will be fine, sir,” she said softly.

From that morning on Fausto took only water and thin soup. He kept Marcella at his

side all through the day. Whenever she tried to leave, he would whimper or grab at her

wrist with his right hand. Marcella would acquiesce and sit back down. On the fifth day,

Fausto only took water. Marcella understood what he was doing. She did not mention this

change from his diet of thin gruel, or runny soft boiled eggs or bread soaked in milk and

honey to nothing but water to Farintino or her mother.

Before he became too weak Fausto through crude pantomime communicated the

idea that he wanted Marcella to shave off his whiskers. Marcella was so used to catering

to his whims that she gave it little thought as she collected the tools she would need,

some small scissors, a hot damp towel, warm olive oil and Fausto’s long idle razor that

was in the top drawer of his dressing chest. The razor was in a narrow wooden box with a

sliding top. It was wrapped in a transparent, oily flannel cloth and was still remarkably

sharp as Marcella discovered when she accidentally touched the keen edge with the ball

of her thumb and nicked herself.

Marcella knelt down next to the bed and softly stroked the stiff, dry hairs that

covered Fausto’s chin and cheeks with her fingertips. Slowly and carefully she pinched

up a little tuft of whiskers between her thumb, index, and middle fingers and clipped the

whiskers away. She put each wiry white tuft she removed on a saucer she placed on

Fausto’s chest. It was slow work and she was very careful not to pull too hard or cut his

parchment like skin with the sharp scissors. Finally, the whiskers were cropped. She had

never seen him without his beard. The only thing that remained was white stubble that

now covered his jaws and chin.

Marcella brought a towel that she had simmering in a pot in the kitchen. She put it

there on her way to the shop to retrieve the scissors. Marcella fished the towel out with a

wooden spoon and quickly rolled the steaming cloth around the handle so the hot water

would run back into the pot. The towel was very hot and she held it up by its corners to

let the steam dissipate. When the towel was cool enough to handle without scalding her

she returned to Fausto. He flinched when she carefully arranged the towel on his face.

After a few moments Fausto wagged his head and she pulled the towel away.

Marcella knelt at Fausto’s side. She brought along the razor and a vial of olive oil.

Marcella poured a little bit of olive oil on her fingertips. She rubbed the stubble with the

oil until it felt silky. Finally, she picked up the razor and held it the same way she saw

Farintino hold his. Marcella did very well shaving Fausto. Surprisingly well for never

having shaved anyone before. She left only one tiny crimson nick under his left ear.

Marcella wiped Fausto’s face with a damp towel. She sat back on her heels. Even

though she had seen his face every day of her life, now shaved he looked so different, so

exposed. Its features were no longer secretive or hidden. She studied its contours, the

angles, the shape of the eyes and nose and mouth. The most dominant detail was the deep

dimple in his chin, the Parma dimple.

She touched the dimple on her own chin. Fausto smiled inwardly as he watched her

do so and bid her to come closer to him. He reached up and took her hand and guided it

to his chin. He took her index finger and placed it on his dimple and then onto hers. He

repeated that motion several times and then he took her hand and patted his heart and

then he patted hers.

Marcella was touched by this display which she took for some kind of recognition,

even a slight display of affection. “Yes sir, I see we have the same dimple.”

Fausto snorted. That was something Marcella long recognized as a sign of

frustration. Fausto took her hand again, this time with more passion and touched her

finger tips to his dimple, then to hers, to his lips, then hers, he touched his nose, then her

nose, his eyes, her eyes and finally traced the circle of his face and compared it to the

roundness of hers. He touched his forehead then hers and to leave no doubt as to the

message he flung her hand away, patted his genitals, then his chest and finally laid his

open palm on her chest.

Marcella was perplexed. Fausto was obviously trying to tell her something,

something very important. She had not guessed what it was. Fausto was still agitated.

Marcella repeated his motions. She touched the dimple in her chin, her lips, her nose, her

eyes; she traced the roundness of her face. She patted her own sex then she patted her

chest and extended her open hand and placed it on Fausto’s chest.

Fausto mustered what he hoped was a smile and with all his strength cupped his

hand behind his daughter’s neck, pulled her close and pressed his lips on her forehead.

Exhausted he let her go, fell back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

Marcella sat back on her heels and thought about what had just happened. She was

stunned when she guessed Fausto’s meaning. “Father?” she whispered. Fausto nodded

and closed his eyes. A thousand questions were answered and a thousand questions arose

from this mongrel of a Greek tragedy. There was only one question that needed to be

answered and only one person who could answer it. Marcella angrily tidied up, taking her

frustrations out on the shaving gear by throwing it all in the basin and slamming it down

onto the dressing chest. With an angry heart, she went in search of her mother.

Amelia had just returned from the market place. She sat at the table in the garden

and was looking over her purchases of some almonds, a salty slab of bacalao and a small

package of risotto. Marcella saw her through the kitchen window.

She stormed out the back door and threw open the garden gate. The gate bounced

back on its hinges. She caught it with her hand right before it hit her. Marcella took that

as a sign and calmed herself before she entered the garden. She took several deep breaths

and went to the table. Marcella was momentarily speechless as she tried to form the

terrible question that she needed her mother to answer.

Amelia looked up. “Look at the size of the fish, and I got it cheap today.”

“Mama, tell me the truth. Who is my father?”

Amelia was stunned. She swallowed hard and her heart pounded in her chest. “Of

course you know who your father is,” she said as calmly as she could.

“No I do not!” Marcella insisted. “Tell me. Is it Fausto?” Amelia remained silent.

“He is, is he not? Tell me.”

“I have never been unfaithful to Farintino, never.”

“Is my father Fausto?” Marcella insisted.

“Where did you get such a notion?” Again Amelia dodged the answer.

“Mama, stop, I am a grown woman. I have a right to know. Fausto all but told me.”

“The man cannot talk. He has not said a word you can understand in years. How

could he tell you?” Amelia’s world of denial and unending penance at the kneeler was

about to vanish and leave her raw and open to the gritty truth.

“He told me. He wanted me to shave him this morning. I thought it strange. He has

always worn a beard ever since I can remember, but that is what he wanted so I shaved

him. I could finally see his face. I could see how we look so much alike. He touched my

face and embraced me. He kissed my forehead. He accepted me. He had never done that

before. I know what he was trying to tell me in his own way. It was quite clear. Now I

know why Farintino always hated me and you always hated me.” Marcella was shaking

with anger, grief and sorrow that drained her heart and soul and left her empty.

Amelia arose and hugged her daughter. “I have never hated you, I could never hate

you. I love you. You are my flesh and my blood. You are my daughter. God has given me

life so you could have yours. I am so sorry. I am so sorry I could not tell you. I could

never tell you.”

Marcella relaxed her embrace and pulled away from Amelia. “So, this is the sin that

could never be forgiven? You lay with your husband’s father. How could you?”

“I did not lay with him. He took me when Farintino was away. He took me right

there next to the hearth. Every time I make a fire there I feel sick at my stomach having to

be at that spot.”

“Then why did you not tell Farintino?”

“I could not. Fausto had so much power over him and something over me that I did

not know about until later. That very day, that very moment he was raping me I had my

vision. I saw you. I knew you would be growing in me. I knew you would be my

daughter. I had to think of you.”

Marcella calmed herself and sat down at the table. Amelia joined her. They sat in

silence and looked down at the table top.

Marcella finally looked up at her mother. “But why did you keep this a secret?”

“I was young, I was afraid. I needed a place for you to grow up in.

I was just married for less than a year. I had nowhere to go, no one to help me. I could not

go home, back to my mother. She had nothing, not even enough food for herself.”

“What could Fausto possibly have over you?” Marcella’s tone was conciliatory and

curious now that the truth illuminated and freed her mother’s and her soul. Marcella took

her mother’s hand.

“Love letters. Love letters that I did not even know existed. Some silly boys slipped

them under the door. Fausto found them and convinced himself I had lovers. Now that I

think of it, he probably saw me as someone nonvirtuous, someone he could take and not

worry about me telling.”

“But mama, why did you not tell? Why keep such a secret?”

“It would hurt Farintino, but mostly you. I thought because I did not say something

when it first happened, it would be unbelievable and that it was I who was to blame if I

told Farintino all these years afterwards.”

“And the praying?”

“To give me strength, I prayed for strength to live the life I chose. I prayed that God

might forgive me for keeping silent. I prayed for my soul because I could never forgive

Fausto for making all of our lives as black as his. And I prayed for the strength not to

think ill of him and wish him ill. But I failed at all of those things. I did wish ill of him. I

think Satan heard my desires too and caused Fausto to fall and hit his head. That was my

fault... that was my wish.”

“Only a saint could show so much forgiveness.”

“But still, I committed a sin, and a sin is a sin whether in thought or deed. God will

judge me for my evil wishes.” The feelings of giddiness and freedom were replaced with

the guilt that Amelia was used to and understood. Marcella watched her mother’s

countenance change visibly as she sunk back into the dismal depression she was unable

to escape from for all of those years.

Some Rise by Sin

Fausto died late that afternoon right before the church bells rang for evening mass. He

died alone. Marcella divided her time between her mother who had taken to her bed with

a headache and tending to the evening meal.

She did check on him though. He was quite pale and his breathing was weak.

Marcella had seen him sleep like that before and did not give much thought to it. It was

only when she heard him gasp and the hollow rattling sound that she took notice and

looked in on him again.

He had slipped from his mortal coil. Marcella wiped her hands on her apron and

looked down at him. His face was finally relaxed. She pulled his left arm straight and as

soon as she let go of it, it curled back up. Marcella shrugged, took a kerchief out of the

top drawer of the dressing chest, folded it on the diagonal into a piece no wider than two

fingers breadth, placed it under Fausto’s chin and tied it at the top on his head. She went

to the kitchen and took two large coppers out of the grocery money, returned to the

bedroom and placed them over his eyes. She made the sign of the cross and said the

Lord’s Prayer for his soul.

Marcella had no real feeling of grief, neither did Farintino or Amelia. Prunella did

shed a few tears for the little boy she remembered. Anselmo and his wife Cianina showed

their respects. Maria, Miranda and Rini arrived with their children and husbands and the

house was alive with children running and laughing, food and family.

Amelia could not make herself get up from bed. She truly tried as hard as she could

but could not shake the dark weight that held her body and soul down. She knew she

should be glad to see all of her happy daughters and her healthy grandchildren playing

together. When they came into the bedroom to say hello, she put on a great front for

them. The second they left the room Amelia fell into a state of tears. She mourned for

Marcella and Farintino and herself, for the unlived and uncelebrated moments of their

lives.

Before dawn the next morning, after Marcella and Miranda started the morning

porridge on a very slow simmer, the two sisters headed to the cottage of Cesare Lippo to

order a coffin. It was a pleasant and brisk walk for the two young women. Marcella

hadn’t taken a walk for quite a time and Miranda very rarely left the walls of Terra

Sanctus when she was a girl. They passed by the first marker. The short stacks of stones

on the other side of the hill were still there and had been added to. Marcella looked for

the tree with the broken branch, but it was gone, probably cut for fire wood. They passed

the side trail that lead to the Longo’s pond. That brought a smile to Marcella’s face.

“Remember the time we met you on the road, Auntie Prunella and we were coming

back from getting honey,” said Miranda.

“Yes, I will never forget that day.”

“Oh, right, that is when grandpapa fell ill. I will miss him.”

After a few steps further Marcella said, “It is not too much further to Lippo’s path. It

is on the left, so let us be mindful. He lets it get overgrown.”

“At least you got to spend time with grandpapa. You got to take care of him.”

Marcella held her tongue. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” asked Miranda.

“An echo, it sounds like someone is hammering.”

They continued in silence, following the sounds Cesare made as he drove home a

tenon into its mated mortise that was the lower corner of a huge door.

Farintino told Marcella to order the least expensive coffin Cesare could make.

Cesare looked up from his work when he saw the shadows of the women. Although

Miranda did the talking, Cesare’s gaze was drawn to Marcella. He checked this ill-timed

attraction when he heard the reason they came to him. “Do not bother with sending the

coffin, Farintino will send our wagon to pick it up.”

Cesare thought for a moment, “Ah, you know, I have one already made. It is in my

shed.” Cesare built a coffin that was never picked up.

“Does it have a problem?” asked Miranda.

“Why no, it seems the wife who ordered it for her husband did so thinking he would

die soon. That was quite a few years ago. As I recall, she took him to a healer who...well,

healed him. I think Giovanni Billini told me that you hired him to take your grandfather

to see the same healer too, did he not?” he asked Marcella directly. He held her in his

gaze.

Marcella could sense his attention. She blushed and looked down.

“Oh yes, Pietro the Healer. Too bad Il Signore Fausto would not allow it.”

“You may have the coffin for what is owed. I believe it was twenty coppers.” He

saw Marcella’s eyebrows arch with approval at the generous discount.

“We can only offer you ten,” said Miranda. She waited a few seconds, looked at her

older sister and nodded to her as if to go.

“To order a new one it would cost four or five times that. But, for your sake and the

sake of your family I will offer it to you for fifteen.”

“Done.” Marcella was embarrassed by her sister’s frugality. She would have gladly

paid Cesare the twenty coppers. She took the purse off her sash and poured out coins both

silver and copper into the palm of her hand. She counted out fifteen large coppers and

handed them to Cesare. Both felt a tiny thrill when Marcella touched Cesare’s hand as

she gave him the coins. They looked into each other’s eyes for an instant then looked

away. Marcella slowly pulled her hand away.

“Tell your family I share in their grief.” Again Cesare addressed Marcella. He

caught himself and in order not to be rude nodded to Miranda.

“Thank you, I will,” said Marcella. She did not know why but she wanted to stay.

She even wished Miranda wasn’t with her.

Miranda watched Marcella and Cesare just standing there. “Come sister, we must

return.”

Cesare reluctantly broke the spell, “If there is nothing more, I must continue my

work, good day to you Signorina Marcella and you too, Signora Miranda.” Cesare bowed

and watched Marcella and her sister leave his shop. After a few steps, Marcella looked

over her shoulder at Cesare and smiled at him. He nodded and smiled back. The two

women disappeared down the path.

Miranda and Marcella returned home. The family had spilled outside. The three

husbands sat on the front steps and chatted. The sisters and their children crowded around

the garden table.

Farintino went to Monsignor Petri to reserve a mass. After the formalities were

attended to, the mass stipend offered and the gravesite selected, the two bowed their

heads in prayer.

The coffin was collected as per Farintino’s instructions. He sent his cousin’s eleven

year old twins, Paulo and Pietro in the family wagon to Cesare Lippo’s to pick it up.

They returned very late in the afternoon, with muddy clothes and a muddy wagon. They

were much too late to come up with a good excuse. They got a stern reproach from their

father and a switch to their backside from their mother.

Maria, Miranda and Rini had already washed their grandfather. They dressed him in

his best breeches and the embroidered shirt from his wedding. The coffin was placed on a

makeshift bier cobbled together from a few crates from the workshop. Rini draped the

crates with a sheet. Farintino and Anselmo laid Fausto in the coffin. The lid was left off.

A candle was lit and placed on a small stand next to the coffin. Farintino folded his

father’s hands across his chest and placed his mother’s crucifix in them.

The family knelt on both sides of the coffin and prepared themselves for the solemn

ritual. Signora Onesti was hired to lead the rosary, which she did with a great chanting

diction and efficiency. Amelia stayed in the bedroom and put her pillow over her head,

but she still could hear the drone of people at prayer.

Marcella entered the dark bedroom and saw her mother under the covers with a

pillow over her ears and her eyes closed. She waited for Signora Onesti to end the prayers

before she tapped her mother on the hand.

“Mama, it is almost done. Will you come out? Everyone has been asking about you.

Please, I am here for you,” she asked softly and then added, “oh and by the way, we got

the coffin for only fifteen coppers.”

Amelia had to smile at the last bit of news. “Fifteen you say, you did well,” she

paused and added thoughtfully, “knowing he is gone should make me feel sad or happy,

but I do not feel either. I do not feel anything. I only wish now I stood up to him.”

Marcella sat on the bed and gently stroked her mother’s shoulder. “Mama please, it

is something that is done, and it can never be undone. He is dead. Let his deeds die with

him.”

“Yes he is dead, but I will never forget what he did.” Amelia pulled the covers over

her shoulder and closed her eyes. “Maybe, tomorrow, yes, maybe tomorrow,” her

mother’s words trailed off on a vaguely bitter note.

11

Monsignor Petri and his aides were in the front room. After the monsignor

performed the sacrament of Extreme Unction, one of his aides nailed the lid onto the

coffin. The monsignor then recited the De Profundis and the cross bearer and the censer

carriers chanted the Si Iniquatates in response. They left the house with the censer bearers

leading, followed by cross bearer and two altar boys carrying candles, followed by

Monsignor, Fausto and the family and friends.

The pall bearers brought the coffin to the center of the church where a bier had

already been set up. They had to reverse the coffin so Fausto’s feet were pointed toward

the altar and finally set it down. Monsignor Petri gave the blessing and sprinkled the

coffin with holy water.

Farintino was irked with himself. He had mistakenly paid for a high mass when he

could have had a low mass said for half the price. The church was nearly empty, and of

those in attendance a good two dozen or so, were devout, white haired old widows

wrapped in black weeds who always haunted the church biding their time before they too

would enter the Kingdom of Heaven and be reunited with those who had already

departed.

Farintino, Amelia, Marcella, Maria, Miranda and Rini along with Prunella sat in the

first pew. Behind them the husbands sat, each had an armful of wiggly toddler, most of

who were under the age of four. Paulo and Pietro sat at the far end of the pew next to the

outer aisle. The rack of votive candles was within arm’s length and when they thought no

one was looking, they quickly turned their heads one at a time toward the flickering

offerings and tried to blow the flames out. Behind the family, the pews were sparsely

inhabited by old acquaintances of Fausto and family friends, the curious who always

attended church gatherings and admirers of Andano Angels. A few of their old beaus

were there hoping for a second chance if the opportunity should arise. The mass finally

ended. The people were already standing and ready to go before Monsignor Petri could

say the final blessing.

The coffin was lifted off of its bier by Farintino, Anselmo, Maria’s husband Gius

and Miranda’s husband Mateo. They followed the cross bearer, the incense bearers with

their smoking censers and Monsignor Petri who was in front of the coffin, out of the

church, down the stone steps and across the square into the bright afternoon sun. It was a

hot day. Anyone near took off his cap or made the sign of the cross or showed his respect

by simply bowing to the funeral party. They passed through the north gate. The

procession proceeded slowly and with great dignity onto the dusty road to the cemetery

that had been in use since the Roman Empire.

The sun reflected off the cross bearer’s silver crucifix mounted atop a black wooden

shaft. The censer bearers swung the incense censers causing great clouds of aromatic

smoke. The monsignor and his personal aide walked in front of the coffin and the others

followed.

They arrived at the grave site. The pall bearers set the coffin on two long ropes that

were laid out to lower the coffin. Dark, chunky earth was piled in a neat narrow heap

along the far side of the open grave.

Monsignor Petri said the last blessing over Fausto. The altar boys wagged their

censers releasing pungent smoke that floated all about them. Monsignor nodded to his

personal aide who handed him the silver container of chrism and the aspergillum. The

monsignor dipped the silver aspergillum into the holy water and sprinkled and blessed the

coffin and all those who stood graveside. The pall bearers lifted the ropes and without the

slightest misstep lowered Fausto into the earth.

Farintino’s daughters and Prunella were the first to toss the symbolic handful of

earth onto the coffin. Farintino followed and Marcella followed him. Amelia stood off to

the side and began to shake uncontrollably. She fell to her knees in the narrow pile of dirt

at graveside, grabbed a large clod, held it over her head and with an animal look in her

eyes threw it as hard as she could against the coffin causing a loud hollow noise. She

grabbed another clod and did the same thing. This time she let out a primal grunt. When

she reached for a third clod to throw, Farintino was already running toward her. He fell to

his knees behind Amelia and grabbed her low around the middle pinning her arms against

her sides. He gave her a quick shake hoping to snap her out of her fit, then stood up

dragging her to her feet. She held the dirt clod at her waist and gave it a clumsy, stunted,

underhand toss into the grave. By this time, everyone was aghast at this unbelievable

desecration.

As Farintino pulled a struggling Amelia away, she made one last spectacular kick

sending a spray of damp, brown, dirt into the grave and onto those few unfortunate

people standing directly across from her.

When Farintino dragged her far enough from the grave, he pushed her down to the

ground in anger. She laid face down and was nothing more than a heaving mass. She

wept and pounded the ground with her fists. By then, a tearful Marcella and very

concerned Maria were kneeling at their mother’s side. Farintino immediately regretted

that he had pushed her down. He knelt next to her and put his arm around her. He lifted

her to her knees, petted her back and cajoled her to sit up.

Rini, Prunella and Miranda knelt around Amelia. The others in the party stayed their

distance and stood in little groups of two and three, looked at Amelia and Farintino and

whispered quiet and unsure words. With help from Farintino and Marcella, Amelia got to

her feet. She was shaking and pale and sweating. She was barely able to keep on her feet

and swayed between the two of them as they walked.

Farintino bid Maria with a nod and a twitch of his eye brows to take his place

supporting Amelia. “Take her home and put her to bed. Stay with her until she falls

asleep.”

“Yes, papa,” they answered in unison.

Farintino turned to the rest of his family, in-laws and friends. “This has been very

upsetting for Amelia. I am sure she will regain herself. I am so sorry. Please pray for us.”

Everyone agreed they would with their understanding looks and quiet good-byes.

Some Fall by Virtue

Amelia, with her daughters’ help, made the hot, tiring trek back to the house. Once in the

piazza they drew the curious who had already heard the story and wanted to look into

Amelia’s face, to look into her eyes. They were disappointed if they expected to see a

fierce animal that needed to be restrained.

The pace was slow and deliberate. The piazza stretched on like a great dessert.

Amelia moved as if wounded. She forced her legs on and with great effort shuffled her

feet. A girl named Cinzia who was getting water at the fountain took her small pitcher to

them. Amelia drank only a few swallows, but Marcella and Maria thanked the girl

profusely.

The market place gossips, who had berated the pretty young country girl those so

many years ago when Amelia first came to Terra Sanctus, now felt that their initial

observations were true and sage. They nodded and smugly agreed this was the inevitable

outcome for any scheming outsider, especially one like her, who dared take away one of

the eligible townsmen. Now this murder of crones eagerly whispered among themselves

the delicious words “demon” and “possessed” as Amelia and her daughters passed them

on their way to the Andano front gate.

The fifteen minute walk had been grueling for Amelia with the sun pounding on her

already aching head. All three felt great relief when they finally entered the cool, empty

house. With Marcella’s help Amelia made it to the bedroom, slipped off her shoes and

collapsed onto the bed. She got under the covers, clothes and all and stayed there for the

next three days, only rising to relieve herself or drink water.

By the midmorning of the following day, the house began to empty. After her

daughters tidied things up they, along with their children and husbands, went in the

bedroom where Amelia laid trancelike to say goodbye and wished her well. Amelia could

just lift her hand up to touch their faces as they kissed her good-bye.

Miranda, Rini and their families were the first to leave. Although they had both

planned to stay for a few days more, they thought it best to go and leave the house a

tranquil refuge for their mother. They both reasoned that Marcella’s experience with their

grandpapa made her the best choice to serve their mother’s needs.

Maria told Marcella she was going to stay. She was facing Marcella when she spoke

and her husband Gius stood behind her. While making the suggestion Gius’s smile faded

and he conveyed to Marcella via a frantic shake of his head that he would not like that to

happen. Marcella’s quick glance and ever so subtle nod acknowledged she understood.

“Thank you dear sister, I know our mother’s needs, and you have your own family

to tend to, think of your little ones. Thank you so much again.” Maria who was used to

getting her way was about to argue when Gius placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and

pulled her a tiny bit back toward him.

He smiled at Marcella, “Thank you sister-in-law, come Maria, we have a long way

to go before we sleep in our bed again.” Gius nodded, tugged a little bit more on his

wife’s shoulder until she nodded in agreement. Marcella kissed Maria on both cheeks.

She and Gius went off to collect their two children and say good-bye to Farintino.

With the house finally empty Farintino sprawled out in the large chair in the main

room and in less than ten minutes he dozed off. Marcella took this bit of time to wash her

face, change out of her good dress and put on her ordinary clothes and her comfortable

open back slippers.

She smiled when she heard Farintino snoring in the front room. Marcella went to the

kitchen and made herself some honey water. She looked up when she heard a noise

coming from the garden and was happy to see Aunt Prunella heading toward the kitchen

door.

With all of the excitement over and the people gone, Prunella was also ready to sit

and relax. She entered the kitchen, hugged Marcella, sat on the bench, put her elbows on

the work table and sighed.

“Zietta, do have something to drink. I made some honey water. There is enough for

both of us.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

Marcella poured two cups and put one in front of her aunt.

“Quite an affair...I feel so bad for your poor mother,” she shook her head in pity as

she spoke.

Marcella nodded. They sat in silence. Prunella softly drummed her fingers on the

table top and looked at Marcella. “Fausto looked so peaceful, all shaved and clean, and

his face no longer twisted up.”

Marcella did not know why nor care why her aunt was waxing on about Fausto.

“Poor Amelia,” Prunella whispered. She moved a little closer to her niece. “Do you

have any notion why your mother would do such a thing?” Prunella cautiously searched

Marcella’s eyes for a sign that her niece might know the truth.

Marcella gave an indefinable nod. “Do you?” countered Marcella.

Prunella smiled, reached out and took Marcella’s hands in hers. “Oh, sweetheart,

life is such a strange tangle.”

“I want you to tell me.” Marcella would only be a little surprised that her aunt might

know.

“At this very table, twenty-two years ago I was sitting just as I am now, holding

your mother’s hands, just as I am holding yours and she told me the terrible thing that

Fausto did to her.”

“You knew he was my father all this time?”

Prunella could feel Marcella’s hand tug against her. She tightened her hold. “Please

do not pull away, please. We must be as one to help your mama.”

Marcella relaxed her shoulders and hands. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I promised your mother I would not. I promised her I would tell no one, not you,

not anyone. I gave her my word. I hated to see her punish herself all of those years for

something she was innocent of. That brother of mine had them both by the throat.

Farintino once told me that Fausto called your mother a...may God forgive me...a slut.

And he always carried that ugly thought with him, no matter how hard he tried to get rid

of it. Farintino told me the family peace was more important to him than not knowing for

sure if what his father said about your mother was true. If I told him the truth, Farintino

might have driven you and your mother out.”

Marcella sat there and listened.

“And Fausto, after he was sure he poisoned Farintino with his lies told your mama

that if she spoke out it would be easy to show she was just a temptress. What with those

love letters, it would be an easy argument that she seduced him. And where would she

go, the street?”

“We must never tell Farintino,” added Marcella pondering the consequences.

Prunella nodded, exhaled a long, slow breath, let go of Marcella’s hands and patted

them. She took a drink of honey water and again let out a long sigh, “Finally, so many

years, it can be said. “

“How can we help mama?”

11

For the next three days, Marcella did not leave her mother’s side. She brought her

breakfast every morning that at first she refused, but by the third day she had an appetite.

Marcella washed her mother’s face every morning and combed her hair. She rubbed her

back and massaged her feet. She climbed in bed with her at night and slept with her front

snuggled against her mother’s back and legs, and her arms wrapped around her. They

whispered their prayers together.

On the forth morning Marcella arose, dressed and kissed her mother on the cheek.

She crossed what was left of the garden to the workshop, where Farintino was showing

Pietro and Paulo some basic stitches as Anselmo looked on.

Marcella, at this point found it difficult to address Farintino as papa but did so

anyway. “Papa, will you help me bring the copper dying tub to the house?”

“Daughter, why do you want to do that?” Farintino smiled at the two boys who

looked at Marcella and were intrigued by her request.

“For mama.”

“You know where it is.”

“The twins can help me, yes?”

Anselmo who was leaning against the cutting table stood up straight and stretched.

“Yes, they could use a break. Boys, help Marcella.”

Pietro and Paulo almost knocked themselves over bounding from their seats to help.

Marcella smiled and beckoned them to follow her. She tugged on the wooden gate that

closed off the storage yard behind the workshop. The storage yard ran the length of the

workshop and was about three paces from the shoulder high adobe wall that closed off

the alley side of the property. The gate was hindered by thick stands of dead grass.

Marcella tugged again. The boys rushed to the gate, threw their backs into it and in their

enthusiasm tore the top leather hinge so the gate was now unserviceable. It had to be

propped up against the wall at an ungainly angle.

The area was overgrown with a beautiful wild grapevine lush with broad green

leaves and hung heavily with clusters of ruby grapes dusted with fine white pollen. Paulo

made a running jump up onto the wall and tried to pull himself up. He dug the toes of his

shoes into the wall looking for purchase and knocked out fist sized chunks of adobe onto

the ground. Pietro had his back to his brother and was busy picking and eating the juicy,

sun warmed grape. He turned around to offer some to Paulo. Pietro saw Paulo hanging on

the wall with his back exposed and in a flash entered into a heroic fantasy. “Stop you

heathen Turk, or my fusiliers will discharge their weapons!” With that, he threw the

handful of grapes he was about to stuff into his mouth at his brother, peppering him and

the wall, leaving behind round wet spots where the grapes hit and exploded.

Marcella felt as if she just stepped into a whirlwind. “Boys! Enough!”

Paulo let go of the top of the wall and landed on the ground. Pietro wiped his sticky

lips on the back of his wrist. In what seemed less than a wink both boys stood in front of

her with adorable smiles and glowing eyes.

Pietro bowed and gave a courtly salute. Paulo clicked his heels together and also

bowed his head. “How may we serve you, your ladyship?”

Marcella grew up with sisters. She was quite unaccustomed to the unbounded

energy these two dervishes generated. “Well, my good knights, your quest is to pull that

copper dying vat out of the Great Forest of Weeds and carry it to my castle for me.”

When Marcella referred to them as her knights, they were smitten. Both felt it at that

same instance.

The twins went into a weed pulling frenzy, throwing hanks of dead grass held

together at the roots by the dried earth over their shoulders until the air behind them was

filled with dust. Much to Marcella’s surprise they were very careful when it came to the

grapevine. They gently unwound each of the pale green tendrils that were entwined

around anything that might lend support to the sprawling vine.

The oblong vat was finally free. It was dirty and dusty on the outside and when they

pulled it away from the wall she saw it was fairly clean on the inside because of the way

it was stored. There was a thick copper ring attached to either end. The boys picked it up

by the rings. It was heavier than they thought, but they could manage just fine. As soon as

they found their balance they started to trot.

“Slow down boys!” Marcella called out.

“Yes, your highness,” said Pietro.

“We shall make it a procession. I will be the Pope, you can be the King of Naples,”

Paulo offered. “Your highness, get in and we will carry you. You can be the Virgin

Mary,” he added, hoping Marcella would sit in the vat while they carried it into the

house.

At this moment, Marcella’s heart lightened and her soul sparkled. She felt as she did

during those few precious months she could spend her days as she wished, before she

took on caring for Fausto. Without a thought, the sweetest of tears came to her eyes. “No,

no there is only one Holy Virgin Mary. I will be the Grand Prioress and lead the

procession,” she said. Marcella looked away from the twins not wanting them to see her

teary eyes. The boys were too busy to notice anyway, being mightily occupied as they

struggled to carry the vat.

Just outside the kitchen door they were all but spent. They dropped the vat with no

thought of the noise it might make or of any damage it might cause. They tried the few

angular variations open to them; but no matter, the door was not wide enough to allow

the vat into the house. The twins staggered into the house, sat on the bench and sprawled

out on the work table in the kitchen. “We need water. Water I say,” croaked Paulo in a

way that would make any theatrical director take notice.

The boys’ faces were red and shiny with sweat. Marcella could not help but smile at

her two knights. “I will make you some honey water. Would you like that?”

“Yes your highness,” the boys answered together.

Marcella poured the honey, using quite a bit more than usual, into a pitcher of water

and stirred it. As the boys drank and refreshed themselves Marcella asked them to take

every vessel that was water tight they could find, as long as it was clean, fill them at the

fountain and bring them back to the kitchen.

The boys set themselves to the task. While they did that, Marcella built a nice hot

fire in the kitchen. She found rags, wetted them, went outside, and carefully cleaned the

inside of the vat. When she was satisfied the vat was clean she collected every clay pot

and crock they owned and waited for the fire to turn to embers. After the twins made

quite a few trips to the fountain, there was enough water to fill the vat more than half full.

She took a stick, broke the embers up and made as flat of a bed with them as possible;

then filled each clay vessel with water and placed them on the bed of coals.

Now that their task was finished the boys became squirmy, Marcella gave them both

a thick slab of bread and a few candied figs and sent Pietro back to the shop and asked

Paulo to go to the church and ask the new priest, Father Eduardo, to come and perform a

purification blessing.

Marcella hung a line between the two posts that held up the wisteria covered pergola

that extended out over the kitchen door. She then draped a sheet over the line for privacy.

The sheet flapped in the gentle breeze sending the families of larks that had built their

nests in the overhead lattice flitting into the air where they sang their pretty songs.

In the kitchen she carefully took each steaming clay pot off of the embers, carried it

out the back door and poured it into the vat. When the pots and crocks were empty, she

remembered the old stories of the Virgin Mary and added one of the many bouquets of

rosemary that were hung throughout the house to elicit the memories of the deceased and

more practically to cover the malodorous scent of death. She stripped the Rosemary

needles from the stems and added them to the bath water.

“Finally,” she thought. She went to her mother’s room, knocked softly and pushed

the door open. The shutters were closed and the room was dark. Amelia looked in

Marcella’s direction and squinted. She held her hand in front of her eyes to block the

bright morning light that glowed around Marcella.

“Where were you this morning? You were not here when I woke up.”

“No, I was not.”

Amelia yawned, turned from her side onto her back and looked up at the ceiling.

“Mama, you must get up. You have lain there for four days. You have not seen the

light of day or felt the sun on your face.” Marcella approached the bed and extended her

hand.

Still staring at the ceiling she answered Marcella by pulling the blanket up under her

chin.

“Enough. Today is a gift from Our Lord, it should not be squandered. Pity should be

felt for others, not oneself.” Marcella repeated things she heard her mother say many,

many times over the years. Marcella went to the window and opened the shutters. The

light tumbled in and further illuminated the room. She turned back to the bed, grabbed

the edge of the blanket and sheet, quickly pulled them away and let them fall on the floor

in front of her. Amelia covered her face with her hands. Marcella knelt on the bed,

worked her hand under her mother’s head and gently raised her up to a sitting position.

“It is time to come back to us and be yourself again. We all miss you and we all love

you.”

Marcella crawled over Amelia and into the large square of bright sunlight that

spread out over the bed. Marcella sat on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor and

her upper body turned toward her mother. The light played on the soft contours of her

face and hair.

“Come now, mama, we have made a surprise for you, Pietro and Paulo and me. It is

something that will not last,” Marcella added as a little tease. She stood and took her

mother’s hand, smiled and playfully tugged.

Amelia knew she needed to get out of bed. She knew she needed to return to her

kitchen. She needed to go to Farintino and beg his forgiveness.

111

Paulo was at the kitchen door at the rear of the rectory. He knocked. Marta opened

the door and looked at the shy boy standing there.

“Yes, young master, do you look for food?”

“No, I look for Father Eduardo.” Paulo held his hands together in front of him but

couldn’t help fidgeting.

Marta was enjoying her little diversion. “And who should I say is calling?”

“I am calling for my...for my mistress, Marcella Andano, daughter of Farintino the

hat maker.”

“Yes, dear boy, I know the family well. I will see if Father Eduardo is available.”

Marta wiped her hands on her apron.

“He must be. The bath water is getting cold.”

Marta outright chuckled at the unexpected statement. She knew right where Father

Eduardo was; in the front room sitting by the window, reading. She told him there was a

boy sent by Marcella Andano to see him.

Eduardo, a very recent addition to an overjoyed monsignor, arrived at the rectory at

sunset on the day of Fausto’s funeral. He was sent up from a small village a little north of

Naples. He hadn’t even unpacked all of his things yet or said his first mass at Terra

Sanctus. This was his first assignment. Eduardo put his book down and followed Marta

into the kitchen.

Paulo was just about to dip his fingers into a bubbling pot of stew that simmered on

the fire for a quick sample.

“Which is it, Pietro or Paulo?”

Paulo looked up and almost dropped the lid as he quickly and clumsily replaced it.

Stepping away from the hearth, he looked at the priest and asked, unsure of the answer.

“Am I in trouble?”

The priest smiled and wagged his head no.

“I am Paulo. My mistress needs you to perform a Purification at her house, the

Andano house.”

“A Purification? The house and the family were just blessed at the funeral. Yes?”

Paulo thought for a moment and repeated Marcella’s request. “She wants you to

come, and the water is getting cold.”

The priest was curious about the cryptic water remark. “I must get my kit. Return

and tell the mistress I will be there anon.”

1V

Amelia stood next to the bed and faced her daughter. Marcella loosened the lacing

on her mother’s over bodice, pulled the stiff and filthy garment over her mother’s head

and placed it on the bed. She did so with the outer skirt that was just as dirty. Marcella sat

Amelia on the edge of the bed and untied the ribbons that held up her linen stocking,

removed them and put them along with the other clothing. Amelia now wore only her

chemise and her underskirt.

Marcella took her mother’s hand as if Amelia was the daughter now and led her

down the short hallway, through the front room and into the kitchen. Amelia looked over

at the hearth, the savory aroma from the simmering rabbit and carrot stew wafted

throughout the room.

Marcella opened the door. The copper vat sat in the shade of the rippling sheet. The

water was fragrant with rosemary. Marcella put her hand in the water, it was still quite

warm. She steadied her mother as Amelia stepped into the vat. When she sat down a rush

of water caressed her legs and naked lower torso. The warm, scented water, the fresh air,

the wisteria hanging down from above and the twittering larks created a feeling of ease,

calm and peace. Amelia leaned back against the sloped side of the vat and closed her

eyes.

V

“Follow me Father Eduardo.” Paulo skipped a little ahead of Eduardo and turned

down the narrow alley behind the stables that would deliver them a few doors away from

the Andano front gate. Eduardo quickened his pace. Paulo waited at the gate and opened

it for the priest, scooted in front of him and opened the front door. They entered the main

room.

The first thing Farther Eduardo noticed was the aroma of the copious bundles of

rosemary that festooned the walls. Paulo took the priest to the kitchen and stopped by the

back door. The boy knocked. On the other side of the door, Marcella knelt by the vat and

used a wooden ladle to pour water over her mother’s head and shoulders and breast.

“Yes, come.” Marcella said when she heard, whom she quite expected to be Paulo,

knock on the door. Paulo opened the door and peered at Amelia who sat with the back of

her head resting on the rim of the vat. Amelia’s eyes were closed and her expression was

serene. The boy and the priest stepped onto the landing. They watched Marcella pour a

ladle full of water over her mother’s forehead. Marcella looked up and stood.

“Sit by mama,” she said to Paulo. She nodded to the priest, whom she had never met

before and with a nod of her head invited him back into the kitchen.

“Would you like wine, Father?”

“No thank you. But now I understand about the water getting cold.” He smiled.

“The boy said something about Purification.”

“It is mama. There must be a blessing to lift this terrible darkness that she has lived

in since my...fa...my grandfather died.”

“Of course I can give her a blessing. And you are?”

“I am Marcella Andano.”

“Is your mother in the state of grace?”

“I do not know. Can someone who is in the grip of such darkness be in the state of

grace?”

“Do you know the last time your mother received the Holy Eucharist?”

Marcella was stung by this question. She had never seen her mother take the

sacrament. “I cannot say for sure, but she prays every day, sometimes for great lengths of

time.”

Father Eduardo took the narrow stole from his pocket and draped it around his neck

with the two ends resting on his chest.“Let us pray to Saint Michael.”

Marcella opened the door and nodded at Paulo. The boy bowed and went off to the

shop to join his brother and Farintino. Marcella and the priest knelt by the vat and made

the sign of the cross.

“Saint Michael we beseech you to protect our sister...” Eduardo paused and looked

at Marcella who understood what he needed.

“Amelia Andano.”

“...Amelia Andano as you protect the Holy Mother the Church from the wiles and

grasp of Satan. Use your divine sword to cut the Lord of Darkness out of her soul and

keep him away from her. By the faith of the divine apostles Peter and Paul and all the

other apostles and martyrs, I command you to leave, to be gone from our sister in God.

May she find hope and salvation in the true light of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

Amelia heard the prayer but was unable to move or open her eyes.

Father Eduardo then took a vial from his pocket and poured a few drops of oil into

the water. He put the vial back into his pocket and produced a small packet that was no

more than a piece of paper folded over twice with a small bit of salt in it. He added the

salt to the water in the vat and gave the water his blessing.

Amelia felt a rumble in her soul akin to the sound of thunder. A bolt of white light

cleaved the dark horizon that filled her mind. The last thing she heard was the echoing

blessing of the priest. For Amelia, the sanctified water began to roil and froth. Another

bolt of light exploded across Amelia’s mindscape, then another and another. Amelia was

rushed along on a current that coursed through her being from the tips of her toes to the

ends of her hair. The strange cyclic sensation became stronger and louder until it reached

a frantic crescendo. Amelia began to convulse. The water in the vat violently splashed

from side to side and from front to back and spilled over the sides onto the landing. Her

arms and legs flailed and she hit the back of her head and neck on the rim of the vat quite

hard several times as her back arched and fell and arched and fell again. Her entire body

shuddered and then the convulsions suddenly stopped and Amelia’s inert body slipped

under the water. A frightened and shocked priest and a horrified Marcella watched as a

tiny string of bubbles escaped from each of Amelia’s nostrils.

They grabbed her by her arms and pulled her up out of the water. Amelia’s body fell

loose. Her arms hung at her sides and her legs collapsed as one ankle turned in the other

out.

“Mama, please say something,” Marcella pleaded.

Amelia’s head leaned forward to one side. Her eyes were just barely open and

vacant. Eduardo and Marcella laid Amelia down next to the vat and Marcella dried her

mother’s face with her apron.

Amelia opened her eyes and looked at her daughter and the priest. She was in a

dreamy state but when she spoke to them they couldn’t seem to hear her. And when she

sat up and went to embrace and comfort her crying daughter, Amelia’s arms could only

gather ether and shadow. Amelia watched as Father Eduardo helped Marcella stand up.

He put his arm around her shoulder and Marcella leaned her face on his chest and cried.

And so, Amelia was lifted by invisible hands into the air and floated up above the sky.

And as the dust is scattered by the wind so her being dissolved into its individual atoms

and spread and she became one with the cosmos.

There Is No Darkness But Ignorance

The Andano house was now a place of silent sorrow. Farintino did not realize how much

he grew to love Amelia. He did not understand why she was taken away. Marcella

questioned her faith. Father Eduardo told himself and Marcella that the Lord worked in

strange and marvelous ways. In the abstract, that explanation was acceptable; in reality it

seemed thin and dubious. She could not understand how an all loving God could collect

the soul of someone who had lived such a pious life and then not be given the opportunity

to confess her sins, do her penance and receive Holy Communion to insure her place at

His side.

Rini, Farintino’s favorite, stayed on along with her two year old and her servant for

a month after her mother’s funeral. Marcella lied when she told her sisters, Farintino and

Father Eduardo that their mother confided in her not that long ago that she felt unworthy

to be laid to rest next to Master Fausto and Mistress Beatrica. It was a fabrication that

wasn’t questioned and so Amelia was interred with the space of two graves between a

mother-in-law she never met and the man who bullied her into a life of guilt and shame.

The marketplace gossipmongers greedily told and retold the story adding an orgy of

incredible and delectable details. Depending on whose version piqued one’s interest,

Amelia was slain by Saint Michael, who in an invisible form, entered the bath water and

wrestled her under to her death for desecrating Fausto’s grave. Another believed Amelia

drowned herself as her own punishment for being “that tart from the south.”

Marcella had always been marked as odd. She matured too early with the

responsibility of taking care of her little sisters. She was a little too serious and to her

detriment she did not recognize her femininity as a barrier to anything. Her natural

curiosity gave her little time for a friend or playmate and that left her socially awkward.

To make matters worse, she wore her hair short and sometimes ventured out of the house

in trousers which made her an easy target for her contemporaries to tease and taunt.

Because she quietly held her head high and acted indifferently, she was considered

secretive and aloof. Finding no sport in it, the taunting stopped. Marcella was a

disappointment to the other girls and so she became unimportant and invisible. Because

of her peripheral status the most damaging and fantastic tale made Marcella a blasphemer

who was in league with the Dark Angel and caused her mother to drown to show the

young and inexperienced Father Eduardo the powers of her evil master.

Marcella was noticeably absent from Mass after her mother died. She was angry

with God. After hearing “God works in mysterious ways” once too often from a well-

meaning townsman, she let her feelings slip out in a barrage of angry words aimed at the

Creator. Unfortunately, she was at the market place for everyone to hear. Prunella knew

the power of pettiness and the wicked charge some people feel when they cause another

pain or to fall. Prunella was far seeing enough to realize her niece’s untimely diatribe

would be cause for her to be called before the bishop. Though that action was only a

rumor at the moment, she knew rumors, with a little help, had a way of actualizing.

The remedy was to send Marcella away until her limelight faded and eventually

vanished, and even then there was no guarantee she would not be accused of heresy or

worse, of being a witch.

Armed with a piece of gold gratefully offered by Farintino that would keep Marcela

for a year, Prunella along with Pietro as her walking companion headed away from Terra

Sanctus down the dusty country lane those four long miles and up the semi-hidden dirt

path to the secluded cottage of Cesare Lippo.

She sent Pietro off to the apiarist. When they were alone, she offered Cesare some

very good brandy she brought with her. After he heard the story Cesare without a

second’s hesitation decided to offer Marcella the refuge of his home. It wasn’t the gold,

although it was a very generous incentive. There was something more. He felt an

inexplicable empathy and attraction to Marcella the day she came with her sister to buy

the coffin. Cesare was at a point in his life where he realized that his work, though very

satisfying, could not take the place of human intercourse. He was ready to let Marcella

into his world.

THE TRUTH IN A LIE

Liz sat at an outside table and sipped her coffee while she waited for Roland. It was a

little past ten. Except for a few billowing clouds, the sky was clear and the air was crisp.

She was glad she wore a sweater.

Brian made his rounds with the coffee pot. He got to Liz and topped off her cup. He

looked down at the empty chair. “So, where’s Romeo this morning?”

“Romeo?” Liz gave a quizzical smiled. “Oh, he’ll be along. You know he’s a little

pokey on Sunday. Maybe I can hurry him up. I’m hungry.” Liz reached in her purse and

took out her cell phone. She pressed the familiar numbers. The phone connected and

called. After two rings, the timer started counting the seconds. Liz heard muffled music

and then the call ended. She tried again and this time the call went to his voicemail. “Hey,

where are you?” She put the phone on the table and looked up at Brian, “first music and

then voicemail.”

“Interesting.”

“He was here last night, wasn’t he?”

“Oh yeah, he was here.” Brian saw Roland turn the corner and head for the

restaurant at a quick pace. “Speak of the devil. Here he comes.”

Liz waved, Roland nodded back. He got to the table and swung the ever present

backpack off his shoulder, put it down and gave Liz a peck on the cheek. “Sorry, I

overslept.”

“Well, you’re here now,” said Liz with a smile.

“Cup of coffee please,” Roland forced a smile for Brian.

“You bet, Casanova.” Brian took a cup from the nearby bus cart, filled it and put in

front of Roland.

“Casanova? Oka-ay.“

Liz was busy looking at the menu and did not see the ‘keep your mouth shut’ look

Roland shot Brian.

“Oh yeah, I told Liz you were here last night.” Brian gave Roland a mischievous

smile and then added innocently, “By the way, how did things go after you left?”

“What do you say we order?” Roland ignored Brian.

“You know what I want.” Liz closed the menu and handed it to Brian.

“Eggs Benedict for me and the strawberry waffles for Liz.”

“So that’s eggs Benedict... (Brian coughed the name Arnold)...and the sweet

strawberry waffle surprise for the sweetest gal around.” Brian wrote the order and

continued, “Liz, if I was ten years younger and you were a bit older I’d do any and

everything to win and keep your heart.”

Liz blushed. “That’s so sweet of you.”

“And, we’re so hungry,” rejoined Roland.

Brian nodded and headed off to the kitchen. Roland unzipped the backpack and

pulled out the book on alchemy.

“Come on Rol, I want to talk about us.” She put her hand on his.

“This has to do with us. I took your advice yesterday. I went to the library and

finally came up with the subject for my thesis, Alchemy.”

“Alchemy,” she repeated. This was the fifth or sixth stab at a thesis Roland made.

“You know, how Alchemy has influenced modern chemistry, something like that. I

haven’t settled on a theme yet, but I still have a couple of weeks, and then a year after

that to finish.” There was a note of childish enthusiasm in his voice. Roland took the

laptop out of his backpack. “Let me show you what I’ve got already.”

Liz sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. “I’m glad you have a topic. But I

don’t want to look at that now. Remember why we’re here.” She was serious.

“Yeah, our relationship,” Roland answered like a little boy who had just been

scolded. “Okay, what part do you want to talk about? The no touchy feely aspect? Or

how Liz spends every waking moment at the Foster Kid’s Retreat?”

“Don’t be that way, it belittles both of us.” Liz took a deep breath. “Roland, where

do you see us in five years?”

“Five years? Geez, I don’t know, I guess finishing up my doctorate. Anyway, those

alchemists must have been on to something. There are so many books about alchemy and

alchemists. I’ve got so much research to do.”

Liz’s patience was stretched. “Listen to the question this time, where do you see us

in five years?”

“I just told you.”

“That was you, not us.” Liz’s heart began to beat harder and she felt her shoulders

tense up.

Roland looked up from the computer screen. He played it safe. “Well, where do you

see us in five years?”

“Married and living in our own place at the beach or out in the country, it doesn’t

matter where. You, coming home from work happy to see me and me, taking care of our

kids. I could do my work out of a home office. I see us as a family. That’s where I want

us to be in five years.”

Roland wasn’t quite ready for this reality check. “First things first, I’ve got to finish

my thesis.” Liz was frustrated. Her moment was lost and worse, it was twisted back onto

itself and made into a reason for Roland to keep the status quo. She sadly looked down

and sipped at her coffee.

Ever oblivious, Roland went on. “If I could figure out what those alchemists were

up to I could be so rich. I could make gold out of spare change and finally get a car that

wasn’t a joke, maybe even a nice condo over in Coronado.”

“Your car is fine, it’s just a little old. Coronado is nice if that’s where you want to

live. We could live there,” Liz said optimistically.

Guilt ran its icy hand up Roland’s spine. “It doesn’t have to be Coronado.”

He could see himself with Liz and their kids running into Lila at the supermarket. In

a burst of enthusiasm Roland continued. “Know why I like the Renaissance? From

everything I read, people back then lived a much simpler life. Not like now where

everything is war and greed. Sometimes I wish I was in that other time and place.”

Liz did not want to seem impatient or critical of Roland. His wanting to have a

better car and a home was a step in the right direction. “We’re in the here and now. You

can’t live in the past, and why would you want to?”

“I think I might be happier. People had to be nicer to each other to survive.”

“You really think so? You’re not happy now? You know it doesn’t take much to be

happy, that is, if you want to be.”

“Well you know a little lovin’ would make me happy right now.“

“That’s not fair. You say we never spend any time together. When we do we’re

either in bed fooling around at your place or I get to watch you read or talk about

something that happened five hundred years ago. We never go anywhere, just to go. That

was the whole point yesterday about going to the street fair, just to walk around holding

hands and looking at all the things and different people.”

Roland kept up his silent strategy. He nodded. He pondered. He felt the stubble on

his chin. He thought about Lila. “Is this all about not moving in together?”

“Partly. This is more about me feeling like I don’t exist in this relationship. You

said that I spend more time with the kids than I do with you. I can remember when you

first got serious about me you’d be down there volunteering all the time.”

Roland sipped his coffee. “I went down there with you not that long ago.”

“It was two years ago for their Christmas open house. All you did was stand around,

eat cookies and drink eggnog.”

“To tell you the truth, it was kind of depressing.” When he saw Liz flinch he added,

”I don’t mean for me, I meant for all those poor kids.”

“So, why don’t you come down there with me once in a while? It wouldn’t kill you.

You used to all the time.”

“I suppose I did.”

“What do you mean you ‘suppose’?” Liz was still floored by Roland’s ‘depressing’

comment.

Roland took Liz’s hand. “You were so hot and we just started really dating. I

figured what better way to get to ... you know, the romantic part.” Roland followed what

he thought was a compliment with his cutesy smile that usually made Liz smile back.

Liz was exasperated. “My God, you are one selfish idiot. I’m so blind.” She pulled

her hand away from his.

“Come on now, don’t be a grump. I didn’t mean anything by it. Lots of guys do

stuff like that.”

“No, they don’t. Selfish idiots do things like that. It seems that neither one of us is

very happy.” Liz looked away.

Roland leaned in and took her hand again. He spoke softly and moved his head back

and forth with hers until he was able to make eye contact. “Lizzy-love, you’re the only

one for me.”

“That’s not how you make me feel. If I was hot then, what am I now?”

“You’re still hot. Honest. I didn’t realize how hot you were until this last couple of

weeks of no sex.”

Brian appeared at the table with a tray and folding stand. He served Liz and Roland

their breakfast. “There you go. Do you guys want more coffee or anything?”

Liz pushed her chair away from the table. “Make mine to go.”

“Okay, to go it is?” He looked at Roland, “yours too?”

“No, just mine,” Liz said flatly.

Brian nodded, turned to the bus cart, grabbed a Styrofoam box and handed it to Liz.

He wanted to say something, but he just shrugged and took the stand and tray away with

him.

“Come on, Liz, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

A pearl gray BMW double parked in front of the Edelweiss. Lila got out of the

passenger side, stepped onto the sidewalk and leaned over the rail. “Oh yoo-hoo there,

Roland,” she waved her hands and her voice was sugary sweet. “I have something you

left in the bedroom last night.” Lila held out her hand with Roland’s cell phone and put it

on the table. “You are really good at keeping your word. You said you’d be here patching

up your relationship at brunch and here you are. Kudos.”

Roland was speechless and horrified. Liz sat wide-eyed trying to understand what

was going on.

Lila continued in a catty and overly innocent way. “I just want to say it was a night

to remember, your guy here is a real stallion.” She glanced at Liz. “Oh, you must be Liz,

poor Liz.” Lila looked over at Roland. “Here’s a little something for your time.” Lila

reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a Krugerrand and flipped it to Roland. He made

a clumsy but successful catch and held the coin in his hand without even looking at it.

“And now, just like that woo-woo.” Lila got back into the car and headed off.

Roland cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “Now, before you jump to any

conclusions I was going to tell you what happened.”

Tears came to Liz’s eyes, “Don’t bother. I can’t believe you did this.

And I was so worried about you.”

“It’s not what you think, honey.” Roland could barely look Liz in the eyes. “This is

what happened.”

Liz’s emotions shut down. She slid back into the place she made when she was a

child. She went deep in her soul where it was safe and warm and where her hopes and

dreams could be kept alive. She spent her unsure childhood coping, not only with her

need to be loved and belong but with her self-worth. Once inside its walls she hoped she

could deal with this staggering blow. Liz tried to stay calm, but the hurt and the anger

were too strong. “Don’t bother. For all the time and all the love I’ve given you, this is my

payback. But I know it’s not me, it’s you.” Her voice was firm and steady and she glared

into Roland’s eyes.

“I can explain,” Roland pleaded. He absently slipped the coin in his pocket and did

the same with his cell phone.

“There’s nothing to explain,” she said calmly. She sat up, straight and relaxed her

shoulders. The glare was gone from her eyes and she became calm and serene. This

reaction was not what Roland expected. He really didn’t know what to expect, certainly

not this cold acceptance. “I’m sure with the higher education that I helped pay for you’ll

figure it all out.”

Liz had loaned Roland quite a bit of money over the years. It was a sore subject with

him, and this is the first time she brought it up.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I don’t think you can.”

Roland had never seen Liz so cold or hard. “I said I would and I will, I promise.”

“You promise? You say a lot of things.”

Brian returned to the table with a coffee pot. Liz stood, her chin quivered, and tears

shown in her eyes. “Thank you,” she could barely get the words out.

“Oh no, what is it sweetheart?” Brian hated to see Liz crying. He put his hand on

her shoulder.

“Ask him, I’m sure Roland has some explanation.” She gave Brian an awkward hug

and kissed his cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

Both men watched Liz leave. Once beyond the iron railing she handed the container

to the sleepy eyed homeless man, named Freddy who graciously accepted her kindness.

Brian looked at the stunned Roland. “Oh man, you screwed up royally. I’ve known

you two for a long time. I don’t know who to feel sorrier for, you or Liz. I’m leaning

toward Liz.”

“Man, this isn’t fair.” Roland looked at Brian for some kind of support or manly

understanding.

Brian scratched the back of his neck and slowly answered. “Fair? You whine about

everything. You’re so dense. You cheated on a girl who loved you, really loved you. She

would and did anything you asked her to and a lot of times she did things without you

asking. You wouldn’t know a good thing even if it hit you over the head.”

Roland sat there numb and silent staring at his empty coffee cup.

“Do you know why you can’t come up with a thesis? You’re stuck being one of

those perpetual students, that, and you’re completely self-absorbed. I couldn’t help

overhearing what you said about how depressing it was to be around the foster kids. Gee,

you wouldn’t want to go there and cheer them up, would ja? Probably not. You know

Roland, the only bummer about looking out for yourself all the time is, that’s who you

wind up with: yourself, usually quite alone.”

“Jesus, cut me some slack, I just lost my girlfriend.”

“No Einstein, you didn’t lose her, you drop kicked her out of your life. Ya see, there

you go again, I just lost my girlfriend. Did you think about how she lost the last six or

seven years of her life waiting for you to grow up.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Do you? She wanted a commitment from you.” Brian handed Roland the bill.

“I get it, I get it.” Roland stood, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and reached

into his pocket. When he pulled out a twenty dollar bill, the coin Lila tossed to him also

came out, fell to the floor and rolled hitting Brian’s shoe.

Brian picked up the coin. “Where’d you get this thing?”

Roland was still in a daze. “Oh, Lila gave it to me this morning for helping her last

night. What is it?”

“She came here?” Brian was surprised.

Roland nodded.

“Good lord, you didn’t stand a chance.” Brian judged the coin’s weight. He rubbed

it between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at the imprint and even the edge. He

dropped it on the table several times and smiled when he heard the dull ‘thunk’ it made

when it hit. “It’s a fake, it could be polished bronze or gold wash, it’s a pretty fair copy of

a gold Krugerrand. I’ve been collecting them for my retirement. I’ve got a couple of

dozen, this one just doesn’t feel like the others. And there’s a mold line around the edge.”

He handed it to Roland.

“This is perfect, just perfect. What am I supposed to do?”

Brian stated what he thought was obvious. “Do you really have to be hit over the

head? I don’t know? Why don’t you grow a pair, run after Liz and beg her to take you

back?” Brian sadly shook his head. “That’s something you’re going to have to figure out

all by your lonesome. Good luck, see you around.”

“Yeah, see ya.” Roland didn’t quite know what to do. He took a step and realized

his sneaker was untied. Roland knelt down to tie it, the backpack threw him off balance

and he shifted his position around to keep from falling over. When he tried to stand up,

he hit his head on the metal rim of the table. He hit his head hard and he brought his hand

to a good size knot. “God dammit, what’s next?”

Roland stormed out from behind the iron railing onto the sidewalk. His head

throbbed and his ego hurt from Lila, Liz and Brian using it for a punching bag. He

walked by Freddy who was standing on his corner smiling at the breakfast Liz gave him.

Roland was mad at the world. He felt impotent and in a rare fit of pique Roland slapped

the container onto the ground.

“Dude, why’d you go and do that? I’m hungry man... a lot of us out here are

hungry.”

“I paid for it. Why don’t you get a life?” Before the words left his tongue, Roland

was immediately upset with himself at his unexpected ugly attitude and for taking out his

anger on a harmless stranger. For every action, there is a reaction. Freddy, hardened by

the streets, grabbed the unsuspecting Roland by the arm, swung him around into the

metal door frame of the cell phone outlet store, pushed his face against the glass and held

him there.

“I got a life, asshole.” He twisted up Roland’s arm a little more and pressed

Roland’s face even harder against the cold glass.

“Sorry, sorry, I got my own problems.”

Freddy let Roland go. “Well, I’m glad to hear you do, asshole.” Freddy turned back

to the spilt breakfast. Fortunately for him the waffles and most of the strawberries were

held in the container by the extra whipped cream.

Roland watched Freddy save what he could of his breakfast. “Hey man, look. I’m

sorry.”

Freddy didn’t say anything. He licked some of the whipped cream off his fingers

and stood up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Roland pulled out his wallet and opened it. He had two fives and two ones.

He shrugged and gave seven dollars to Freddy. Freddy reached in and took the other five

dollar bill.

Freddy held the money in his hand for several seconds, gave Roland a dry look, and

shoved the bills into the pocket of his dirty brown jacket. “Thanks Rockefeller.” Freddy

returned to his corner. He held his breakfast in one hand and kept his other hand in his

pocket tight around his windfall.

Roland all but ran down the sidewalk away from The Edelweiss and Freddy. His

heart pounded and his lungs felt like ice. After a few blocks, he slowed his pace to a

quick walk. His head still hurt from hitting it on the table rim. His arm and face still

smarted just a bit from Freddy’s unexpected man handling and of course he was still in

turmoil over Liz walking out. A laughing couple, minor acquaintances of his, nodded as

they hurried the other way to The Edelweiss. Once they were out of earshot Roland asked

himself in a loud whisper, “What the hell was I thinking? Damn that Lila. Why did she

have to do that? From now on I’m never sticking my neck out for anybody. Oh Liz, what

did I do? I’d give anything to do that whole thing over again.”

Roland stopped and stood with his back to the travel agency store front. The shop

was closed. There were two posters taped on the inside of the window. One poster was of

the Italian Alps and had a banner that read: Visit Northern Italy. The other poster was of a

German castle, with the words: Live a different time and place, visit Bavaria. Roland

fished his phone out of his pocket and called Liz’s number.

“Come on, pick up,” he said impatiently. The call did go through and he heard the

familiar message. “Hi, you’ve reached Liz Parker and the sometimes phone of Roland

Hughes. Leave a message after the beep and have a great day.” Roland snapped the

phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket.

The sky darkened as clouds rolled across the horizon and climbed high into the sky

twisting into backlit grottos and bizarre formations. A strong breeze whipped through the

alleyways and down the streets. He arrived on the very western edge of North Park where

the older residential and commercial co mingled in a menagerie of art deco, Craftsman,

and Spanish style architecture.

Roland turned down Arizona Street, past Wightman, then for no reason down to

Landis, took a right on Louisiana and headed toward Myrtle. There were jacaranda trees

here and there and the sidewalks under them were carpeted with lavender flowers. A sole

shaft of sun shone through the clouds and poured its golden light down the front of a

Victorian house just down the block. For an instant, the house and sky began to quiver.

The ray of sun remained constant, but the house he was looking at flickered. A sick

feeling came over Roland. He gripped onto a branch of a jacaranda tree. His eyes were

clouded by an eerie red light and he felt dizzy.

Roland caught his breath and when he opened his eyes he found himself on a tree

shaded country road that stretched out in front and behind him. Roland stood motionless

and watched a young, short-haired girl, dressed in old fashioned clothing pass by him

without even a nod or an inkling he was there. The girl nodded to a young man on foot

who was coming toward her. He had a pack over his shoulder and a walking stick with a

natural crook in the end. Roland recognized the Renaissance style of clothing the young

man wore. The girl and the young man said something to each other. To Roland the

exchange was all echoes and unintelligible. The young man took off his hat and turned it

around in his hand as if looking it over and put it back on, smiled at the young girl and

moved on. The traveler passed by Roland without so much as a nod, then hesitated and

quizzically looked right through Roland, shrugged his shoulders, turned back and

continued.

In what seemed like less than a heartbeat Roland was back holding onto the tree

branch a half block from Myrtle Street. He still felt queasy, but that passed. After he took

a few deep breaths, he walked on. Though he had no destination in mind, he needed the

steady cadence of walking to relax and calm him. He heard hurried footsteps coming up

behind him and the excited banter between a man and a woman.

“This estate sale will be the best. This guy has museum pieces, the real deal. They

say he was quite a collector,” the man said a little out of breath.

“I can’t wait,” the woman giggled, “come on, do you think it’s true what they say

about him?”

“Get real, an alchemist in the twenty-first century.”

The couple passed Roland, one on each side. The man answered the woman. “Who

cares? All I know is he’s got some really great stuff. We may never run into this kind of

collection again.” Once they passed Roland the man took the woman’s hand and they

playfully pulled one another along until they reached the sun drenched porch of the

Victorian house. They dashed up the steps and through the front door.

As he approached the steps leading up to the Victorian house, a strong and cold gust

of wind pushed hard against Roland. He grabbed onto the handrail to steady himself. He

held on when he received another blast of now rain laden wind and decided to take refuge

inside the foyer. He pulled himself up the stairs and entered a trove of medieval and

renaissance treasures.

The front room’s walls were hung with shields and swords, paintings, tapestries and

framed parchments. There were bronze and marble statues, antique furniture, a suit of

armor and different size battle axes. Some of the shields and swords were nicely

displayed and some were carelessly tossed on the furniture. Spears and short lances were

propped in the corners just to get them out of the way.

Every tabletop, desktop and countertop was cluttered with bizarre beakers, tarnished

copper coiled distillers, crocks, different colored hand-blown jars, dozens of ancient little

boxes and oddly shaped, tarnished metal containers. Roland eyed a distinctively painted

wooden box a little bit larger than a city directory that stood on its end, half open. The

Star of David on the front of the box was faded and the paint was chipped. The interior of

the box had nineteen niches for small bottles. A few small blue bottles were still in their

places.

Roland went to the narrow library table that was pushed up against the wall. There

were two human skulls, both missing their lower jaw bones. One of the skulls was

decorated in black and red paint with geometric designs and the date 1351 painted across

its brow. There was an articulated human hand on the base, three stuffed birds and some

indistinguishable something in a sealed glass container.

Roland caught a glimpse of the bubbly couple who passed him on the street. They

were in the next room in conversation with a nicely coiffed lady in a business suit who

was holding a clipboard. Roland entered. The sales lady quickly looked him over and

dismissed him with a roll of her eyes.

The man and woman were enthralled with a strange and beautiful piece of furniture.

The cabinet was maybe six feet tall with a gently peaked top. A sunburst made of bronze

sat in its cartouche under the peak. The sides of the piece had a definite feminine form.

There were two doors that followed the same curve of the sides. Under the doors was a

bow bottomed drawer. Below the drawer there was a field of bronze, shield-shaped

scales. Each scale had an arcane symbol or sign. The scales covered the bottom portion of

the piece and ran down the curved legs. The legs ended in gilded hooves.

The sales lady held up her clipboard and flipped a few pages back. She addressed

the couple. “According to my notes this is the first piece that our collector acquired. I’m

not sure where he found it, but there are strong design elements and construction

techniques that put the cabinet in the last half of the fourteenth century. The letters C L

are carved right here.” She stepped near to the cabinet. With a pained expression on her

face, she pointed to a spot on the side very close to where the scales began. She quickly

took her arm away, rubbed her hand and stepped back. “I don’t know if those are the

maker’s initials or roman numerals. It’s known as the Alchemist Cabinet.”

The man whispered to the woman. “Look at that price; we can flip it at auction for

twice, or even three times that.” He went to the cabinet, pulled on the ring and tried to

open the door. The door did not budge. He tried again, this time with both hands. The

door opened slightly and then slammed shut. “Oow. What the heck?” His lips were

pursed in pain. His fingertips were bleeding. “This is impossible, there’s nothing sharp to

cut my fingers on.”

The woman went to him and looked at his hurt fingers. She reached into her purse,

took out a hanky and cleaned the blood away. She could not find any cut in the skin.

“Let me try, sweetheart.” She went to the cabinet and pulled on the rings.

Immediately she let go and put her fingertips to her temples. “Oh God, it hurts so much.”

She closed her eyes.

The man went to her side and took her arm to steady her. “She gets these migraines.

She needs to sit.” With the help of the sales lady, they guided her away to a sofa in the

next room.

Roland approached the cabinet. He gently touched the sunburst and the outline of

the cartouche. He ran his fingers over an ugly gash in the wood just above the door.

Roland tugged on the pull rings. The doors opened easily.

Roland’s eyes opened wide. The cabinet was packed with scrolls, papers and

parchments. There were strange little tools, a primitive telescope and a few small blue

bottles that could be mates to those in the wooden case he looked at earlier. The inner

walls and door backs were covered with detailed diagrams. There were Latin phrases

scribbled here and there. Roland reached in and lovingly stroked the contents.

The drawer rattled all by itself. Roland opened it. It was filled to the brim with

illustrations on velum, drawings, loosely bound papers and a few small pouches and

boxes. In the rear right hand corner, quite visible, was a legal size envelope. The white

envelope looked very much out of place surrounded by the yellowed and ancient artifacts

in the drawer. His hand was dawn to it. He turned the envelope over and saw his name

and today’s date type written on it.

Shocked, Roland opened the envelope. It was stuffed with bills. He took out a stack

of currency and fanned it open. He counted thirty hundred dollar bills. Roland put the

cash back into the envelope and slipped it into his pocket. The doors and the drawer

quickly closed by themselves. He tugged on the pull, but it would not open.

The sales lady returned to the room. She gave Roland a dry look. “I don’t suppose

you brought your reserve invitation did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know I needed one.”

She shrugged her shoulders, “Well, you’re here and haven’t been driven out of the

room by that thing yet.” She looked over at the cabinet and shook her head.

“Do you know anything about the collector?” he asked.

“I understand his name was Aaron Newton, he was supposed to be related to Sir

Isaac Newton. But, who knows. He did make a fortune in precious metals before and

during the Viet Nam war. After Viet Nam, he was a terror on Wall Street. Then he

disappeared or went into seclusion. They found him dead in his bed four months ago. His

next of kin lives in Europe and they hired us to sell off his personal property.”

Roland listened intently. “How much for the cabinet?”

She looked Roland up and down. Being a consummate salesperson, she answered,

“We’re asking four thousand five hundred.” She sighed and continued, “Since it’s been

such, let’s say so inaccessible to anyone other than you, why don’t you make me an

offer.”

Roland took the envelope out of his pocket. “Three thousand dollars cash,” He held

the envelope out to her.

“Sold.” Pleased and surprised she took the envelope, opened it, and quickly counted

the hundred dollar bills. “Let’s get you a receipt and your address. We can deliver after

four today. And thank you very much, sir.”

The rain had stopped. Roland stepped outside and headed back to the granny flat. As

he walked Roland thought about all the things that happened in the last twenty-four

hours. For his own sake he did not try to understand why or how.

For It Is in the Giving that We Receive

As soon as Prunella and Pietro left, Cesare began to clean out a corner of the house that

had long been abandoned to a disorganized collection of household things. It had been his

aim to build shelves when he first built the cottage but for some reason he never got

around to it. Today was the day.

Cesare took his measuring string and determined how long to make the shelves by

tying a knot in the string to mark their length. Cesare went to the workshop and selected

six or seven suitable boards and cut them. He made enough brackets, collected his pegs,

mallet and chisels, his hand brace and auger and saw and started his task. He spent the

greater part of the day installing the shelves. When he was finished, he sat on a low stool

and looked at his work. All was level and even. He drank water and looked at the piles

and stacks of things that needed to be organized and put on the shelves. He had to laugh

at himself for not doing this simple task long ago.

With everything put up and in its place there was more than enough room for a bed

and a small dressing chest. Those things would have to come later. It was time for rest.

Cesare slipped his boots off and pulled his shirt over his head and in the tradition of a

man who has lived alone, draped it over the back of a chair, watched it slide to the floor,

shrugged and left it there. He shed his trousers and lay back on a well-padded chaise

lounge that was also his bed. He reclined there wearing nothing but a pair of light wool

socks and his small clothes. Cesare felt his eyelids grow heavy, and even though he was a

trifle hungry, he pulled the blanket up over his shoulder and nodded off to sleep.

Steps Taken

After their visit to Cesare, Pietro and Prunella returned to the Andano household by mid-

afternoon. Prunella must have told Pietro a dozen times this would be her last excursion

beyond the walls of Terra Sanctus. Marcella was in the kitchen sitting at the work table.

She looked at the flask of vinegar and the few papery garlic skins that Rini did not tidy up

after making the midday meal.

Marcella just returned from the market not more than a few minutes before and had

a most unpleasant experience. No one except Maria Cutri the herb and potion seller

would have anything to do with her. She was shunned at every stall and the most

unnerving incident occurred when the butcher’s wife spit on her. Marcella said nothing.

She just returned home with an empty basket and tried to make some sense of what

happened.

“Hello, hello...” called Prunella, “are you here Marcella?”

Marcella called back, “I am here in the kitchen.” Prunella asked Pietro to go to the

workshop and tell Farintino they had returned safely. When he was out of the room

Prunella went to her niece’s side and put her hand on her shoulder. She could tell by

Marcella’s countenance she was distraught. “What is it, dear, you look sad.”

Marcella took her aunt’s hand and held it against her cheek. “Zietta Prunella, today

was awful. No one except Maria the herb seller would talk to me, and Signora Carbone,

she spit on me.” Marcella looked down at her blouse and touched the spot.

“Carbone? All the tough and stale meat they have sold to all of us over the years,

they are the ones who should be spat on.” Prunella patted Marcella on the top the head.

“He can take you in tonight. You have not told anyone?”

“No, I have not told anyone.” Marcella became sullen. She asked herself how

something as a simple bath and blessing could turn into something so awful and ugly. She

knew she had to leave Terra Sanctus for a while anyway. Her aunt was right. Everyone

spoke of the witch burnings in Germany, France and Rome. Some happened not more

than a few days on foot from Terra Sanctus. Marcella and her aunt discussed her safety

and Marcella had to agree she needed to leave. She had mixed feelings. Terra Sanctus

was her home. She grew up here, but also, she was never a good fit, not with her family

or the townsfolk. With her mother gone, she would only perpetuate Fausto’s lie by

staying.

Farintino wanted her gone. Although he did not say so, he thought Amelia’s death

was more supernatural than not. Prunella was wise enough not to tell him where Marcella

might be going, just that she needed some funds. Farintino made the decision almost

instantly. He did not care where Marcella went as long as she was gone.

That night while Cesare slept miles away, Marcella prepared to leave. She dressed

herself in dark clothing. She put on one of Fausto’s old shirts and a pair of Fausto’s black

trousers. Marcella spent the time after supper packing. She had her three dresses, one

dark brown and the other two were black, a pair of open back slippers , a pair of wooden

clogs and she wore her one pair of ‘decent, leather shoes’ as she called them. She had two

bodices, both plain white and cut high on the chest, three plain white underskirts, and

four pairs of linen stockings. She also took two pairs of Fausto’s trousers and two more

of his shirts. She opened a small trinket box that contained her mother’s wedding ring, a

fine gold chain with a small gold cross, a gift from her aunt, and a crucifix fashioned

from the scraps of palm fronds that were passed out after mass on Passion Sunday. She

gathered her meager art supplies: the lead pencil she found as a girl, a few twigs of

charcoal, a few scraps of paper with her enthusiastic but amateurish drawings.

Marcella put all of these things in her large leather bag along with a little piece of

mirror, her sewing things and her Holy Communion veil that was worn by her three

sisters and eventually made its way back to her.

The sun set but the moon washed the town and the countryside with a milky glow.

The only light in the house came from the stub of a candle that was burning in her room.

She blew the candle out. Put a slouch hat on her head and picked up the bag. Marcella

heard Farintino snoring as she passed by his room on her way to the front door. She

opened the door as quietly as she could, but the latch still made that loud hollow click and

a low moan as it moved on its hinges. She went out and closed the door behind her.

Marcella passed through the front gate and quickly headed across the street to the

alley that passed behind the stables. Half way down the alley she stopped short and held

her breath when she saw a moonlit couple leaning against the wall locked in a feverish

embrace. The two ardently kissed. The woman’s back was against the stable wall and she

was suspended off the ground. She clung to her lover’s shoulders, her dress was pulled up

in the front and Marcella could see the woman’s naked, white legs wrapped low around

the man’s waist. He drove himself against her. Each movement spawned a passionate

groan from deep in their throats. As the lovers reached the throes of climax, Marcella

lowered her head, closed her eyes and rushed past them as quietly and quickly as

possible.

“Who’s there?” called the man, half laughing and out of breath.

Marcella kept running toward the end of the alley. She heard the woman ask her

lover. “Who was he?”

“He is gone, do not worry. He did not want to see us,” answered the man.

Marcella left the alley. Her destination was the town’s western wall that laid thirty

paces ahead. She ran to a little known and mostly forgotten, low, wooden door at the base

of the city wall. The door was hidden by dense shrubbery that had been planted along the

inside of the wall years before. Behind the door was a narrow and almost impassible

breach. From outside town, the jagged opening was impossible to see. It was draped over

with vines from above and hidden by thick weeds that grew up from below.

Marcella found out about the wall’s secret in that brief year and a half she had to

herself. One of her amusements was to fancy herself a spy for the Conte and Countessa.

She enjoyed skulking about behind the buildings and through the dark narrow alleyways.

She wouldn’t have even noticed the door if it weren’t for two seedy men who burst

around the corner and into the alley where she was playing. Marcella squatted behind a

rain barrel as soon as she saw them enter the alley and watched the curious goings on.

One held back the leaves and branches of the shrubbery while the other man, who was

clutching something draped in a cloth under his arm demanded of his partner on an

urgent note, “Which one, which one?”

“The forth one, push the forth one,” said the other. Marcella heard a click and they

pulled the door open. With some difficulty, the men slipped behind the shrubbery,

through the door and closed it behind them. In less than a minute a little, fat, red-faced

man, Signore Figaro Turinni the barber, ran into the alleyway. He held a walking stick in

one hand like a sword. He was quite out of breath and panting. He slumped against the

wall for a moment to rest, looked up and down the empty alleyway, muttered something,

though inaudible to Marcella, that was certainly a curse, and left.

Now, on this desperate night, in the pale moonlight she ran her hand along the wall

behind the shrubs until she found of the upper corner of the door frame. Marcella blindly

felt the details of the door. In the rough, weathered wood, her fingers made out the iron

bar that was padlocked in its saddle. She did not understand how she could open a door

that was so secure.

Marcella harbored no anger toward the Holy Virgin so she prayed to her to guide

her hands and to give her strength. She felt along the horizontal row of large clavos that

ran across the center of the door. She hoped the door would work tonight the same way it

did when she first found it those several years ago. She tried wiggling each clavo until

she found the loose one. She closed her eyes and pushed on the head of the clavo. It

moved. She pressed harder. Then she heard a click and felt the door give. She reached

into the shrubs with her other hand and found that everything moved as one. What

appeared to be the wooden door frame, along with the iron bar and the padlock all made

up the door. Marcella pulled hard and the door groaned. She pulled again with all of her

strength and it finally opened enough for her to pass through. She struggled with the

shrubbery and held it out of the way with one hand, picked up her bag with the other and

ducked into the opening. She could see the outlines of the vines that hung over the jagged

opening against the moonlit sky. As she struggled and squeezed through to the other side

of the wall a spider web brushed her face and made her shudder. She finally broke

through the vines and weeds, pulled on the handle of her leather bag until it finally came

through with one last yank.

Marcella was now outside of the town. She walked along close to the wall. She did

not want to be noticed by the guards who sometimes could be seen on the parapet. She

had a long walk to the north wall, and then just as long of a walk across the base of the

north wall to the beginning of the country lane that led to Cesare’s house. There was no

real path at the base of the wall, so the going was sometimes difficult. Marcella had to

negotiate granite outcrops and a few dark gullies.

When Marcella turned the corner, she saw a gypsy encampment, not more than fifty

paces from the spot where the west wall ended and the north wall began. She could hear

the soulful music they played and their children laughing. She smelled sweet smoke. A

column of sparkling embers rushed high above the bonfire and disappeared as they fell in

a spiraling shower.

A man stepped out of the shadows. Marcella felt her heart leap into her throat. She

stopped, stunned and afraid.

“Where might you be going, boy?” The man spoke with a thick Romany accent.

Marcella stood there speechless.

The man turned into the moonlight and Marcella could see his handsome, square

face. He was tall and even in the moonlight she could see he had a dark complexion. He

wore a striped kerchief on his head. He had long black hair and a trimmed beard and

moustache. She saw the glint of the round, gold earring in his left ear and his opened shirt

showed off his muscular chest. He wore a dark sash and baggy pants, and he was

barefoot.

“Well, boy, where might you be going?” he asked again.

“I am leaving,” was all Marcella could think to say.

“Yes, we are always leaving too. Come join us. We can always take in a new man.”

“Join you? Who are you, sir?”

“Sir is it? I am Mika... prince of the gypsies.” He stood up straighter and crossed his

arms high on his chest. “And you, who are you know as?”

Marcella saw his teeth flash when he smiled. She looked away and lowered her

head.

“Come now lad, do not be afraid. Do not believe all those things they say about

gypsies.”

Marcella held on to her bag that much tighter.

Mika put his hand on Marcella’s shoulder, more precisely on the strap of her leather

bag. In an instant he pulled her slouch hat down over her face, pushed her back and

slipped the bag off her shoulder as she threw out her arms for balance. Marcella stumbled

backwards and almost fell. By the time she felt her feet firmly on the ground and pulled

the hat up off of her face she saw Mika half running to the colorful gypsy tents that

formed a circle around their bonfire.

Even though she was afraid, she did not want to lose everything she owned,

especially her mother’s wedding ring and the gold cross Aunt Prunella gave her when she

made her First Communion. Marcella ran after Mika and when she entered the circle of

tents she stopped and stood motionless.

A collection of gypsy men and women and their children sat around a bonfire. They

stopped their quiet chatter and lullabies and curiously looked up at the intruder. They all

wore some kind of head scarf. The women wore colorful blouses and heavily

embroidered skirts. Most of the children were asleep cradled in their mother’s arms. A

few of the women modestly suckled their babies.

With some effort, a white-haired woman slowly got to her feet. She wore a black

head scarf, a black blouse, and an ankle length skirt. Around her neck, hung several

necklaces made of gold coins as well as several belly chains of the same design. Her

tanned face was careworn but ageless, her dark eyes penetrating and intense. She held a

clay pipe in her teeth and leaned on a gnarled walking stick. Two strong young women

took their positions, one on each side of the matriarch.

“Tell Mother Vadoma, why do you come here, boy? This is not a place for you.”

Her voice was clear and strong.

Marcella cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “I...I need my things.”

“You need your things,” the old woman repeated.

“Yes ma’am, the prince took them and I need them back. Please.” Marcella could

feel everyone’s eyes on her. More gypsy men and boys stopped their music and singing

and slowly gathered around. They stood with their arms crossed, whispering to each other

as they looked on.

“The prince? Well, perhaps you should seek an audience with King Wenceslaus and

tell him his son is a thief.” Both the men and women broke into hearty laughs and echoed

the name Wenceslaus between chuckles and guffaws.

Marcella was on the verge of tears. “Please ma’am, his name is Mika. He took

everything I own in the world.”

“And what do we have?” A surly murmur swelled behind her words.

Marcella looked into the dancing shadows and the fiery brown eyes that glared at

her. “You have your people, your families and your horses.”

“Yes that is true, but nowhere safe to live,” Mother Vadoma cocked her head to one

side trying to get a better look at Marcella in the firelight. She puffed on her pipe and

searched the crowd for her son, Mika.

“Nor do I. I have no people or family, like you do,” said Marcella. As hard as she

tried to control herself, tears filled her eyes.

The old woman spotted her son. “Prince Mika, come to your mama.” There was

some laughter and a few of the men repeated the title prince in a playful and joking way.

The handsome young man strutted out from the crowd and knelt on one knee before

Mother Vadoma. She looked to Marcella, “You boy, come before me.”

Marcella approached and stopped at arms-length from the old woman. One of the

women who stood next to Mother Vadoma placed her hand on Marcella’s shoulder and

bid her kneel. Marcella knelt. Mika gave Marcella a quick glance, then a closer look.

“Is this the prince who took your things?” asked Mother Vadoma.

Marcella meekly nodded yes, took a sidelong glance, met Mika’s inquiring eyes,

and looked down on the ground.

“Is this true? Did you take this boy’s things?”

“Mama, he thrust them into my hand as he was falling backwards. I thought he was

giving them to me.”

Some in the crowd snickered and others moaned at the outrageous reply.

“Do not bring shame on our family.”

Mika turned to the crowd and spotted his younger brother, Boldo, who held

Marcella’s valise behind his back. Mika nodded and the smiling youngster brought the

valise to Mother Vadoma. Marcella involuntarily reached for it but held herself back.

“Prove to me this is yours. Tell me what is inside.”

“My clothes and my shoes,” said Marcella.

With noticeable pain, Mother Vadoma undid the leather straps and folded the cover

out of the way. She pulled out one of the three overskirts, held it up to view and handed it

to her aide. Everyone looked at the piece of clothing with curiosity and then at Marcella.

The old woman reached in and pulled out one of Marcella’s simple overblouses and

showed it off garnering the same confused looks from the clan. When Mother Vadoma

pulled out the white stockings, she looked at them and held them to her side. She looked

at Mika and gave a concerned nod. “Both of you stand. Mika take off the boy’s hat.”

Marcella reached up and gripped the brim of her hat with both hands. Mika did not

try very hard to remove it, although he easily could have. Mother Vadoma nodded and

Mika stepped away and joined the other men and boys on the far side of the bonfire.

Mother Vadoma nodded her head and looked Marcella in the eyes. “Tell me you name,

dear,” she said gently.

Marcella thought about what Aunt Prunella told her about keeping everything

secret, so she held her tongue.

“Is it Maria, or perhaps Luciana, or maybe Rosa?”

Marcella thought for a second before she answered. “Please ma’am, I dare not tell

you my name.”

Mother Vadoma saw the anxious and frightened look on Marcella’s face. “I see.

You are a young woman who dresses and acts like a boy, but claims the dresses and

blouses and stocking in this valise belong to you. You are escaping from something,

yes?”

“Please ma’am may I have my things, I must go away, or they will burn me for a

witch.”

The entire clan came to life and quickly gathered around Mother Vadoma with the

men making a human shield between her and Marcella. Anyone who had a crucifix,

whether it was on the end of a chain around their neck or on a rosary held it up for

protection.

Marcella took off her hat. Her hair fell down over her ears and her delicate features

announced her femininity. “You are right. If I tell you my name will you give me back

my things, please?”

Mother Vadoma pushed the men aside and went to Marcella. She put her hand on

Marcella’s shoulder. “To know your name is not important. You are no witch. I can feel

that in my soul. We gypsies know what it is like to be hunted and chased and made to feel

unwelcome. Our hearts beat with yours.” The gypsy men and women moved aside and

Mother Vadoma handed the valise to Marcella. Marcella put the strap over her shoulder

and pressed her arm tight against her side.

“Thank you.” Marcella put her hat on and tucked her hair up under the band.

“Until we meet again. For I know, we shall. Blessings on you and may God protect

you.” The gypsies repeated their leader’s words like a prayer and bowed to Marcella. The

old woman puffed on her pipe and released Marcella with a smile and a nod.

Marcella took one long, last look at the shadowy gypsy men, women and children

who stood in the wavering firelight. She gave an unsure wave and quickly returned to the

spot where she encountered Mika. Marcella hadn’t taken more than ten steps when the

gypsy prince came up alongside of her. Without a word he took her hand, opened it and

returned her mother’s wedding ring and the little gold cross Aunt Prunella gave her those

so many years ago.

“Until we meet again, blessings on you,” the gypsy said. He turned and headed back

to the enclosure of tents and the warmth of the bonfire and his people.

Marcella passed by the last gypsy tent and headed away from Terra Sanctus. She

followed the moonlit lane up the first gentle hill and she descended into the wide rolling

meadow below. Marcella glanced over her shoulder. The roofline and walls of Terra

Sanctus were lost to her view. She could still hear the strains of gypsy lyres and rebecs,

but they soon faded.

The cool night air and the walking calmed Marcella. The lane stretched in front of

her. Marcella had never been out in the dark like this before. She started when an owl

passed within a few feet over her head. She heard the hissing wing beats and felt the air

pulse against her hat. It almost made her run, but she took a deep breath and continued on

her way.

Everything looked so different in the dark. The trees and their leaves lay flat against

the sky like black filigree. The natural details of the plants and trees and hills she used to

gauge distance and direction were hidden by the night. Marcella finally recognized a

stand of trees. The twisted little trees were dead, but the way their branches lifted up

above them reminded her of a picture of maidens from Pagan times doing a wild ritual

dance she once saw at the printer’s shop. Marcella was relieved to find this landmark.

She began to look sharp for the pathway leading to Cesare’s cottage. After a few

unsuccessful forays through openings in the brush that looked like they might be the way

only to end after five or six paces in, she found it.

A weight was lifted and Marcella thanked the Holy Virgin by reciting the Hail Mary

while she trudged up the path. If she hadn’t been there before she never would have

found it. The cottage was not visible from the lane, and the path wound through the trees

making it nearly invisible. When she reached the top of the path, she saw there was no

light on in the house. Marcella stood in front of the door and knocked fairly hard. She

knocked again and went to the one small window and looked in. She saw some

movement. It was Cesare stumbling around almost naked except for his small clothes

trying to put on his trousers. He had one leg in and his other leg cocked over the other

opening. He was hopping on his one foot as if he was chasing after his pants. Marcella

smiled and looked away.

Cesare opened the door. “You are here tonight? Come in, come in. For some reason,

I thought you would come tomorrow. Welcome, come in.” The only light came from the

moon. Cesare lit an oil lamp. The little clay lamp gave off just enough light to make

shadows and not much more. Marcella happily put her bag down and looked for a place

to sit. Cesare pulled on his shirt and offered her one of the two chairs at a small round

table.

Marcella sat and let out a sigh of relief.

Cesare looked at the young woman who sat before him. He was surprised and

intrigued by the men’s clothing she wore. “Who came with you?” Cesare poured some

diluted wine. Marcella was thirsty and drank it down.

“I came alone. I had to leave tonight. Zietta Prunella thought it best.”

“You came alone. That was a brave thing.” Cesare was impressed. He raked his

fingers through his hair trying to get it in some kind of order.

“You are doing a brave thing allowing me to stay here. Everyone thinks me a witch

because of the way mama died. They think I caused it, that I belong to Satan. I love my

mama. Zietta Prunella thinks they will want to burn me at the stake.”

“Very ugly business that. You will be safe here. Let us hope these burnings will

come to an end soon.”

Suspicion Always Haunts

A week passed before Marcella was missed. At first there was suspicion put on Farintino,

then on Prunella that they were hiding her.

“Be glad she is gone, to wherever,” was Farintino’s bland reply to anyone who

asked. Prunella would only say, “Pray for your soul and the souls of all those you judge,”

which usually gave the busybody pause. After a month Marcella was forgotten. New

tidbits concerning how the rich merchant Lucius Conino was caught having coitus with a

tavern tart in the alley behind the stable tumbled off the ends of the gossips’ black little

tongues. Conino’s equals thought him stupid for not being discreet and the women in his

circle gushed with catty compassion for his long suffering wife, hoping deep down their

men were not doing the same behind their backs, or at least not getting caught.

The Bud

Country life agreed with Marcella. For all intents and purposes she may well have

been on some tiny Greek isle in the Adriatic. Cesare reaped the benefits of Marcella’s

tidiness and cooking skills. She tended to the garden. She dried garden vegetables and

fruit from the wild fruit trees that dotted the surrounding hills. She gathered nuts and

stored them in earthen jars and crocks for the winter months.

Cesare made her a bed frame and a dressing chest. He also gave her something

much greater. He taught her to read.

One day, out of boredom, Marcella moved a very heavy trunk away from a back

wall to clean behind it. She noticed the hasp hung loose. She felt close to and comfortable

enough with Cesare to know he would not care if she opened it. On top was the black

robe of the seminarian. She took it out, unfolded it and laid it out on the chaise. Under the

robe was a layer of writings and papers. She carefully removed scrolls and parchment

pages covered with very close and small letters. Some of the pages were loosely bound

together with a leather cord, others lay free. She placed the writings on top of the robe in

a neat stack. The entire bottom of the trunk was filled with books. There were small

books, large books with little golden designs pressed into the leather, and some old and

fragile.

She lifted up a large, heavy tome and opened it. It was bound in blood red leather.

The image of the Uroborus, the serpent in the shape of a circle with its own tail in its

mouth, was tooled into the leather. She opened it. The frontispiece was a beautiful

woodcut of the globe with all of its meridian lines, latitudes and longitudes. A symbol for

each of the elements occupied the corners with their names, Aer, Ignus, Aquas, and Terra

printed beneath.

While Marcella sat on the floor engrossed, Cesare came in the back door. He kept

grimacing and pinching his index fingertip. He picked at a good-sized sliver just under

his fingernail that went down halfway to the quick.

“Marcella, find me the tweezers, please.” He did not see her until she moved.

“Yes, the tweezers, I will get them for you.” She kept them on the shelf with the

basin, the pitcher, Cesare’s razor and a wooden comb. She motioned that he should sit at

the dining table. She sat across from him, took his work hardened hand in hers and turned

it in the light so she could see the tiny end of the splinter sticking out just above the end

of the nail. “Now, get ready.” Before he could gird himself for the pain she deftly

plucked the sliver out in one quick, strong tug.

Cesare drew his hand out of hers and shook it. “You rascal, I was not ready.”

Marcella smiled and wiggled the tweezers with its prize for Cesare’s to see. “One

never is.” She held out her hand and dropped the ridiculously tiny piece of wood into her

palm. Cesare wetted his finger tip and picked up the sliver, studied it for a second, then

flicked it on the floor.

“I see you have found the books.”

“Oh yes. They look wonderful. Where did you get so many?”

It was late afternoon. Cesare’s project was ahead of schedule and his work could

wait until tomorrow. “Pour out some wine, girl, and I will tell you.”

Marcella poured two glasses of wine and sat.

Cesare took a sip or wine and continued, “Being the third son, I was expected to

become a priest. I fulfilled my early church obligations. When I was old enough the

priests taught me to read and write Latin and I was accepted into seminary after I made

my confirmation. I was to spend the next four years in religious study and preparing to be

ordained.

“I found I had a gift for rhetoric. I could make an equally compelling argument on

both sides of a point. I was called “Little Cicero” because of this ability. I found that the

basis for most arguments was the ‘either, or’ platform. I came to the conclusion that the

arguments the church made were always the same with faith as the final rebuttal to

reason.

“My lively arguments set me apart from the other aspirants and my arguments

became more convincing and reason driven. I fell under the scrutiny of the priests who

considered my inquisitiveness and enthusiasm as disrespect and impertinence. One of my

fellow seminarians was a man named Valentino Carpone. He was in his mid-twenties, a

bit older than the others. His family lived close to the Swiss border. Valentino enjoyed

our philosophical discussions. The more I got to know Valentino the more I could see

that my friend and I were not cut out for the clergy. Neither of us had yet taken our vows.

“After one exceptionally fine argument that left the instructor fuming, I was called

before the abbot later that day. The abbot was a stern man. He told me ‘heretics might

lose their heads, or hands, or feet. Are you a heretic, my young friend?’ The abbot looked

into my eyes then stroked the base of his neck with his fingertips.

“No, I am no heretic, your eminence.

“‘Then stop these prideful displays. Pride is one of the cardinal sins. Sins must be

punished. You are capable of following my simple logic, yes?’ The abbot’s tone was

sarcastic. ‘I believe your pride has earned you at least ten lashes with the scourge. I

expect to see you tomorrow before dawn, outside in the middle of the courtyard, on your

knees praying to Our Savior for forgiveness. Understood? I believe you should fast

beforehand, so stay away from the refractory table, and the backdoor of the scullery.’

“I bowed. The abbot waved me away.”

Marcella took a sip of wine. “Did they whip you?” Her eyes were wide open and

she could not disguise her horror of the impending answer.

Cesare smiled. “No. It happened that Valentino was outside waiting for me. I told

him what I was supposed to do on the morrow. He laughed and said, “Come my friend. I

am tired of this place. Let us lose these dull black togs. What do you say to a fine dinner,

some wine, some fun? Come home with me.”

He reached into his robe and took out a purse. He shook it up and down and the

coins jingle jangled like the bells on a harlequin’s slippers.

Once outside the church grounds, Valentino outfitted us with some clothing and

hired a carriage and four. We headed north and stopped at the first reputable roadhouse

which was two leagues out of town. We ate roast meat and fish and drank the finest wine

the innkeeper had. Valentino smiled when he saw the symbol branded into the end of the

small cask the girl used to fill the pitcher.

Valentino was at the seminary at the firm request of his mother in hopes he would

change his ways. I was surprised. He was a decent sort, always kind and polite and

generous. He showed respect to everyone. In the course of our conversation, I discovered

his mother sent him away to remove him from the influence of his father.

I found out that his father, Valentino the Elder, was a very educated man. He was

interested in the sciences, alchemy, and astrology. His aims were to put order to the chaos

of the world and investigate what he called the ‘elasticity of time.’

The journey took five days. We arrived in the late morning. The carriage turned into

a broad drive bordered by neatly trimmed shrubs. This wasn’t merely a house. It was an

estate, complete with fountain, flower gardens and a stable all supported by a vast

vineyard and winery.

The homecoming was a happy occasion. Valentino’s mother tried to stay upset at

Valentino for leaving the seminary but gave in when he approached her with open arms.

She could not remain angry.

Valentino the Elder just stood back out of the way at the bottom of the staircase with

his arms crossed and smiled. Valentino’s two sisters heard their brother’s voice and ran in

from the rear terrace abandoning some giggly game. They threw themselves so hard on

Valentino they almost knocked him over. His father came over to Valentino and gave

him a hug and kissed him on both cheeks. “Ah, my kindred soul has returned home to

me. What did I tell you, mama?” He smiled at Valentino. “I have so much to discuss with

you, I have made some interesting observations.” Valentino the Elder pulled his son in

and gave him a hearty hug and patted him on the back. He then looked over to me and

smiled. “And you must be Little Cicero. Val has mentioned you in his letters.”

I was introduced to everyone as Valentino’s good friend and was immediately

accepted. Valentino’s twelve year old sister Lydia was very proper in her manners. Upon

being introduced to me she put her right foot forward, toe down, heel slightly elevated,

pinched up a little bit of her dress between her thumbs and forefingers, pulled the dress

away from her body and curtsied, just the way she had practiced in front of the looking

glass. Ten year old Valentina stood next to her sister, watched carefully and curtsied too.

Valentino’s mother seemed a little wary of me. By dinnertime, she gave me her smile and

opened her heart.”

Cesare felt his stomach rumble with hunger. “Marcella, fetch us a little bite of

cheese, please, maybe an apple.”

“No apples, but there are some plums,” she said as she went to the larder.

“I saw apples there yesterday, the ones you got from the tree by the spring.”

Marcella chuckled softly. “I cut into a few, they were just too wormy,” she said as

she busied herself with a knife.

Cesare grunted a reply and inspected his fingertip. It still hurt and he pressed it with

his thumb until a pin pricks worth of blood came out. Marcella put out a wooden platter

with some cheese, some cut up bread, some olives and a half a dozen small purple plums

on the table.

“Tell me about the books.” Marcella sat down and pushed the tray toward Cesare.

“I spent the first month I was there in Valentino the Elder’s library. He had over five

hundred books. I was in heaven. Valentino must have read every book there because no

matter which one I was reading he could look at the title and we could talk about even the

finest points I might bring up.

One morning, when I was studying in the library I heard horses outside. I went to

the window and saw three gentlemen and a boy alight from a coach. The top of the coach

was completely filled with all kinds of boxes and crates. Valentino the Elder and

Valentino went to meet the men and by the way they embraced and showed such free and

easy humor I guessed they knew each other quite well.

Valentino the Elder escorted his friends into the house. I stood by the library door,

which was ajar, and looked on. Valentino the Elder’s wife Josephina was visibly upset.

She paced in front of her husband and his friends several times so they had to stop and

were about to greet her when she addressed her husband as if the others were not present.

With an awfully stern but sad look on her face she said, “I will be in the chapel praying

for all of our souls until these...men are gone from my house.” She made the sign of the

cross, went into the chapel and closed the door.

Valentino the Elder shrugged his shoulders and gave his guests an apologetic look.

They all nodded in sympathy and took up their conversations with each other where they

left off before Josephina’s little drama.

Valentino caught a glimpse of me looking through the opened door. He left the

others and I backed away as he approached and entered. Then he said with his usual

smile, “ah, Plato was right, women are a different species. Poor mama, she thinks

anything that is new or different is bad or wrong. She will hide in the chapel for the rest

of the day and then come out and sulk until father’s guests leave.”

He looked at the book I was holding in my hand and nodded his approval. He leaned

in and spoke with excitement in his voice. “By and by, we have a very wise man come to

us. He is a professor at the University of Bologna, Dominco Novara da Farrara. He has

along with him a very bright student named Nicolaus Copernicus.”

I had no idea who these men might be, but I acted just as excited as my friend.

“Come and help me supervise the unloading of the equipment,” said Valentino.

Valentino instructed the workers who were already being very careful as they

passed the crates and boxes down from the roof of the coach into the bed of a four wheel

cart. When the last piece was loaded, Valentino paid the coachman and told him to return

in eight days. We led the donkey cart to the “castle”.

The “castle” was a one story, rough-hewn, stone building perhaps twenty paces

square with a turret in the center of its arched roof. The turret was at least three paces

across and ten feet tall. It was built ages ago, probably during the reign of Justinian, and

Valentino’s family guessed it to be a silo or maybe a granary, although no one was quite

sure.

Valentino took a rusty, brown key from his belt and unlocked the massive door. The

hinges let out a terrible screech when he pulled it open. I was startled and threw my hands

up in front of my face when a number of pigeons noisily flapped right over our heads and

flew out of the doorway into the daylight.

The interior was large and open. There was an enormous hearth. The stone walls

had many alcoves and niches. Different symbols and zodiac signs were painted on the

walls. There were shelves filled with books and a number of glass and copper distillers.

The worktables were crowded with vials and jars, small wooden boxes, flat bottom

flasks, and crucibles of different sizes. One workbench held several books that were left

open to certain pages.

I remember asking why there was no roof on the turret. Valentino told me that on

the vernal equinox at midnight, the North Star was positioned in the exact center of the

opening. That piqued my interest.

Valentino sensed my curiosity and went on to explain that the visitors and his father

were going to carry out an experiment. Valentino the Elder had come across an ancient

clay jar from Baghdad that held a mysterious power within it. If you touched the two

metal wires that came out of its top together, it would cause a spark. They were making a

larger version of it using the turret as the vessel. He could tell I was excited and shared

my enthusiasm.

We spent the rest of the week watching the workmen put a bottom on the turret and

seal the insides with pitch. Under the watchful eye of Valentino the Elder, the workmen

lowered a copper vessel made by the estate’s metal smiths into the turret in a rope sling.

They had to make sure it did not touch the sides and bottom on the sealed turret. Next

they lowered a large iron casting as round as a small tree and as tall as me, into the center

of the copper vessel. The carpenters made a roof for the turret that held the iron rod in

place. It was very important that the iron casting did not touch the sides or the bottom on

the copper vessel.

“What was all this for?” asked Marcella.

“Patience. For the next three days great effort was made to complete the project.”

Cesare felt foolish for all of his prattle when he saw Marcella yawn. “I see I am boring

you.”

Marcella sat upright and shook her head no as she spoke. “Boring? Heavens no, I

find the story fascinating. It is the wine that makes me sleepy, not you. Please sir,

continue.” Marcella shifted in her chair and leaned in a little closer to Cesare.

All the time Cesare spoke he illustrated the shapes and positions of the components

with animated hand gestures. This delighted Marcella.

“On the day before the experiment, Valentino the Elder called for all of the spoiled

wine to be brought to the “castle”. Marcella, there must have been a hundred large

barrels, maybe more. Everyone was employed to fill the space between the walls of the

turret and the copper vessel with spoiled wine.

Cesare took a sip of wine. He felt the same excitement relating the story to Marcella

that he did on the day it happened a little over twenty years before.

“When sufficient wine had been poured in between the walls of the turret and the

copper vessel Val and I climbed up onto the roof of the “castle” and then on a ladder to

the top of the turret. Everything was ready. The end of the iron casting stood proud in the

center of the rooftop. A much smaller copper rod that was part of the vessel also stuck out

above the roofline.”

Marcella nodded and waited for Cesare to continue.

“Valentino the Elder and his guests entered into a deep discussion.I was so wide-

eyed. I had no idea what they were talking about, but they all were very lively and

passionate.”

Marcella filled Cesare’s and her wine glasses. She looked at him differently now.

She saw Cesare as much more than a kind, reclusive craftsman.

“One of the guests, Signore Antonio Turigli sent his servant out. The boy’s name

was Stefano. He was a fine looking boy of maybe ten years with large, expressive eyes.

Stefano returned and handed a cloth sack to his master. The signore opened the sack and

showed us a solid gold goblet. It was engraved with strange signs and symbols. He set

that on the table. Everyone admired its beauty and craftsmanship.

Il Signore Turigli took out another object from the sack. He unwrapped the largest

clear crystal that I had ever seen. The six-sided crystal was the size of an apple. It had a

hole bored in it from top to bottom. That too was marveled over by one and all. The

strangest and most dear object was a hollow glass wand maybe as long as your forearm

and as round as a man’s thumb.”

Cesare held up his glass. The wine glowed in the candle light. “Do you see this

color, Marcella, this deep ruby red? Signore Turigli had the glass tube filled with rubies

that had been crushed to a powder and mixed with a resin made from the sap of the apple

tree and his own blood. He filled the glass tube with the liquid rubies and melted the ends

over to seal it.”

“Rubies?” Marcella looked at the wine in her glass and then back to Cesare.

“Yes, rubies, even as I tell you the story it sounds so fantastic, but it is true.”

“Oh sir, I believe you.” Marcella hung on every word. Never in her life did she feel

so confident and privileged to hear what only men might discuss among themselves.

“Signore Turigli placed the crystal in the gold goblet then he inserted the ruby wand

into the crystal and the wand began to glow ever so slightly. The ether around the wand

took on a red cast. We were awestruck. He took the wand out of the crystal and the glow

immediately faded. He put the wand back into the crystal and again it glowed until he

carefully took the crystal out of the gold goblet and again the wand lost its glow.

The rest of the morning was spent in deep discussion and speculation. After our

midday meal the carpenters finished and were sent away. We all headed to the “castle”.

Turigli’s boy, Stefano carefully carried the sack containing the goblet and crystal. Il

Signore carried the ruby wand himself. Valentino the Elder was the first onto the newly

built turret roof. He gingerly stepped to the center and knelt down where the end of the

iron casting was exposed. Stefano followed, knelt next to Valentino the Elder and handed

him the gold goblet. By this time, Val and I were on the roof too. Turigli was afraid of

heights and stayed behind. He handed the wand to Val to carry.

The metal workers cast the iron rod with a round socket a hair’s breadth larger than

the bottom of the goblet so it could be pressed in quite snug. Valentino the Elder called to

me and asked for the gold wire, some beeswax and a mallet I was given to bring with me.

I tapped the goblet into the socket and it held fast. On instruction from Turigli, Val took

the crystal from Stefano and placed it in the goblet and secured it with the beeswax.

Valentino the Elder wrapped the gold wire around the stem of the goblet. I remember he

was very exact in the number of times. It was thirteen.”

“Thirteen,” repeated Marcella. “A wire made out of gold?”

“It was thick too. The wire was long enough to reach the copper rod that was part of

the copper vessel. Stefano was to touch the gold wire that was wrapped around the goblet

to the copper rod that stuck through the roof and complete the energy path. We left the

wire lay there free. Val fitted the glass wand in the crystal and secured it with more

beeswax. Our experiment was ready. We went back to the library, talked, drank good

brandy and ate our fill until twilight. “

“What did they talk about?”

“How we hoped the experiment might open the door or a portal to a different

metaphysical plane of existence. Da Farrara was convinced such a portal had to have a

certain resonance to attract metaphysical energies to our physical world. Valentino the

Elder read us his treatise on his study of time.”

“Time, what does that have to do with the gold goblet and the ruby rod? Time

passes and it is gone,” volunteered Marcella. She wanted to hear about the experiment.

“Valentino pointed out that time passes in different ways for different people. When

we wait for something we want to happen, time cannot pass quickly enough. If we are

doing something we enjoy, why does time seem to slip away so quickly?”

“That is the same for everybody, is it not?” Marcella picked up one of the plums

from the platter and turned it over in her hand. She tasted the fruit. It was bittersweet.

“I think each one of us has felt that way. But the bit of time spent waiting or doing

whatever it is you might enjoy could be the same, could it not?”

“Yes, I suppose it could be.”

“We all feel time differently: the baker waiting for the bread to rise, the nun saying

her prayers, the little baby sleeping, the soldier in battle, everyone in the world is living at

that exact instant, and for each one of us time is stretched or compressed. The moment

passes and time changes for all of us again.”

Marcella was out of her depth, but she was enthralled. Cesare too enjoyed the

moment. He was living his past, his present and he foresaw his future self, sitting at this

very table teaching Marcella to read.

“Many of us think that time passes and it is something behind us, as you said earlier,

but I think it merely spreads out, away from us as ripples do from the point where you

toss a pebble into a pond. Time is all around us, it is like the air we breathe or more, like

a great ocean, and we are no more than, let us say a bubble, floating along, sometimes

under its waves and sometimes on the surface. Who knows where we might pop up?”

Marcella pondered this different viewpoint. “What we did yesterday, happened then,

and it cannot happen again.”

“In our memories it can.”

“Yes, we can remember what happened but it already happened, and it happened

then, at that time.”

Cesare smiled. Marcella’s intelligence and inquisitiveness pleased him and made

her that much more attractive to him.

“That is not the argument, when something first happened. Let us say, you do a kind

deed for someone and they are ungrateful or disparage you because they feel your good

deed is done for your self-aggrandizement, not out of love or concern as you meant it.

You feel the sting of their words. You feel hurt and unappreciated and disappointed. For

the rest of the day, you wish the person received your kindness as you meant it.”

Marcella leaned back on the stool and crossed her arms. She could think of many

times Fausto made her feel that way when she took care of him.

Cesare went on. “That night lying there in your bed you are living in the present.

You feel the pillow under your head, the bedclothes pulled up under your chin. You see

the shadows of the firelight on the ceiling, but you are also living in the past at the same

time when you hear the ungrateful remarks and you feel it in your continence and in your

person. Your muscles stiffen, your heart beats fast, sometimes you may even speak the

words out loud you wish you would have said. You are living in two times at once.”

Marcella could not hide the skeptical look in her eyes. Cesare thought of another

example and asked, “You do dream?”

“Of course, everyone dreams.”

“When you dream, where are you?”

“In my bed.”

“Have you ever had such a vivid dream that you could feel the wind on your face or

an emotion to make your heart beat fast?”

“Yes, I have dreamt of being chased. That was frightening. I have also dreamt I was

flying a few times. I like those dreams.”

“Yes, they are wonderful. Those dreams are real. The things you do or the people

you meet in dreams are real. You are living in two realities at once. You are asleep in

your bed and you are also flying high above the earth at the same time. Your dream self

can enter into a world of familiar things or you can go to a world that does not yet exist

and live there too at the same time.”

“What do mean, go to a world that does not yet exist?”

“I am sure you know what I mean. You have never imagined doing something you

have not done yet? Of course, it has not happened yet but you can see yourself doing

things before you do them. I do. I imagine a stool I am going to make. I see my hands

cutting and shaping the legs. I see myself scraping the seat to the shape I want it to be, I

see the auger boring the holes to accept the legs, and I see myself pounding the wedges in

to hold the legs fast to the seat. I am experiencing the future before it happens, am I not?”

“Maybe, but the stool is not made.”

“It is made. It exists and only needs to take on solid form. It needs to be something

that we can touch and see or hear because that is what our fingers and eyes and ears are

capable of. If we can find that portal to the metaphysical plane where the stool physically

exists, we can be in both times at once.”

Marcella was trying very hard to keep pace with Cesare. She thought of her dream

and she thought of her mother. “If what you say is true, do you think people who die are

able to go back to when they were young?”

“Dear Marcella, how do we know they do not? A man or woman may return to the

prime of his or her life or decide to live a new life. Just because the body wearies and dies

does not mean our soul has to die with it.”

“But when we die we go to heaven or purgatory or hell.” Marcella clung to

something she knew was unarguable.

“If we choose to believe that is where we will go. How does either of us know if we

have already passed through death’s door and come to this time and place? Who is to say

we have not passed through a portal from another time and place to live on this

metaphysical plane. Both of us could be here from the past or the future. We could be the

imaginings of you, well on in age, wanting to return to your young self. Or we could be

here at my wish, or we could exist at the wish of anyone who has been able to combine

both the physical and metaphysical.” Cesare sat back and savored his wine and his

theory.

“Master Lippo, I am sorry but I do not understand.” Marcella said with a note of

disappointment in her voice.

“You have kept on with me longer then some of the most educated and wisest men I

know.” Cesare drank the last bit of his wine and smiled at Marcella. “Now I am to bed.”

“No, no you cannot go to bed. Tell me about Valentino the Elder’s experiment?”

Marcella sat up straight and was ready to hear the story.

Cesare smiled. “Let me see, as I recall, twilight came and the clouds were quite low.

Val and his father, Stefano and I went onto the roof of the turret. The other scholars

waited below. The ruby wand was a magnificent sight with its faint red glow. Our task

was to connect the gold wire to the copper rod that stuck up through the roof. Val made

sure the crystal was still set firm in the beeswax. When he was satisfied that all was

ready, Valentino the Elder signaled to Stefano who picked up the gold wire and touched

it to the copper rod.

It was a wonder to see. The crystal vibrated in the goblet and a thin ribbon of ruby

light went straight up, spread out and colored the underside of the clouds red. Just by

itself, that would be extraordinary. What followed was beyond belief. Images appeared

on the underside of the clouds and came to life. The things we saw were unbelievable.

We saw a black road with yellow designs painted on it. We saw people, and carriages that

moved without horses. We could see a young man in his green carriage looking back at

us. I will never forget the astonishment in his eyes. And there were so many lights, red,

yellow, and green that shone from boxes on poles.”

“People in the clouds, is that possible?”

“More than possible, the living image only lasted for a few seconds and faded when

we took the gold wire from the copper rod and the ribbon of red light ceased. The clouds

returned to their white color. It was fantastic.”

“What happened next?” All thought of sleep left Marcella.

“Everyone was in a state of amazement. Valentino the Elder had such a look of

ecstasy on his face. He told Stefano to touch the gold wire to the copper rod again. He

did. The ruby light shot up faster than an arrow and the clouds turned red again. We saw

the face of a beautiful woman. She had a strawberry birthmark on her neck. Her head was

thrown back and she had a look of pleasure about her. Again the image lasted for a very,

very short time. We took the gold wire away from the copper rod and again the ruby light

ceased and the clouds faded back to white.

“Antonio Turigli called up and begged Valentino the Elder to stop. He said, ‘Stop in

the name of God or we will all be cast into hell.’

“Did you stop?” Marcella drank another mouthful of wine.

“Heavens no, Valentino the Elder gave both Val and me a boyish smile then nodded

to Stefano to touch the wire to the rod again. This time the ruby ribbon flashed into the

sky and lit the clouds red and I saw the picture of a place I later discovered is not far from

here. It was the path just past Longo’s farm. A girl came upon a young man. They

stopped and spoke and the young man took off his hat and showed it to her. That was all.

The image faded.

“Turigli angrily yelled at Stefano to fetch the glass wand and come down. Valentino

the Elder told the boy to stand fast and that he needed to use it one more time. He told

Val to touch the gold wire against the copper rod again and hold it there. Val did and the

ruby ribbon of light shot through an opening in the clouds and disappeared into the sky.

We were so busy looking up we did not notice the goblet was glowing hotly and the

crystal began to vibrate and the liquid rubies boiled in the glass rod. Val wanted to take

the wire away, but his father insisted he keep it pressed against the rod. The tar on the

roof began to bubble and run. We heard the sound of thunder and looked up to see a

black whirlpool in the sky directly above us. There was such a great shaking the roof

became too unstable to stand on. Frightened, Stefano scurried across the roof to the

ladder. He passed too close to the glowing ruby wand. He was snared in a web of tiny red

strands that wove themselves around his body. I remember the frightened look in his

eyes. In a heartbeat the boy’s body became impossibly stretched out of shape. It was

drawn around the pulsing ribbon of light and he disappeared. He was gone. The glass

wand shattered and we were showered with hot liquid rubies and slivers of glass. Val

pulled the wire away and we helped each other off the roof just before it caught fire.

“Once on the ground all we could do was watch the roof burn and fall into itself.

“Turigli held his head in his hands and silently paced back and forth. Da Farrara and

Nicholaus looked over the notes and drawings they made. All of us tried to make sense

out of what just happened. We could not.

“Finally Turigli spoke, ‘may God forgive us. Poor Stefano, he was a good boy.’

Turigli made the sign of the cross and said, ‘Thank God everything is destroyed by the

fire. We have no right to do what we did. Valentino and Farrara we must destroy all

records of this.’ All of us took a vow never to mention the experiment or talk about it

again.”

“But you told me,” Marcella smiled.

“You are the only one. To tell anyone this story who was not there to see it, why,

people would think you were mad or worse yet, possessed by the devil.”

What Cesare said reminded Marcella of how insistent her mother was to keep her

dream vision to herself. She finished her wine and collected the platter and tidied up the

table. “As you must sleep, so must I. There is so much to think about, so much to learn.

Sir, when will you teach me to read?”

“We can start tomorrow after dinner.”

Marcella stood and lingered for a moment. She felt very close to Cesare just then

but did not know how or dare express her feelings. The best she could do was say, “Good

night, sir.”

“Good night, Marcella.”

Marcella took the little oil lamp from the table and adjourned to her corner behind

the four panel screen. She undressed to her underskirt and camisole and slipped under the

blanket. Her head was swimming with wine and the most amazing story she had ever

heard.

The dream she had nearly ten years earlier revisited her. She saw it just as clearly

and felt just as excited now as she did then. She remembered that day very clearly, the

gray dress and white blouse with the little lilies embroidered on the borders of the collar

and cuffs her mama wore. It rained in the morning and by the late afternoon the air was

delicious and warm.

That day floated in her subconscious like a golden leaf in a lazy clear stream,

turning this way and that to expose another sparkling detail that made her that thirteen

year old girl eagerly leaving the pond and rushing home to tell her mother about the

wonderful dream. In her pre-sleep reverie, she saw the shadows dancing on the path in

front of her as the breeze pushed through the treetops. She passed a smiling young man

who nodded to her. He carried a pack on his back and a walking stick with a natural

crook on the end. He nodded to her. She thought it odd that his clothes were dusty and

worn, but his hat was new. The young man doffed his hat and as she looked closer she

recognized it as one of their hats.

Marcella nodded to the young man. “I see you wear an Adano hat,” she said with a

smile.

“Yes, I do.” The young man took the hat off, turned it around in his hand admiring

the fine stitching, tipped it to Marcella and put it back on his head.

“My grandfather’s shop,” she said proudly.

“Very nice. Safe journey to you.”

“And to you too, sir.”

As Marcella found her way back home, the young man she passed, Rene Hermes,

was also heading to his home. He left the University of Padua after having earned his

doctorate in medicine. He was twenty-five and thin as any student who had been away

from his mother’s cooking for so many years. Rene still had a long way to go. He was

headed to a lush and forested Bavarian valley outside of the town of Adler Lager.

Rene reckoned he had another month of travel. So far he walked along with four

different groups of folks headed down the same path. They shared their stories and food.

Rene did not like to travel alone and happenstance was kind enough to bring him

company in a most timely manner. When one traveling partner turned down another path,

he would encounter someone or some group to walk with. Rene heeded his father’s

warning of the dangers on the lawless roads he would travel.

Rene walked alone for the better part of the day accompanied by the warm sun on

his shoulders and hunger in his belly. His rations were reduced to a quarter loaf of bread

and a piece of cheese smaller than his fist. Rene considered stopping at the first farm

house he came to and ask shelter for the night when he heard horses and the unmistakable

sound of a carriage rumbling down the road. He looked behind him and watched the pale

blue carriage with gilded trim slow down as it approached. Rene stepped off the road into

the knee-high grass and nodded to the coachman who nodded back. He saw the occupant

pull back the leather curtain and look out at him. Rene looked up at the carriage window

but was unable to see who might be inside. The carriage passed by but slowed and

stopped a little less than fifty paces ahead.

Rene stepped back on the road and continued. When he was less than ten paces

away the door opened and a gentleman stepped out. The gentleman stretched, went to the

side of the road, and he made water on the trunk of a nearby tree.

Rene stopped and looked away. When the gentleman was finished, he put his hand

on his hips and bent the trunk of his body from side to side and from front to back. He

arched his back, relaxed and in an exaggerated way stretched his arms and legs as he

walked around the carriage once. Upon seeing Rene standing there at a distance

obviously looking on at the strange machinations, Conte Emilio d’Benevita stopped his

little constitution and waved for Rene to approach.

Rene came up to the conte and bowed. The conte stood as tall as Rene. His dark

brown hair was long and hung down in relaxed curls that framed his boyish face. The

conte’s forehead was tall and his eyes were a watery hazel color. His face was graced

with high angular cheekbones, a well-formed, longish nose, pale pink lips and clean

shaven chin. His physique was athletic and he was three years Rene’s senior.

Conte Emilio wore a low crowned, wide brimmed hat, that was dove gray and

decorated with a white feather that curled at the end, a comfortable, full sleeved, white

shirt with an open V- neck, baggy gray trousers and flat soled shoes that were well

ventilated with decorative slashes.

“State your business on this road, young man.” His tone was more inquisitive than

authoritarian.

“I am traveling on my way home, sir.”

“Where are you coming from?” The conte continued his stretching as he waited for

an answer.

“From university, Padua.”

“With a degree?”

“Yes sir, I earned my doctorate in medicine.”

“No doubt, now tell me my young medico, your name.”

“Rene Hermes of Adler Lager.”

“Ah yes, Adler Kralle Castle, the seat of Duke Gunter the Just.”

“You are correct, sir.”

“I too attended Padua. I took my doctorate in philosophy, a discipline not quite as

useful as yours.” The conte crossed his arms and rocked back and forth from toe to heel

and back again.

“Yes sir.”

Emilio d’Benevita smiled. “You are an agreeable sort my fellow alumnus. Ah, those

were the days, at university. I am to be away, travel well and safely.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rene bowed.

Emilio d’Benevita opened the door to the carriage and as a second thought called

out, “Rene Hermes, accompany me. We are heading in the same direction. I would do

well to have someone to chat with.”

Rene was surprised and pleased. The conte entered his carriage. Rene followed after

handing his pack and walking stick up to the coachman who secured them on the roof of

the carriage. The interior of the carriage was appointed with soft tan leather upholstery

and had a heavy scent of lavender. The conte sat, crossed his legs and stretched his arms

over the seat back putting the palms of his hands flat on the sides of the carriage.

Rene sat across from the conte. He tried not to look directly at this kind gentleman

with the great good fortune to have such a lovely carriage. Rene saw an opened book on

the seat next his benefactor. On the other side of the conte was a basket. Rene could see

the neck of a wine bottle, some grapes and the end of a loaf of bread peeking out from

under the cloth that was draped over the top of the basket.

“Are the girls still as pretty in Padua?” The conte could see that Rene was a bit

uncomfortable. “I remember one at the Singing Swan, Clairessa... beautiful girl. Did you

frequent the Singing Swan?”

Rene smiled. “Why yes, many of the students went there, myself included. I do not

remember one named Clairessa. I do remember Annalisa. We were all in love with her.”

For an instant, Rene’s eyes fell on the basket but he quickly looked back at the conte.

The conte looked over at the basket. “Help yourself. Tell me, how is it you were

able to go to university?”

Rene bowed to the conte as he retrieved the basket and sat back in his seat. He put

the basket on his lap and uncovered its contents. “Duke Gunter the Just employs my

father in his court. As a reward for his services, the court offered to fund my education

and I will someday be the court physician.”

“Quite a responsibility for an inexperienced fellow.”

“I have had the same thoughts, sir.” Rene pulled a leg from the cold duck at the

bottom of the basket. He took a bite. It was good.

“Surely Gunter has his doctor.”

“Oh yes sir, I will be under his tutelage.”

“I am sure you will. Gunter and I are related through marriage. I visited Adler

Kralle Castle often enough.”

“You know the Duke?”

“I am Conte Emilio d’Benevita, as you must have surmised.”

“Your servant, sir,” Rene again bowed his head.

“Yes, yes, all well and good, now tell me about your school days. I do miss the

wonderful discussions and arguments we used to have.”

“Sir, my time was spent in lectures, in the dissecting of corpses and the study of

Rhazes’ writings, of course, along with Galen and Hippocrates.”

“It is said Rhazes thought a doctor should study not only the ailments of the body

but that a doctor had to understand the soul as well,” said the count.

Rene added, “Yes sir, a difficult task. I have found that one cannot be divorced from

the other. We are bound to both and controlled by both, and when there is an imbalance

between the two, well, that opens the way to ill humors and sickness.”

“That is an interesting theory. If there is such a thing as a soul and it is freed by

death the body is left behind, is it not? ” Emilio d’Benevita invited Rene to answer with a

raise of his eyebrows.

Rene nodded.

“Does not that cause the greatest imbalance? One cannot exist without the other.”

“The soul goes to its eternal reward, heaven or hell and the body will be resurrected

and united with its soul on judgment day,” said Rene.

“If one cannot exist without the other would not the soul die away too?” Emilio was

having a little fun with his serious companion.

“The soul goes to its eternal reward or punishment.” Rene answered not quite

understanding why the conte did not take his answer as a truth that could not be refuted.

“That again, is it? Do you think it is possible to capture or lure or somehow enable

the soul to reenter the body and reanimate it?”

Rene wrinkled his brow and sat back in his seat. He chose his words carefully and

said them in a most deferential way, “Are you speaking of necromancy, sir?”

“Heavens no, and so what if we are discussing necromancy; these are only words,

no more than a diversion, parlor chat.”

The mood in the carriage changed. The conte kept his smile, pulled back the curtain

and looked out at the countryside. Rene felt this was more serious than “parlor chat” as

the conte put it. So serious a subject it made Rene ill at ease with the topic they somehow

arrived at. He absently ate a few grapes and now wished the conte had not offered him his

hospitality.

After a pounding silence, the conte spoke again in a gay and friendly manner. “Ah,

my young friend, please do not take everything you hear to heart. I was hoping for

nothing more than a spirited discussion on the subject, especially from a medical man.”

“I am sorry, sir, perhaps after I practice my art I will be able to discuss such things.

But now my thoughts are on returning home.”

“I too am going to what may be my future home. I am to meet my fiancée.”

“Congratulation sir,” Rene was glad for the change of subject. Love and marriage

were things he had a grasp of.

“We shall see,” the conte added wistfully, “an arranged affair, but a very sizable

dowry. Gold for a title, I envy you my good doctor. You may find your true love. I, on

the other hand, have sold my chance for the good of the d’Benevita’s name and coffers.”

“There may be the spark of love between you two. You have never met. It is

possible.”

“She is thirteen years old, most likely a spoiled child. The only thing I know about

her is her name, Rosalba, a pretty enough name. I suppose I should practice my own

philosophy and keep an open mind.”

The carriage slowed and the coachman called out to the horses. They stopped at a

crossroad. The carriage squeaked and bobbed as the coachman jumped down and alit

with Rene’s pack and a walking stick. He opened the door.

The conte looked at Rene. “Best of luck to you Doctor Hermes, I am away to survey

Casa Bella and meet with my bride and the patron of the Famiglia Testaoro. Travel well.”

Rene smiled. “Thank you sir, very much, and may you find what your heart is

looking for.”

“Well said. Take the basket and give Duke Gunter my greetings.”

Rene left the carriage. He put his pack on his back, the basket on his arm and with

his walking stick in hand continued on his way home. The coachman cracked his whip

over the horses’ heads and Rene gave a quick glance as the carriage headed away down

the dusty, tree shaded road.

Rene traveled another six days on the road, sometimes in the company of others and

sometimes alone. He still had two silver pieces and a handful of coppers. If he was frugal

and the weather permitted him to sleep under the stars and moon he might even have

enough to keep himself for a few weeks after his return.

Fortuna smiled on him when he came upon Duke Gunter’s envoy that was returning

from Rome. He introduced himself to the captain, who was leading the expedition of ten

mounted soldiers along, to protect the familiar faces from Adler Kralle Castle. The vice

chancellor and monsignor along with a cook and a few servants were nestled inside the

large closed wagon. The vice chancellor cordially invited Rene to join them and partake

in the meals and the comforts such as they were.

With his way home secure, Rene shared his opinions and experiences and

interesting and not so interesting little stories with the travelers. When the novelty of his

presence wore off, the men, as men do, continued on with little more to say. Rene’s mind

wandered to Conte Emilio d’Benevita and wondered how the conte’s meeting with his

wife-to-be, little Rosalba went. Rene wondered about what the future would bring him

when it came to the whims of Venus. He thought of the love of his life, Bella Fiore, as he

watched the countryside lazily slip away at each turn of the wagon’s wheels.

The first time he met Bella, Rene was home visiting from Padua for two months

during the spring of his twenty-first year. It was a beautiful May Day. The vibrant blue

sky pulsed overhead and burst with sunlight and lush white clouds that playfully rolled

across the horizon. The soft warm breeze carried the scent of spring blossoms and the

new green grass grew sweet and succulent. The malaise of winter was replaced by the

primal forces that poured forth from Maia onto her children, especially to a certain young

man who shared her son’s name.

Rene was there with his fourteen year old sister, Giesella, so pretty and pert, and his

excited, wide-eyed, ten year old brother Alfeo. The younger two wandered off together to

see their friends, watch the jugglers, attend the marionette theatre and see the trained

bear. Rene heard the singing and the music. He found the other young men and greeted

friends and acquaintances. Some he hadn’t seen since he left for school. The young men

and boys joined in groups of three or four and stood back in a loose circle around the

May Pole.

The pole was in the center of a green field that adjoined the town square. The May

pole stood sixteen feet tall with a knot of red, white and yellow streamers attached to the

very top. The streamers fluttered in the breeze. Suspended below the streamers on four

red colored cords hung a horizontal hoop woven with bright spring flowers and myrtle

boughs. The long ribbons were attached to the hoop and followed a gentle curve into the

hands of the young maidens who ringed the pole.

The girls were pretty faced, with rosy cheeks and hair either plaited or in a rush of

bouncing waves and curls. They wore embroidered blouses and brightly colored, full

overskirts. They were about to dance around the May Pole as their distant Babylonian

sisters did to celebrate the fecundity of spring. Each girl faced the pole and held a ribbon.

Then every other girl stepped in a few paces toward the pole and turned to the left. The

outer ring of girls faced the right. All bowed and with some kind of unspoken collective

recognition moved to the beat of the tabor and the aching cry of the rauschpfeife. The

girls in the outer circle moved in and around their stationary counterparts and began to

intertwine their ribbons around the maypole. Rene along with the young men looked on

appreciatively at the display of grace and femininity.

For no clear reason, Rene was captivated by one of the girls. He could not stop

looking at her. Her hair was long and curly with an auburn tinge. He had never seen

anyone move their body in so graceful a manner. The object of his attention was Bella

Fiore. Her playful blue eyes sparkled, the deep glow of her skin and her smile, that serene

and gentle smile that lay lightly on her full soft lips. He loved the way her shoulders

moved, the concentration she showed as she repeated the steps in a circle around each

new girl. Her swirling skirt that swayed back and forth and the way her bare feet stepped

lightly on the path in the grass entranced Rene and left him breathless. He stepped closer

to the dancing maidens and waited for this beautiful girl to come into his sight again.

When the girls completed the first circle and the first course of ribbons were woven

into a delicate sheath at the head of the erect pole, Bella passed by Rene who stationed

himself so she could not miss him. She could not help looking into his eyes. In that

timeless instant, she too became transfixed by the handsome young man who looked at

her with such a sincere and inviting smile. She involuntarily followed Rene with her

gaze, turning her head away from the dance as she passed and almost lost the rhythm of

her steps as she barely avoided running into the next girl she was to circle.

Each waited with impatience for the other to be within sight. Bella’s heart raced.

She was swept up in a transcendental moment as she joined with the blue sky, the white

clouds, the shimmering sun and the gentle breeze that rippled the grass. For a few

expanding seconds, she lost herself in the vastness of eternity, found herself again and

understood her place in that vastness as she returned to the here and now and sensed her

future could not be lived without the young man who somehow filled her soul and she

opened her heart to this magic possibility.

Rene followed Bella’s every graceful movement as she disappeared and reappeared,

hid away and then released into his sight as she passed around the other girls. And even

though he knew she would come into view he still was anxious to see her again. The

dance became an agony for both of them as the ribbons slowly wrapped tighter against

the surface of the shaft. Each time she passed both could feel their auras join and be

pulled apart until finally the pole was snugly encased in the ribbons’ silky membrane.

When the dance ended Bella left her dance mates as if walking out of a cloud and

went straight to Rene who was already headed toward her. With each step they took, the

world around them faded into a mist of indefinable shapes and watery colors. The sky,

the clouds and the breeze, the people all disappeared. Neither could see beyond the other.

Theirs was a world of him being the sun and her being the moon, the alpha and the

omega. Without a word they embraced and their fates were sealed forever.

Rene and Bella spent part of everyday together before he would return to university.

They announced their plan to marry. His parents had no great objections. They only

wished she had some kind of dowry except a wedding chest with linens and a pair of

matching candle sticks.

Bella was the third daughter of Floriano Fiore, the soap maker. He was moderately

successful. At certain times of the year, especially in the spring when the blossoms

perfumed the air and the wild flowers formed a palette of yellow or red or purple or blue

over the countryside, Floriano had work for anyone who wanted it. His cauldrons

bubbled and boiled from dawn to dusk and through the night unlocking and capturing the

delicate fragrance of each petal in the form of its essential oil used to scent his soap.

They were a respected and industrious family. Bella was a good girl, always

respectful, kind and helpful. She was not quite the wife Rene’s parents hoped the future

court doctor would marry, but seeing how much in love the two youngsters were, there

was no changing their minds. On his return, they would marry.

The Blossom

Marcella awoke. It was dark and still outside. She heard the steady rhythm of Cesare’s

gentle snoring. She had a little bit of a headache from the wine the night before and

needed something in her stomach. Marcella threw the covers off and sat on the edge of

her bed. The cool floor felt good against her warm feet. She thought about the things

Cesare said the night before. She thought about all of the things she learned about her

usually reticent benefactor. She was excited at the thought of learning how to read. She

was happy he would be her teacher.

Marcella slipped her feet into her slippers and folded the screen back and leaned it

against the wall. Cesare stirred, made a funny little noise between a sigh and whimper,

and settled back into his quiet snoring.

Marcella went into the kitchen, knelt before the hearth, stirred in the ashes until she

found a little orange ember, teased it to the surface with a twig and added some wood

shavings and dried moss. The small bundle of combustibles smoldered and smoked and

after a few well delivered breaths flashed into flame. She added more wood until the fire

grew and shed a soft golden glow into the room.

Marcella took her shawl from the wooden peg on the wall next to the back door and

put it over her head and shoulders. She then grabbed the clay pitcher off the worktable

and headed outside and down the path to the spring. The February morning air was crisp

and exhilarating. When Marcella looked up to the heavens, she felt her mother looking

down from the brilliant black sky that spread out overhead with its myriad of twinkling

stars.

Marcella bent down and plunged the pitcher into the little basin formed in the soft

sandstone over the millennia by the bubbling water of the spring. After filling the pitcher,

she put it aside and put both hands into the cold water. The chilling surge that traveled up

her arms took her breath away. She cupped her hands, brought the water up and splashed

her face. Marcella liked the shock of the icy water against her skin. Of late, she felt

everything more deeply.

Since she moved away from Terra Sanctus and out of the Andano house all of her

senses were heightened, not only physical senses but her emotional sensibility, as well.

This emotional freedom was something new, but at times she felt quite lonely. More than

once tears came to her eyes when she thought about her mother. She only now realized it

was a luxury to be able to cry. Marcella did not have to be strong for anyone else’s sake.

She felt a little lost not being absorbed by someone else’s needs and wants. She thought

of her sisters, their husbands and their babies. She thought of her mother and Farintino.

All of them gave something of themselves to another person and that other person gave

something back to them. She wondered what that would be like, to get something in

return.

Marcella sat on the mossy rocks by the spring and looked into the colorful face of

Aurora who streaked the sky with pink and gray. She rubbed her cold hands together.

With no ill will toward them, she thought of all the time she gave to her sisters, literally

raising them until they were old enough to tend to themselves. Then she had given all of

those years of care to Fausto only to receive the shock of her disgraceful parentage as a

reward. She felt loss for those years. She did not look for someone to blame for that

would truly be a waste of time, and time for Marcella now became very important, very

precious, something not to be squandered.

Her thoughts wandered to the night she ran away from Terra Sanctus and she

revisited the scene in the alley where she had seen the two lovers in the height of passion,

and could only wonder what it was like. Once when she was sixteen she stood in front of

the looking glass, wrapped her arms around herself and gave an open-mouthed kiss to her

image in the glass. It made her sad that she felt nothing, even kissing herself. She took

care to clean the smudge of her lips and cheek off the glass and knew she would never do

that again.

Now still a virgin at age twenty-three, Marcella figured her life was most likely half

over. It seemed so easy and natural for her sisters as, one by one, the young men came,

courted them, married them and took them away. Marcella was happy for her sisters but

could only pretend to share in their excitement. She wondered what that giddiness and

irrational distraction, the excitement and all the smiling and fretting that each of her

sisters went through was all about. She couldn’t understand how a person could be

complete and fully functioning one day and then allow themselves to be conquered by

someone whom they found so singularly appealing, someone they all of a sudden could

not live without.

Marcella just could not understand the attraction. Her sisters’ husbands were strong

and kind and in a way could even be considered handsome. Marcella could not see what

all the fuss was. She loved her sisters as much as they allowed her and God knows her

sisters were no saints. What these young men saw in any of them was beyond her. She

accepted her fate and felt her life unfolded as it did to free her from that silly state. But

Venus in her cunning way would pull the veil away from Marcella and open that precious

and thirsty heart.

The cock crowed and Marcella knew that Cesare would be waking up. She fetched

the pitcher that was next to her and headed to the chicken coop. She disturbed a few

sleeping hens as she collected four eggs. Marcella gathered up a bit of her blouse and

made a little pouch to hold the eggs. She felt the warmth of the eggs as they gently

bounced against her midriff when she walked back to the kitchen.

Once inside Marcella put the pitcher and the eggs on the worktable. She stoked up

the fire and lit a few candles. When the kitchen was cheery and warm, Marcella did

something she never did. She sang, first in a low, barely audible way, just a little louder

than a whisper, loud enough to have her voice sketch out the tune. She forgot the words,

so she substituted “la” for the lyrics. She did remember a line or two from the refrain and

when appropriate sang, “...do not pity me, for love comes on silent wings...do not pity

me, for love is sweet but stings...”

Cesare awoke and heard Marcella. It was the first time he heard her sing and it made

him smile. He stretched, sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Cesare lay on his

chaise with his blanket pulled under his chin. He thought of the day ahead and tried to

remember the strange dreams he had the night before. The few details he did remember

had to do with a character like Pan who had hooves and bent up legs. Then there was a

part of the dream that had something to do with a wooden lady whose face was like a

black sun.

He was glad to have someone else in the house. Marcella was an excellent

housekeeper. The house was so in order that Cesare felt bad if he tracked in mud or if

wood chips fell from his clothes onto the floor.

He kept his eyes closed as he listened. “Tell me little bird, why do you all of a

sudden sing?”

Cesare’s question startled Marcella. When he called her “little bird” the ease and

innocence of the endearment made her blush and made her heart swell. It was something

she was not used to, except for her Zietta Prunella who called all of her nieces by pet

names. Marcella thought it best to stop singing.

“Do not stop, you have a very nice voice, what I can hear of it.”

Marcella could feel her face flush hot for a second or two. “Thank you.” She smiled

and took the heavy copper skillet off the wall and placed it on the crackling orange coals.

“Do not stop.” Cesare got up and pulled on his trousers, then his overshirt. Cesare’s

habits improved since Marcella moved in. He folded his blanket and sheet and put it at

the head of the chaise.

“Please sir, I am shy when it comes to things like that.”

“No need to be shy here. There is only the two of us. Sing for yourself, not for me.”

She poured a little olive oil on the skillet. She broke the eggs in a bowl, whisked

them, added some cut up morels she gathered the day before and some finely cut up

leeks. She poured all of this onto the skillet and turned the edges in toward the center

with a wooden spoon until the eggs were cooked.

What Cesare said made her think and smile. It was true. There were only the two of

them living in such a natural and familiar harmony she felt as if they had always lived

together. But as comfortable and safe as this refuge was, Marcella did have a longing to

see the town where she grew up. Even if the people thought her the odd bird they were

still a part of her life. It was going on two months since she slipped through that secret

door and out of Terra Sanctus and found her way to Cesare’s cottage. She missed her

Aunt Prunella. She missed the twins and even Farintino a little bit. She wanted to put

flowers on her mother’s grave. She wanted to attend mass. Marcella wanted to see a

different face, hear some different words, and smell the smells at the market place.

She put some of the scrambled eggs into a wooden bowl, along with a piece of

bread and a little chunk of soft cheese, then brought the bowl to Cesare who was already

sitting at the table with a wooden spoon in hand.

It was Marcella’s habit to eat standing in the kitchen next to the hearth. It was

something her mother always did, and she saw no reason not to follow in her mother’s

footsteps.

“Very nice breakfast, Marcella,” Cesare licked both sides of the spoon.

“Thank you, sir.” She was unused to receiving compliments and she always felt a

little embarrassment or sometimes she might feel suspicion toward the person giving

them. In this case, she just felt embarrassed. She had long realized that Cesare had no

hidden motives.

“Why do you never share the table with me? I know I am a sight in the morning, but

it cannot be that bad...can it?”

“On no sir, “Marcella felt herself shrink a little, “it is that my mother never sat at the

table with Fausto or Farintino.”

“You are not your mother and I am not Fausto or Farintino. Do you not feel

welcome and comfortable here?”

Marcella could not argue. She was comfortable and she did feel welcome. The tasks

she performed were easily completed by midmorning and she did have time to do

whatever she wanted. “Yes, I am comfortable here and you truly are most kind to me.”

She looked down away from Cesare and spoke in an almost apologetic way, “I do miss

my auntie, and Terra Sanctus.”

Cesare ran his tongue over his teeth. He enjoyed the taste of leeks he had in his

mouth. “Come sit with me. You sat with me last night. Now sit with me this morning. We

will make a plan for you to return to town.” He beckoned with a quick flick of his hand.

Marcella sat at the table across from Cesare. His hair was a little disheveled, and he

had some stubble on his cheeks and chin. He was kind and considerate and she did

appreciate what he was doing for her. From her first adult meeting with him, when she

and Miranda bought the coffin, she instantly liked him very, very much in a way that was

new and a little confusing to her. He was so unlike Fausto and Farintino. Cesare took her

into his house without motive or agenda and for the first time in her life she felt accepted

and at home.

Cesare thought for a few seconds and then spoke up, “What we must do is find out

the mood in town. You were the talk of the gossips. Your Aunt Prunella is right. Some

people delight in the suffering of others. I do not want to see you suffer. We can see the

lane from up here. When you see a traveler going to town tell me. I will ask to have

Giovanni Bellini come visit. He likes to talk and seek out a good story. I will ask for him

to come here and tell us how the people in town feel. It is best that you stay away from

the eyes of the townspeople until we know better. Yes?”

“Yes sir.” Marcella was touched by Cesare’s concern.

“Please, call me Cesare. If we are to enter into a secret scheme, we must be equals.”

Marcella knitted her brow.

Cesare laughed. “Come, now, do not be so serious. Enjoy your breakfast. I know for

certain the person who made it is a good cook.”

Marcella smiled. “Yes, Cesare, I will call you Cesare.”

After a short pause Marcella added, “Thank you, thank you very much.”

Cesare finished up a bit of cheese. He put his bowl on the table after wiping the

sides and bottom clean with his bread which he ate with a satisfied smack of his lips.

From the table, he went back to the chaise, sat and slipped on a pair of woolen socks and

then his wooden clogs.

At the door, he nodded to Marcella who did not see him. She was already cleaning

up from breakfast. She spent part of the morning digesting all of the things that seemed to

be happening so fast: the amazing story Cesare shared the night before, the prospect of

learning to read, the invitation to call him by his Christian name and Cesare’s offer to

help her see her aunt. All of these things swirled around in her mind, her possibilities

changing direction in the same capricious manner as a flock of birds in the open blue sky.

She was feeling something she never felt before. She did not know what it was, but it was

something that flowed from the center of her chest and warmed her entire being. She felt

happy about something. She felt excitement bubbling up in her heart.

Marcella sang the rest of the morning. She mostly sang hymns and hummed the

little songs she learned as a girl. She made her peace with God for taking her mama. She

forgave her mama for dying. She even forgave Fausto, well, as best as she could.

Treasure Most Unexpected

Some ten years earlier when Marcella was a girl of thirteen, Conte Emilio d’Benevita’s

carriage stopped at the cross road and his fellow alumnus Rene Hermes left his company

to travel the last twenty-five leagues back to his home in Adler Lager. From the carriage

window Conte Emilio watched Rene continue his trek, pack on his back, staff in one

hand and his newly acquired basket of food stuffs on the other. When his new

acquaintance was out of sight, the conte rapped on the ceiling of the carriage with his

knuckles. The driver cracked the whip over the heads of the four matched horses and the

carriage lurched and headed down the road toward Casa Bella where Conte Emilio was to

meet his child bride and his future in-laws.

He took in the beautiful countryside. To his right an emerald green forest made up

of smallish conifers, sparingly interspersed with the occasional copse of hardwood trees

covered the eastern face of the slopes. The slopes went from a gentle incline to a steep

and rugged collection of craggy hills forming one side of the valley. On his left the land

opened to rolling meadows, yellow with summer grass. A crystal clear, serpentine stream

ran through the meadows. The stream filled numerous ponds along the way. Rush and

cattails grew on the edges of the ponds. He watched pairs of ducks coolly glide into the

shelter of the reeds as the carriage passed. Conte Emilio was pleased when he saw the

many animal trails crisscrossing the meadows.

The far side of the meadows ended abruptly in a tall perpendicular outcropping of

dark gray stone that rose over a hundred feet high and ran the length of the valley. The

stone folded over on itself in uneven strata that came out of the earth at a steep diagonal

pointing up to the sky. This natural stone barrier was dotted with the occasional tree or

shrub, their roots clinging like desperate fingers onto any little chink or ledge. Ferns and

ivy also grew out of the many small fissures large enough to hold a handful of dirt. Water

from a half dozen small springs seeped and in some instances poured from mossy cracks

and blackened a path where it trickled down the stony formation and collected in the

rugged pools formed by the boulders and rocks that the mountain sloughed off since the

time of creation.

The raised gravel road followed the lazy curves of the stream. The trees came to the

roadside and afforded shade. As the carriage traveled along, the wet meadows sloped up

to pastureland where sheep were busy cropping the grass into short gritty tufts. The conte

passed an orchard of pomegranate trees laden with round red fruit that bent the branches

over so some touched the ground. Workers, along with their children, picked the

pomegranates and put them in a cart that was nearly full.

Further down the road, he passed three buildings. The blacksmith and his family

lived in a dull and smudged cottage. Conte Emilio watched a lovely barefoot girl who

was dressed in a simple white blouse and pale blue overskirt. She was the blacksmith’s

daughter and she put clothing out to dry by draping them over some neatly trimmed rose

bushes that grew on the sunny side of the cottage. The breeze played gently in her curls

and billowed one of the shirts, making the arms puff up as if to reach out for her. The

building next to the cottage was small and dark with no front door. It was the

blacksmith’s shop. Next to the shop was a heap of undistinguishable materials hidden

under a cover of deep blue morning glories.

He passed more cottages and outbuildings nestled in shady hollows. He passed by

orchards of peaches, pears, and apples. There were pens and corrals and coops alive with

squeals and neighs, squawks and clucks. Garden plots made up of neat leafy rows were

tended by peasants who looked up from their work and gave a nod of respect. An ancient

grapevine with a gnarled trunk as round as a man’s leg spread its leafy vines and tendrils

out over an acre; after many generations the grapevine had been trained and manicured

into a clever labyrinth. A shepherd in a striped shirt who tended to his flock bowed and

tipped his cap as the carriage passed.

Around the next curve in the road, Casa Bella proper came into view. The villa was

large but not ostentatious. Its whitewashed facade sparkled in the noon sun. Heat waves

shimmered above the red tile roof. Tall, thin poplar trees lined the perimeter like soldiers.

The way became steep, but the horses pulled without a whinny as the carriage traveled

the last two hundred yards to the front entrance.

Three servants pulled open the huge, iron studded front gates that swung on thick,

ornate hinges that were a fluid fantasy of flattened curls and large spear points. The sound

of the horses’ hooves made a clip-clop echo as the carriage crossed the large paved

courtyard and stopped at the arched entrance.

Signore and Signora Testaoro came out onto the landing. They were dressed in

finery worthy of a visit from a king or queen. They were both heavily jeweled in gold

chains and pearls. An emerald of great quality and size graced La Signora Testaoro’s ring

finger. Il Signore was decked out in his silks and brocades and she in a vibrant blue

gown. Her shoulders were covered by a lavender ermine-trimmed mantle. Her silver hair

was crowned with a sparkling tiara. They quickly looked to each other with wide-eyed

smiles as they watched the carriage with its royal crest painted on the door come to a

stop. Ready servants waited in review on the stairs. Their heads were bowed.

The white haired, senior house servant opened the carriage door, unfolded the step

then offered his hand to the conte for support. The conte was pleased as he peered out of

the carriage, took the servant’s hand and stepped out. Neither d’Benevita nor Testaoro

had ever met. Everything was done via proxies. Count Emilio had the name and Testaoro

certainly had the means. With the wedding each would share in the other’s offering.

After the welcomes and the curtsies Emilio was given the grand tour of the

magnificently appointed house. Il Signore and La Signora were chatty and proud as they

showed off all of their treasures: the rich Persian carpets that were even larger and more

costly than those at the court of Charles VIII of France, the gilded chandeliers that were a

little oversized and dripping with crystal rivaled those of the Medici, the damask

draperies that were exact copies of those that hung in the summer palace of Vladislas,

King of Hungary. Testaoro touted the heavily carved caisson created for them by master

artisan Cesare Lippo whom Emilio actually had heard of. Testaoro showed off an ancient

statue of Venus said to be found off the coast of Crete by sponge divers. He jovially put

his arm around the life-size statue’s shoulder and didn’t mind telling Emilio the

exorbitant price he paid.

In the great room with its paint decorated beams and paneled walls, above a head

high mantle was a portrait of Il Signore and La Signore that Testaoro proudly announced

was painted by a student of the Sandro Botticelli. Other paintings in severely carved and

gilded frames crowded the walls of the rooms, hallways and stairwells. Tapestries

imported from France and Flanders graced the spaces between paintings. As large as the

rooms were they were crowded to the point of being oppressive with opulence. Opulence

that surpassed the d’Benevita’s and for that matter most of the nobles that Conte Emilio

knew. No expense was spared, no shortcut taken. This was a lifetime collection of art and

beautiful things.

When the tour came to an end La Signora took her leave and the men went to

Signore Testaoro’s impressive and well-appointed library.

“Conte, I hope you are enjoying yourself.” Testaoro’s head was bowed slightly.

“Most certainly, signore, most certainly, you have many beautiful and precious

things,” Emilio said as he went to a nearby bookshelf and ran his hand over the spine of

one of the larger books. He turned back to Testaoro who was busy pouring two glasses of

brandy from a highly etched crystal decanter.

“I hope you will take some brandy with me.” He held out the glass to Emilio.

“With pleasure,” Emilio took the glass.

“A toast,” Testaoro cleared his throat. “To a marriage between good families, and

may the scales of good fortune always be tipped our way.”

They drank. The brandy was excellent.

“Yes marriage. Marriage to your daughter, Rosalba is it? When will I meet my

future wife?” Emilio’s tone was good natured.

“You will meet her at dinner, sir.”

Emilio nodded and looked over Testaoro’s shoulder at the rows of books that filled

each shelf. “An impressive library, you must have over a thousand books.”

“Actually closer to two thousand, one thousand nine hundred and fifteen to be

exact,” he gave a nervous smile, “yes ...so many books.”

Again Emilio went to the bookshelf. He pulled the book out that caught his eye

before and was about to open it. Testaoro quickly came to his side and placed his hand on

the cover before Emilio could open it. “Tell me, conte,” he gently took the book from

Emilio’s hand and set in on the table, “Do you know anything about the astrolabe? I have

one here, one of two actually. The other was made as a gift to King Juan II de Castilla.”

He went on almost apologetically, “I have not really had the time to inspect the trifle or

know much about how it works.”

Emilio gladly abandoned the book to his host and followed Testaoro to a curio

cabinet. Testaoro opened the door, removed a box and set it on his desk. Emilio leaned in

as Testaoro undid the clasp, opened the box and gently, almost reverently, removed the

blue velvet sack that protected the astrolabe and set it down. Il Signore loosened the

drawstring and removed the gleaming instrument, laid the sack on the desk and set the

golden, ruby encrusted disk on it.

The instrument was a work of art. The beautifully etched plate, with its concentric

circles and sweeping latitude lines, sat in the mater or shallow base. The outer ring of the

mater was a broad bronze border that was divided into twelve segments, each segment

divided into degrees. On top of the plate was the rete, a fancifully cut filigree offset circle

within a circle crowded with more numbers and the astrological signs and arrows. The

design contained curious hooked star pointers that, when the discs were adjusted

correctly one could find his location on God’s earth below by reckoning the position of

the stars. An ornate scale crossed the center of the beautiful instrument. On top of the

scale was the alidade a straight strip of shiny bronze used as a line of sight.

The conte was struck by the intricacies and workmanship of this clever calculator.

“May I?” he asked as he put his hands out to pick it up for a closer inspection.

“By all means,” answered Testaoro who was more than content to see an expression

of awe on the conte’s face. Testaoro picked up the book that the conte pulled from the

bookshelf, replaced it and returned to his guest.

Emilio turned the piece over and took in the delicately chased designs that decorated

the back of the astrolabe. The piece was signed by Jean Fusoris and dated 1429. “How

did you acquire such a prize?”

“It belonged to my grandfather. He was a trader.” Then he added with nonchalance,

“It is priceless to me.” Testaoro waited for a reaction from d’Benevita who gave a slight

smile and nod.

“I see.” He set the astrolabe down and slowly turned the rete and lined up the scales

to the latitude lines. “I am afraid I cannot be of much help in instructing you on its

workings. This is for sea captains, engineers and architects. As for me, my bent is

philosophy and poetry.”

“Philosophy, eh? My philosophy is carpe diem. Too much thought leads to not

enough action. Action is how I have come to be the master of Casa Bella.” Testaoro

slipped the astrolabe back into its velvet sack, put it in its box, replaced the box in the

curio cabinet then refilled the glasses with brandy. “I came here as a young man and

through hard work, planning, a little scheming,” he added with a wry smile, “and the

mysterious working of God above, I was granted that privilege.”

“I am sure such an honor comes with its responsibilities.”

“Indeed it does. I have a responsibility to my ancestors and my daughter and now an

opportunity to achieve something that will raise the family name and my daughter to a

position of honor and respect.”

“I am sure you are well respected,” the conte assured.

“Respected yes, in this little world I am respected. I demand it and in turn I give my

people a good living and a safe place to live their lives. But to cross into your world, the

world of nobility, I realize it is impossible for me, but not for my precious Rosalba.”

“Yes, nobility, that is something you can have from me.” Emilio raised his glass and

took a sip.

“Yes, now let us discuss the dowry. What exactly did your lawyer tell you? I do not

recall exactly what the amount was.” This was a ploy that Testaoro did not bother to

disguise. He knew the d’Benevita family had suffered three major financial losses in two

years, enough to put them in a position of near destitution, for a noble family anyway.

Emilio was warned by his father and brothers to be careful with Testaoro. The man

was clever and bold and had a way of controlling any situation. Emilio also knew that

Testaoro wanted the title of contessa for his daughter and ultimately, through her, for

himself.

“Any papers I have are in my luggage and I have not unpacked anything yet.

Signore, to be honest, I really had not even looked at any papers or agreements. I am

more the poet and find law a true annoyance. This is a task for those dreary legal folks.”

After a pause, he added with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I think it was fifty

thousand gold pieces, does sound about right?” Emilio knew good and well it was forty

thousand but his feigned ignorance of the amount took Testaoro a little by surprise.

“Fifty thousand gold pieces,” he repeated. Testaoro had a habit of negotiating

everything. His demeanor was pricked, but he held his feelings in check. He did not know

this man, this young pup. Nobles, especially ones whose interest lie in something as silly

as poetry and philosophy may truly be oblivious to such things as to the amount of a

dowry. He wanted to make a counter offer of thirty thousand but thought better of it. “I

will have my scribe go over the papers at your convenience conte, so there is no

question.”

“As you wish my dear host,” Emilio kept his countenance inscrutable. “Does

Rosalba have brothers and sisters?” he asked with a pleasant smile.

“One of each, but both died in infancy.” Testaoro’s answer was flat. He understood

Conte Emilio much better after the question. “Rosalba is my only heir. To protect her

from the uncertainties of life, Casa Bella will remain in her name. It is my legacy to her

and her children, whoever their father might be. What with plague and war with the

Turks, and sometimes our neighbors, and a hundred other ways a man might meet

Brother Death, it is the least I can do for her.”

Emilio kept his pleasant smile all the time Testaoro spoke and nodded in agreement

with his host. “Very wise, a king could not have made a better choice for his daughter.”

The two men remained silent and sipped at their brandy. Even though the air was

cleared the atmosphere in the room was heavy with the two personalities.

Testaoro set his empty glass on the desk. “Dear conte, I will have you shown to your

room now, if you have no objection. I have some business to attend to.”

“Thank you signore,” Emilio drank the rest of his brandy and set his glass next to

Testaoro’s so they touched.

Looking past Conte d’Benevita and without warning Testaoro clapped his hands in

front of Emilio’s face which made the conte flinch. The white haired servant who offered

his hand to Emilio when he first arrived immediately entered the room and bowed to

Testaoro.

“Show the conte to his room, and make sure he is comfortable.”

“Yes sir.” The servant again bowed to Testaoro and then to Emilio.

“Until dinner, conte,” Testaoro crossed his arms and watched his future son-in-law

leave the library.

To Those Who Wait

Dinner was to be a sumptuous affair. The long walnut table was dressed with a cloth of

fine, gold linen accented with mulberry colored serviettes. Gold candelabras were placed

toward the ends and at the center of the table. Between the candelabras, there were vases

holding bouquets of perfectly formed white roses. Very rare porcelain plates that were

recently acquired from the Orient, along with skillfully blown goblets of Venetian glass

were set out for the two dozen plus local guests made up of well to do merchants and

their wives, and the newly appointed Bishop DiMars. At the end of the great table, a

smaller table ran perpendicular to it forming a T-shape. This table which sat on a

platform elevated those at it a head higher and was large enough to accommodate Il

Signore and La Signora with room for five or six others. For the dinner this night only the

master’s and the mistress’s, Rosalba’s and the conte’s high back chairs were on the

platform.

While the kitchen staff and servants were busy preparing for the dinner, Rosalba

was in her room along with her cousin Benedetta. Rosalba was clad in her underskirt and

chemise. She stood by the window and distractedly played with a strand of her hair as she

looked down onto the courtyard and watched another carriage arrive. The guests climbed

out and were greeted by her father and mother.

Benedetta, who was sixteen and two and half years older than her cousin Rosalba,

had four dresses laid out on the bed. She seemed more interested in what Rosalba would

wear than Rosalba did herself.

“Rosie, which one? Which dress? I like the pink one.” Benedetta ran her hand over

the elaborate bead work on the front of the bodice.

Rosalba turned away from the window and managed a smile as she approached her

cousin. “I do not know. They are all so beautiful, you decide.”

“Me? Oh no, not me, I am not the one who is meeting her betrothed,” Benedetta’s

voice bubbled.

“The pink is fine,” Rosalba’s cheerless tone gave away her feelings.

Benedetta put the dress back down on the bed and went to her cousin’s side. “What

is the matter?” She put her hand on Rosalba’s shoulder.

“I do not know. When I was waiting for this day, everything was exciting and fun.

Now that the conte is really here... I do not know... I feel maybe, afraid. What if he does

not find me pretty? Maybe he will not like me.”

Benedetta slipped her arm around her cousin. “Do not be silly, cousin. You are

beautiful and who could not love you? You are like an angel.”

Before Rosalba had time to answer Benedetta, her mother bustled into the room

with her seamstress, Anna.

“Come girl, it is time to get you into your dress.”

“Yes mama, I think the pink one,” Rosalba ventured. Her reply was more a

question.

“Pink, heavens no, that would make you look like a little girl of four.”

Ursula Testaoro took the dress from Rosalba and handed it to Benedetta.

“The black one with the gold ribbing and full sleeves that is the one I want you to

wear.”

With a nod to Anna, the seamstress pulled the footstool out from under the bed and

bid Rosalba to stand on it. She took the black, open back, brocade bodice off the bed and

slipped it onto Rosalba who was waiting with her arms outstretched in front of her. The

seamstress circled Rosalba, pulled and tugged everything tight, and held it in place and

shaped it with some well-placed pins.

“Breath in, signorina.”

Rosalba did and Anna teased away what little slack was left. “Now, signorina,

please do not move. My needle is sharp and I do not want to prick you.” Anna sewed the

bodice onto Rosalba as a pleased Ursula looked on.

Rosalba gently laid her hands on her budding breasts with a look of concern.

“We can help out where God has left off, do not worry about that,” reassured Anna.

From her basket, she pulled two padded rounds and with a deft hand and some gentle

maneuvering passed them under the tight bodice to enhance Rosalba’s bust.

While Ursula and Rosalba admired Anna’s work, Benedetta picked up the pink

dress off the bed. “What is he like Zietta?” asked Benedetta. She held the pink dress up to

herself and swayed back and forth as she spoke.

“He is a conte, what does it matter what he is like.” After a pause and the uneasy

look that crossed her daughter’s face she added gently, “He is very polite and soft

spoken.”

Rosalba stepped off the footstool and went to her mother and hugged her. She

closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her mother’s shoulder.

“Do not worry sweetheart, I am sure he has sensibilities, he seems a good sort, and

from a very old family. Thank your good fortune and your papa.” As she spoke she

gently stroked her daughter’s hair.

Benedetta already held up the gold ribbed sleeves. “Rosie, let us see what it looks

like on you. Come on, I will help you put it on.”

Ursula kissed her daughter on the top of the head. “Yes, let us see how beautiful you

will look in the dress.”

Reassured, Rosalba quit her embrace, returned to the footstool and turned to her

cousin who was all smiles.

“Zietta Ursula, can I wear the pink dress tonight?”

“Of course dear, help Anna. I have to greet guests and in a little while I will send

Magdalena in to do your hair.”

Ursula answered Benedetta’s hopeful look, “and if there is time, your hair too,

Benedetta.”

“Thank you, auntie.”

Ursula left the room. Anna beckoned Benedetta to bring her the sleeves. Anna and

Benedetta buttoned the sleeves onto the bodice. The button holes and buttons were

covered by a scalloped affair that was attached to the bodice at the arm openings.

Benedetta held the gold and black brocade over vest so Rosalba could slip her arms

through the arm openings. With the vest on and laced, Rosalba was ready for her

stockings. These were white silk and Benedetta tied them with a pink ribbon just above

the knee.

Rosalba stepped into her silk overskirt. It was full and free and a deep shiny black

with a golden hem. Anna adjusted it here and there and pulled the lacing tight at the back

of the waistband. She made a lovely transition between the bodice and the skirt with a

gold colored sash. Rosalba stepped into her waiting slippers and looked into the mirror.

Her dress was beautiful. Rosalba felt pretty in spite of the pubescent angst.

Magdalena entered the room. She looked at Rosalba and smiled. “You look lovely

signorina, like an angel.” Magdalena nodded to Anna who was collecting her sewing

things and putting them back into her basket. Magdalena spoke to Anna. “La Signora

wants you to help the guests with their dresses. Please go to her.”

“What about me?” asked Benedetta.

“If I have time, I will come back.” Anna smiled once more at Rosalba and left the

room.

Magdalena had been with the Testaoros for many, many years. She came as part of

Ursula’s dowry, so to speak. She was an ageless, tall, thin woman with dark skin and

even darker eyes. Her face was angular and the constant clef of her brow made her appear

always angry. Her looks did not really reflect the gentle soul within. She wore her gray

hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her clothes were the same cut and color as

long as anyone could remember; a simple black over dress and a gray, long sleeve blouse

with a large white collar.

Magdalena had combed and braided Rosalba’s and Benedetta’s hair for them since

it was long enough to tie in a ribbon. “Girls, come sit at the dressing table,” she said as

she set a basket down.

“Which dress do you like best?” chirped Benedetta.

“They are all beautiful. Which one do you like?” Magdalena asked as she took little

pots and bottles and wrappings of pastes, balms and potions out of the basket and set

them in a neat row in front of the mirror.

“I like the pink one.” Benedetta looked over at the dress that lay on the bed.

“A very good choice, signorina,” Magdalena did not bother to look over at the dress.

She ran her fingers through Rosalba’s hair getting out the major snags and freeing it up.

First she covered Rosalba’s shoulders with a large piece of cloth to protect her dress. She

brushed Rosalba’s long curly hair and with each brush stroke the girl’s head was pulled

back along with her hair.

“Ow, please Magdalena, that hurts.”

“Your hair is so tangled signorina. I am being as gentle as I can. We must tame this

wildness. We must pull it back away from your face.” Magdalena set the brush down and

gathered Rosalba’s hair up in her hands and pulled it back and deftly tied it fast. She

looked at the girl’s reflection in the mirror. Rosalba looked so young and unsure.

“You have such a beautiful face signorina, let us make your hair your crown.”

Magdalena first parted the hair at the front of Rosalba’s head then made small braids and

loosely coiled them in gold ribbon. She wound the braids together in an elaborate pattern

toward the back of Rosalba’s head.

Magdalena was ready to work on the front of Rosalba’s hair. She took back the

cloth that covered one of the little clay pots and dipped her fingers into a gooey mass

made of olive oil, beeswax and essence of roses, then molded Rosalba’s locks with the

concoction to help keep the hair away from her face and as high on her forehead as

possible.

Magdalena took a long string of seed pearls out of the basket and arranged them

around the coils and braids. She reached back into the basket and retrieved a small pearl

necklace with a large teardrop shaped pearl as its centerpiece. This string of pearls she

fastened in Rosalba’s hair so the teardrop hung down on her forehead just under the point

where her hair was parted. Magdalena held up a hand mirror so Rosalba could see the

back and sides of her handiwork.

“It looks wonderful,” Rosalba smiled.

“Thank you signorina, now I must attend to the guests.”

Benedetta spoke up. “Do you have time for me, Magdalena?”

“I am sorry Benedetta, I must go now, but if I am not needed I will come back.”

Though disappointed, Benedetta smiled and looked at her cousin who was still

admiring Anna’s and Magdalena’s work. Magdalena bowed and left the room.

Benedetta approached the dressing table and stood behind her cousin.

They both looked in the mirror at themselves.

11

The guests had arrived by early afternoon. They were greeted and shown the

greatest hospitality by Il Signore and La Signora. Conte Emilio d’Benevita received

countless curtsies and bows. The women were taken by his good looks and witty replies.

He was used to this kind of attention and was eager to learn about the men and women

whom he would ultimately have to deal. He fancied himself a fairly good judge of

character and relied on first impressions as being the true telling of a person.

The time before dinner was spent in chitchat and anecdotes, bragging, business and

gossip. The Patriarcas, always a little standoffish but not really aloof, were one of the

oldest families, and the closest to Testaoro when it came to money and holdings, but they

were a very distant second. Emilio was the center of this gay little universe with the

heads of the different families orbiting around him vying for his attention and looking to

impress him. All he had to do was ask about someone who was out of earshot and his

current conversation mates gave a steady flow of information.

As the afternoon wore on Emilio had enough of the dull and stuffy merchants and

their endless talk of treaties, trade and the Turks. He excused himself and made his way

out to the flower garden. He followed a gravel path to a fish pond and sat on a stone

bench. The fresh air and the cool stone were a wonderful tonic. He hadn’t been there for

more than a few minutes when he heard the crunching sound of footsteps coming up the

path toward him. Emilio sighed.

It was Lorenzo Patriarca. Patriarca was surprised to see Conte Emilio sitting there

alone. Lorenzo too had his fill of the others and was looking for a respite.

“I am sorry to disturb your quiet, conte. If you find my presence disagreeable,

merely nod and I will away.” Patriarca stopped several paces from the bench.

“Oh no, I needed some fresh air. It is so beautiful out here right now.” A

mockingbird twittered in a nearby tree as the conte spoke. “I invite you, please sit.”

Lorenzo sat on the bench next to the conte. For a good long minute, they remained

silent, stared into the fish pond and watched a dozen multi-colored carp glide gracefully

just under the surface of the water.

“I know we were introduced, and please forgive me, but I have forgotten your

name.” Conte Emilio gave an apologetic smile.

“My name, so much is in a name.” There was a haunting distance in his eyes. “It is

Lorenzo Patriarca.”

“So you are looking for a rest from the party as well.”

“Oh yes. I have known these men for years. I can tell you almost to a word what

they will say and what stories they will tell and how much they paid for this or that. I am

looking for a rest.”

Again they were silent until Emilio spoke. “Tell me, signore, who exactly is this

man Testaoro? Yes he is very rich and this world of his rivals some duchies.”

Patriarca reached into his doublet and pulled out a silver flask, “Anise, dear conte?”

Lorenzo offered the flask to Emilio. Emilio took the flask and unscrewed the lid. He took

a sip of the sweet aperitif and handed it back.

“Thank you. Very good.” Emilio licked his lips.

Lorenzo then took some. He held the syrupy, licorice flavored liquor in his mouth

and with closed eyes and a smile swallowed it. He savored the warmth that spread

throughout his chest. “Testaoro? How he got such vast wealth is a mystery. Well, maybe

not too much of one. His family has only been here for forty or so years.”

“To build such a magnificent villa and grounds in such a short time,” Emilio was on

the verge of being impressed.

“Oh no, no, no, he did not build it. Casa Bella was built after the last crusades.”

Lorenzo moved in a little closer to Emilio and gave a quick glance over his shoulder

ensuring they were alone. He spoke softly drawing the conte in even closer. “There are

stories.” Lorenzo moved in so their shoulders touched. “It is said his grandfather was a

pirate who preyed on the trade ships either going to or coming back from the East. The

man was as well organized as he was merciless. It is said the first thing he would do after

he boarded a ship was to kill the captain and the officers, put armed men on the captured

ship and force the crew to transfer the trade goods to a few of his ships he had waiting,

then transport the goods to different ports and sell to brokers. It is also said he would kill

the crew and scuttle the ship he just plundered. Mind you these are just stories.”

Emilio nodded. He understood the wealth one could gain in the spice and silk trades.

His family had ships captained by brave men and brave crews who crossed the Adriatic

for Persia or Africa. One of the devastating monetary losses his family incurred leading

him to this marriage was due to losing five ships in unseasonable storms in the course of

two months. Losing the ships and the men was a human tragedy. Having to pay back the

money lenders, the loans the d’Benevita family took out to stock the ships with trade

goods was a financial catastrophe.

“A pirate you say,” Emilio could not hide the concern on his face.

“Only stories,” Lorenzo said wistfully. “Another rumor is that he comes from a long

line of alchemists who have learned the secret of turning lead into gold. It is hard to say.

He does have a magnificent library, but he has never opened it to scholars, or to anyone

for that matter. From what little I know of him and the way he deals with the rest of us, I

do not believe he has the right sensibility for such work.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can be brutish... he likes to get his way.”

“I see. And, what is your story, sir? Your name has a noble ring to it.”

Lorenzo smiled and looked over at the conte. “Perhaps during the ancient Roman

Empire, there is some family myth to that extent. The story goes that one of my ancestors

was in the Ordo Equester, but you know that a myth might have a seed of truth in it and it

can be made to grow into something to suit one’s fancy. We live in the ancestral home

not that far from here, on two hundred or so acres. We raise fine horses as my father’s

father, and his father and on and on back to the sack of Rome, and of all things,

hazelnuts. It seems one of my great grandfathers enjoyed them so he decided to cover

acres with trees. And of course we also collect our rents.”

“So, you do not think Testaoro could be an alchemist.”

Lorenzo shook his head no and chuckled. “He’d be more of a pirate. Do you have an

interest in alchemy, conte?”

The conte gave an easy smile. “Of course, I have an interest in many things,

alchemy, magnetism, necromancy, philosophy, poetry,” Emilio said enthusiastically.

Patriarca backed away from his intimate pose. “A dabbler in the black arts?”

Lorenzo smiled at the careless revelation.

Emilio was quick to explain himself. “Oh, not me, but I do have an interest, I like to

read treatises and writing by wise men on such subjects, purely out of curiosity you

know.” He hopefully added, “Do you?”

“My interests lie in more practical and earthly things: horses, hazelnuts and rents. I,

unfortunately, do not have the time for such abstract diversions. I am not a wise or an

educated man such as yourself, but I dare to offer that you do not tell too many people of

these controversial and in some cases heretical interests.”

Emilio thoughtfully nodded. He could not tell by the tone of his voice if Lorenzo

was being sincere or droll.

“Now, I take my leave, I must return to my wife before she gives away all of my

family secrets. I am sure you know how gossip can be.”

Emilio wasn’t quite sure if he was being patronized. Lorenzo Patriarca stood,

bowed, gave Emilio a wink and headed back down the path to the villa.

Emilio sat there for a few moments more. Lorenzo Patriarca seemed to be educated,

more than just another grasping merchant. Emilio wasn’t sure if he connected on some

kind of personal level with the man. There was something unsettling about the way the

conversation ended. The conte was irritated with himself for mentioning his interest in

alchemy, magnetism and necromancy. Discussing such things or even mentioning them

to the uneducated might leave him vulnerable to rumors.

Conte Emilio thought about how easy the conversation was between his fellow

alumnus Rene Hermes and himself in the confines of the carriage just that morning. Rene

went to the same university. They had common interests and they were both educated.

Both were reasonable young men.

A Young Man’s Fortune

Exactly ten days from meeting Conte Emilio d’Benevita and then his fortunate encounter

with Duke Gunter’s party returning from Rome to Adler Lager, Rene Hermes took heart

when the large wooden wagon he and the delegates rode in lumbered over the last rise

and his hometown finally came into view.

The noon sun illuminated the pale gray city walls made of neatly cut and fitted

stones. The walls stood a little over twenty-five feet high. Rene saw the proud campanile

that dominated the saw tooth roofline that flowed together under a mantle of dusty pink

roof tiles. The wagon made its way to the south gate and stopped at the wooden bridge

that spanned the moat. Lily pads floated lazily on top of the still, green water. Duke

Gunter abandoned the drawbridge and replaced it with a permanent bridge and two

massive wooden doors that were open. The wagon started up again, passed between the

two great turrets, under the narrow observation bridge that connected them and onto the

cobble stone street that broadened into the flagstone square.

Two and three story, pastel colored buildings lined the lanes. Their small windows

were framed in the geometric designs of the dark, exposed half-timber. Rene drank in the

sights and sounds and smells that welcomed him home. He was bursting to get out of the

wagon and make his way to Bella.

The wagon stopped. There was a collective sigh from the men and quite a bit of

stretching and yawning. They were in that transitional place in time when the novelty,

excitement and risk of travel that frees one from the humdrum and routine was sadly

over. Things would return to normal. When the doors were opened and the sunlight

washed over them the camaraderie and closeness they shared rapidly vanished into the all

too familiar atmosphere of status and rank.

Rene thanked his hosts and the captain and gave smiling nods to the soldiers who

were dismounting. Wives, families and friends greeted the returning travelers. Though

the crowd was small, it seemed as if Rene could not get clear of them fast enough. He

quickly walked past the baker’s shop, by the chandlers and around the corner. He took his

usual shortcut through the Widow Eider’s garden. With his mind only on Bella he did not

even notice the old woman who was stooped over cutting some Swiss chard. He rushed

on past startling the widow.

“Who’s that?” she called out in her distinctive shaky voice. Rene had no time for the

courtesy of an answer. He reached the lane and headed for the fifth house on the right.

The picket fence in front of the house and the trellis that surrounded the doorway

were heavy with morning glories. And there she was. The lovely centerpiece was framed

in this profusion of deep green, heart-shaped leaves and cobalt flowers that danced on the

breeze. She had her back to Rene. Bella was kneeling down, brush in hand, bucket of

water next to her, scrubbing the front steps. The sun deepened the richness of her auburn

hair. Rene slowed his pace so he could savor those last delicious moments before he

would take her in his arms. He approached her as quietly as he could. She was unaware

of his presence lost in the sounds and rhythm of her work. Rene knelt down next to her

and leaned against her shoulder. “Bella, sweetheart, I am home,” he said gently.

He had taken her by surprise. She looked over at him, eyes widened, lips slightly

parted in an unsure smile. “Rene, it is you. You have finally come back to me.” She

dropped the brush and sat back onto her heels.

Rene took Bella’s hand and they stood. He pulled her close and felt excitement and

relief. The longing of so many months and days and hours away from her disappeared

into a distant recess of his mind where this time in their lives would become a sweet and

callow memory. She gave an airy sigh as he held her tighter. He felt her yielding breasts

against his chest, her thighs pressed against his. He felt her shiver in his close embrace.

Rene closed his eyes and put his cheek against hers. He smiled when her hair, her

beautiful auburn hair with the scent of lavender, tickled his neck.

They stood in this embrace for as long as they dared. They breathed as one, their

hearts beat as one, their individuality flickered and faded only to be reborn and rush to

merge into something so inexplicable, so fantastically joyful that again, as they

experienced so many months before on the first day of May, time and space melted away

and they found themselves on the threshold of eternity. Their long awaited kiss opened

that door.

Bella kissed him again and again. His downy beard was a new addition and she

welcomed the way it prickled against her face. She was flooded with a thousand

sensations at once. She felt that every moment, every action, everything she had ever

done or said or planned to do was a step in her life’s journey leading to this moment, to

this place, to this embrace. She was finally there. She finally arrived and felt herself

opening like a flower under the warm rays of the sun at dawn. Her past was like a veil

that slipped off and floated away behind her. There was only the present and the future.

“Who is this man? Get away from my daughter!” Bella’s mother, Gelsomina, stood

on the top step, narrowed her eyes, and armed with a broom was ready to swing it at

Rene.

The two lovers snapped back into reality and looked at Signora Fiore as if

awakening from a stupor. “Mama, he is back,” Bella held up her arm to shield Rene from

the threatened blow. Rene turned toward Bella’s mother and offered an intoxicated grin.

La Signora’s glare changed to a smile. She brought the broom to her side and went

to the couple. “Signore Rene, it is so good to see you again. We did not know when you

were coming back. We did not think for two more weeks.”

Rene and Bella were reluctant to drop their embrace.

“Children, please, come inside, what will the neighbors think?”

Still euphoric and giddy the two held hands and followed Signora Fiore into the

house. The rest of the afternoon was spent in the glow of being reunited. The Fiore family

welcomed Rene back with an impromptu closing of the shop and killing two young

cocks.

The aroma of the chickens simmering in white wine and oregano, basil, garlic and

olive oil filled the house. Rene and Bella were sitting next to each other on a settee in the

front room. They were holding hands much to the disapproval of Floriano Fiore who,

every time he looked at his daughter he wrinkled his brow and stared directly at the

couple’s clasped hands. He used every facial expression that he could to convey to Rene

that he did not like, not in the least, how close he was sitting next to Bella. Even though

they were quite busy looking into each other’s eyes, Rene did notice.

Bella’s parents and her two older sisters, Ornella and Giacinta and two younger

sisters, Giglia and Perlita, crowded into the two remaining chairs and asked Rene

question after question which he answered most graciously. Bella’s mother entered the

room and saw that her chair was taken by two younger daughters who looked gleefully at

their older sister and her suitor. Signora Fiore smiled at the two youngsters and stationed

herself next to her husband’s chair.

Rene looked at Bella’s mother, excused himself, went to the kitchen and brought out

a stool. He offered her his seat next to Bella and sat on the stool which he placed next to

la signora. Il signore smiled, the girls and their mother looked on Rene’s action as

nothing short of chivalrous. Signora Fiore sat next to her daughter and took Bella’s hand.

Before Rene could bask in the feminine adoration for very long, a loud knock on the

front door echoed in the room. The two younger sisters ran to the front door and threw it

open. Rene’s father and mother stood at the threshold.

“Fiore, I am looking for my son. I believe he must be here.” Titus Hermes’s voice

was strong but not grave or threatening. Rene’s mother, Isabella, looked around the front

room at the chairs crowded with the Fiore girls. At the sound of Titus Hermes’s voice

Floriano quickly stood up and went to greet the unexpected guest.

Rene stood as well and crossed the room. His arms were extended as he approached

his mother. They hugged. He went to his father and hugged him. Signore Fiore stood a

little back from the reunion. By this time, everyone in the room was standing. Signore

and Signora Fiore bowed to Rene’s parents and gave a smiling side glance to each other.

“Signore, la signora, welcome to my home.” He bowed.

“Thank you. What is that glorious aroma?”

Bella’s mother answered, “It is chicken in wine. Will you do us the honor of sharing

our table?”

The Hermes made an agreeable nod together. “That is very kind of you. This is a

good enough time as any to get to know each other.” Signore Fiore guided Titus Hermes

to his chair, and Gelsomina Fiore did the same for Isabella Hermes. The older daughters

left the room and returned in minutes with a small serving table that they set out with a

tray filled with fruit, cheese and biscotti. The younger daughters appeared with wine and

glasses for Titus, Isabella, Rene and their father. La Signora did not drink. All of the

girls, including Bella, left the room, crowded into the kitchen and spoke excitedly in

hushed voices.

“Well Fiore, it seems we are to join families. How many daughters?”

“Five living, two died as babies, one son Andrea who is away fighting against the

Turks.”

“Cursed heathens, I see. Tell me something of your business.” Titus took a sip of

wine. “I see donkeys and sometimes wagons come and go from here with what I think is

soap, is it not?”

It pleased Signore Fiore that Hermes noticed. Fiore and his wife were sitting on the

settee. “It is true sir. We sell our soap here at market and as far as Italy and Poland. Some

we sell to a Jew who is said to take it to France, but I am not sure. Have you never bought

our soap?”

“I am not sure, have we Isabella?”

Isabella Hermes blushed with embarrassment. She made her own soap and did not

think it necessary to buy it. “If not, we will in the future.”

Fiore looked at his wife. “Mama, go fetch some and check on the dinner.”

Rene sat silent. He kept looking toward the kitchen door hoping to get a glimpse of

Bella. Whenever she passed by the doorway, she would stop and look out to see Rene and

smile.

“My son had quite an adventure on the way home.” Titus looked over at Rene with

an expectant look that conveyed he wanted to hear the story from him. He had heard little

pieces from one of the delegates and the bishop, something about Conte d’Benevita.

Rene relayed what happened. He didn’t put too much into the meeting with the

conte. They were only together for maybe an hour and a half. But for his father’s and

mother’s sakes he went into great detail about how lovely the conte’s carriage was and

how both he and the conte attended university at Padua and how generous the conte was

by giving him a basket of food. Rene told them about the conte’s impending marriage.

Rene excluded their conversation about alchemy, magnetism and necromancy.

The rest of the trip was uneventful except for two of the soldiers who hunted down

an immature black bear which was a welcome change to their diet, and the heavy rain

storm that muddied the road so much the wagon nearly slid sideways into a fast moving

stream. “And by the grace of God our wagon was stopped by a boulder.” His audience sat

rapt by the adventure quite thankful that Rene was here to tell his story. Isabella made the

sign of the cross. Gelsomina also made the sign of the cross at the same time. Both

women smiled.

Gelsomina excused herself and left the room. She went to the pantry which was just

off the kitchen and selected two lumps of soap for Isabella. One was heavy with the scent

of lavender and the other, a favorite with the Fiore girls, was scented with jonquil. She

wrapped the soaps in a little scrap of cheese cloth, stood at the kitchen doorway and

surveyed the progress of the dinner.

Giglia and Ornella took the heirloom tablecloth out of the cedar chest and spread it

out on the table along with matching napkins for everyone. Giglia placed the salt cellar to

hide a stubborn stain that no one had been able to get out. Bella dragged two high-backed

chairs and put them at the head of the table for her mother and father. Ornella put out clay

tumblers and a pitcher of lemon water for the girls.

Perlita and Giacinta filled three wooden trenchers with cut up pieces of chicken,

carrots and slices of raw cucumber. Bella took the lid off the shallow clay pot that was

nestled in the coals. A steamy cloud laced with rosemary swirled up around her into the

already spiced air. Bella quickly lifted the hot rolls out of the clay pot and placed them in

two baskets. She covered the rolls with a cloth and placed the baskets on either end of the

table. Giacinta and Perlita followed with the steaming trenchers, placing them within easy

reach. Signora Fiore returned to the front room. There was a lull in the conversation. Her

husband and their guests were sampling the dainties her daughters set out on the serving

stand.

“Signora Hermes, I have something for you.” Gelsomina bowed and handed the

soaps to Isabella.

“Please, call me Isabella.” She extended her hand and took the soap. Isabella held

the soap under her nose, closed her eyes and savored the delicate scents. She opened her

eyes and smiled at Gelsomina who looked on in anticipation for Isabella’s opinion. “Oh,

thank you so very much. These are heavenly. If I had only known, Titus, it is as if I were

holding a bouquet of lavender. And the other is so sweet.”

“Jonquil,” offered Gelsomina.

“Mama, Papa the table is set,” called out Bella.

At those welcome words, everyone went to the dining table. Il signore and la

signora sat at the head of the table, with Titus at Floriano’s right and Isabella at

Gelsomina’s left. Rene sat next to his father and Bella sat next to her future mother in

law. The rest of the girls took their usual places.

“Papa, we are ready,” said Gelsomina. Everyone held hands around the table and

bowed their heads. Floriano cleared his throat and began. “Oh Heavenly Father, we

humbly give thanks for these gifts of food. We give you thanks for safely returning Rene

to Bella, and we give thanks that our two families will become one, through Our Lord

and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

When the blessing ended Titus and Isabella looked on the bright faces of Bella’s

sisters. They acted so light of heart and spoke so kindly toward each other there wasn’t

the slightest hint of envy or jealousy toward Bella, only the satisfied serenity of knowing

someone you love will be happy. Rene and Bella looked across the table at each other.

The aura of joy, warmth and love they had for one another spread and embraced the two

families. Everyone present knew Rene and Bella were meant to be together for now and

always. A smile, an innocent observation, a heartfelt compliment made their simple

repast a splendid feast.

Passage

And as it was ten days earlier, Conte Emilio d’Benevita remained seated on the stone

bench by the fish pond where Lorenzo Patriarca left him. He wished he had one of his

brothers along for company. Emilio heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel walk. The

sun was low in the sky. It was the figure of the white-haired, antique servant who helped

him from his carriage that morning.

The servant approached the conte, stopped a few paces away and bowed. Signore

Testaoro sent the servant out to collect his missing guest. The conte was right where

Lorenzo Patriarca said he would be.

“Sir, Il Signore Testaoro requests that you come for dinner.”

Emilio looked at the elderly man and smiled. “And what might be your name?”

“Helmut, sir, will you be coming along with me now?”

“This place is certainly beautiful.”

The servant bowed, “As you say, sir.”

“Helmut, you have been with Testaoro for a long time?” Emilio placed his palms

flat on the stone bench, arched his back and stretched. He discovered over the years that

servants, if spoken to in a familiar and friendly way are more likely to share what they

know.

“Yes sir.” Helmut stood a little stooped; the man looked tired.

“And he treats you well?” Emilio smiled and subtly nodded yes.

“Yes, sir,” was Helmut’s dry answer.

“You must have known his father and grandfather.”

“Yes.”

Emilio was becoming impatient with Helmut’s sphinxlike attitude. He continued in

a leisurely manner, “What was he like?”

“Which Signore Testaoro?”

“The grandfather, what was his first name again?”

“Godrico Testaoro. I really could not say what he was like, sir. I was just a little

boy.” Helmut glanced down the path and then expectantly back at Conte Emilio.

“I heard he was a seafaring man, a trader in goods.”

“That may be so sir.”

“Did he captain his own ship?”

“Sir, I must return to Il Signore with your answer.”

The conte smiled, ”Yes, I suppose you must return to your master. One more thing,

and please dispel this rumor that Godrico really was not a pirate, or was he?”

Emilio looked for any subtle movement in the man’s face, a nod or an involuntary

blink; some signal that he struck a nerve with the question. The only reaction was the

slightest hint of a grin on Helmut’s lips.

“I would not know such things sir. Perhaps you should address your question to Il

Signore. Should I tell him you will be coming now?”

“Yes, I will join them in a moment.”

“Very good sir.” Helmut bowed, turned and trundled back down the path.

Emilio sat for another minute or two before he too headed back. As he walked he

collected his thoughts. He heard the strains of a lute and flute coming from the brightly lit

hall where the guests were assembled, seated and waiting.

A few of the guests at the table picked up the porcelain plates and were amazed by

the translucent quality and the delicate, hand painted designs. La Signora explained that

the plates came from Cathay. The guests enjoyed the novelty of the small, finely made

two tine silver forks that were a miniature version of the large iron forks used in the

scullery. Ursula explained that the Medici introduced the idea of using a fork for eating

and so they should use the fork as well.

When Emilio finally entered, Testaoro who was seated at the raised table stood and

beckoned to the conte in a grand manner. Il Signore smiled through his impatience. He

was anxious for his Rosalba to make her grand entrance.

Emilio crossed the marble floor and headed to his host and hostess. Testaoro had

already stepped down from the platform and met Emilio half way. All heads were turned

toward Testaoro as he embraced Emilio, giving him a kiss on each cheek. He draped his

arm around the conte and guided him to his seat which was to his left. Emilio sat down

next to the empty chair on his left that he figured was reserved for Rosalba. He looked

over at La Signora Testaoro who acknowledged him with a smile.

Two houseboys noisily unlatched the tall arched doors that opened into the great

room. The musicians stopped playing. The guest looked over as Rosalba entered. Rosalba

looked beautiful in her black and gold dress. The guests applauded. The men stood,

except for the conte. Rosalba’s father left his seat and met his daughter. He took her hand

and they stopped in front of the conte.

“Conte Emilio d’Benevita, I present to you, my daughter Rosalba d’Silva Testaoro.”

Rosalba blushed and lowered her eyes. She curtsied and held her bow a little too

long. Her father gave a slight tug on her hand and she stood up and timidly looked Emilio

in the eyes. Conte Emilio was pleased to see such a pretty creature standing before him.

He too clapped his hands and smiled. Testaoro led his daughter to her seat and he took

his. The musicians began to play again.

“I must say, you quite please me,” said Emilio as he took Rosalba’s hand and kissed

it then slowly let go his hold.

“Thank you, sir.” Rosalba flushed. The back of her hand tingled from the touch of

his lips. She didn’t really know what to say, so she fell back and smiled.

The short silence that followed was broken by Ursula Testaoro. “Rosalba has

learned to play the flute quite well.”

“Is that so? I am sure you will play for me sometime.”

Rosalba felt her mother’s leg tap against hers. She looked over at her mother. Ursula

raised her eyebrows.

Rosalba addressed the conte, “do you play the flute, sir?”

Emilio playfully rejoined, “oh no, not me, but I listen to music quite well.”

Rosalba took her cue from her father who gave a hearty chuckle. He was joined by

Ursula and finally Rosalba.

Il Signore cleared his throat. He looked at Bishop DiMars and nodded. The guests

became quiet. The lute player and the flautist stopped.

The bishop looked around the table until all eyes were on him. He raised his hands

shoulder high, palms up, and began, “In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen.

We thank our Heavenly Father for this bounty He has bestowed upon us, his faithful and

industrious servants. We are thankful too for His bringing the Testaoro and the

d’Benevita families together. We thank our host for including us on this blessed day

when two young people, Rosalba, the jewel in the fatherly crown of our dear host Cosimo

Testaoro, and Conte Emilio d’Benevita, from the noble and glorious family that has made

this republic what it is today, will be as one and share in all that life has to offer them.

And through the grace and love of Our Lord Jesus Christ may we celebrate this holy

union through Him, and in Him and with Him, amen.”

There was a hushed collective “amen” in return. The guests slowly raised their

heads as if from a deep sleep and returned to the feast at hand. The ewerer with his helper

brought around the aquamanile filled with warm, herb-scented water and white rose

petals. The ewewer’s helper placed the basin under the conte’s hands and the ewerer

poured the water so the conte could wash his hands. The servants repeated this washing

ritual. They went next to Cosimo Testaoro, to Ursula, Rosalba then to each guest, making

sure to keep in mind the order in which the guests were seated. The closest guest to the

conte and Il Signore were serviced first.

The lute player and the flautist began playing a lively air. Much to Rosalba’s relief

Helmut entered the room followed by six servants in like, elaborate costumes. Each

carried a great silver platter.

Helmut stopped in front of Testaoro and announced in his beautiful baritone voice,

“sturgeon in aspic with glazed apple slices.”

The guests oohed and ahhed at the offering.

“Conte, would you care for some?” asked Testaoro. “You must try it.” With that

said, Il Signore beckoned to the servant, who brought the tray and servers in tow to the

raised table.

“Dear host, I am sorry to say I am not much of a fish eater.”

“You must try some, here, here...” he called the servant closer and with his own

hand took the serving spoon from the servant and put a modest piece of fish on the plate

the conte shared with Rosalba.

This little spurt of oppressive generosity irked Emilio. “Thank you so very much,

signore, and you? Are you having some?”

“No, I am afraid if I start, that is all I will eat. And there are many more courses.”

He wagged his finger at the servant.

Emilio looked down at his plate with an impatient frown. Rosalba saw. Her father

could be pushy. She touched Emilio’s arm. “I will have it,” said Rosalba softly.

Emilio looked at his bride to be with a new opinion and nodded with approval. She

blushed but smiled back. Rosalba reached onto the plate and worked off a good sized

flake of the white flesh with her fingers. Ursula stopped her before she could put it to her

lips.

“Rosalba, are you forgetting? We use the fork now.” Her reminder was gentle.

Rosalba put the piece of fish back on the plate, picked up her fork and with some

difficulty was able to balance the morsel on the two tines and then bring it to her mouth.

The piece fell back onto the plate.

After three attempts, “use your fingers,” suggested the conte, “it is easier that way.”

He then took up the fallen morsel in his own fingers and brought it to Rosalba’s mouth.

Her heart raced when his fingers brushed her lips. She looked past the conte to her father

who gave her a wink and approving nod.

The servers offered the food to Ursula and followed the same path as the ewerer did.

Those guests closest to the conte and Il Signore were served first. Couples shared one

plate and could choose from the tray. When those servants finished serving the first

course they placed the tray on a large, ornately carved, dark wood sideboard and returned

to the kitchen.

Again Helmut approached the raised table and addressed Testaoro,

“Saddle of lamb with nutted wine.”

Testaoro pointed at the conte’s plate and looked at the conte.

The conte nodded.

The server put a goodly slice of meat on the conte’s plate. He then poured the thick

brown gravy heavy with slivers of almonds onto the meat.

Conte Emilio reached into his doublet and came out with his own utensils. He slid

the lid open on a delicately carved, narrow wooden case and removed two knives. One

knife was maybe six inches long with a sharp blade and the other knife’s blade was short

and lancet shaped. He held the slice of lamb down with the short bladed knife and used

the larger knife to cut off a bite sized piece. He speared the piece of lamb with the short

blade, deftly drew it through the sauce on his plate and held it up for Rosalba to eat.

The guests ate and talked and gossiped, told some ribald stories, and touched on

politics which caused some tension between a few of the men. Six more courses were

served: fried artichokes, towres, a kind of omelet with chopped veal, figs stuffed with

cinnamoned eggs, fried loach with roses and almonds and the last course was an

assortment of tarts, fritters and candied fruits. All of this was washed down with copious

amounts of pomegranate, grape or mulberry wine.

As the feast raged on around them, Emilio and Rosalba were in their own little

world. Emilio allayed Rosalba’s shyness by telling her how pretty her dress was and how

lovely her hair was fixed. As he dutifully cut up her food and fed it to her he asked

Rosalba what music she liked, who her favorite saint was, if she knew how to read, even

her favorite color and dessert. With each question she answered Rosalba felt more at ease

and after finishing two small glasses of wine, confident enough to ask the conte the same.

Emilio looked past Rosalba at Ursula and could imagine what this young girl would look

like when she matured.

By the last course, the great room had become warm and stuffy and the guests were

uncomfortably full. The women went on in their singsong way that sounded like so many

squawking birds. The men, after having their tongues loosened and wits dulled by the

nectar of Dionysius, found themselves in loud and lively discussion that went round and

round until they were reduced to repeating themselves in louder and louder voices.

Cosimo and Ursula Testaoro and Bishop Di Mars, goblets in hand, closed

themselves away in a nicely appointed drawing room and made themselves comfortable

on a richly upholstered settee. The Testaoros wanted to discuss the wedding. This left

Emilio and Rosalba isolated at the raised table.

As they ate the last bites of their plum and currant tarts, Emilio asked. “What do you

say we go for a stroll outside?” Emilio’s sensibilities had been battered enough by the

local brand of humanity.

“Alone with you?” Panic set in.

“Have no fear. I will keep you safe.”

“I must have someone come along with us.” By the worried look on her face Emilio

gladly acquiesced to her girlish innocence. “I will call my cousin Benedette.”

“If you like, send someone to fetch her. I must get to know your whole family,” said

Emilio cheerfully.

Benedette sat toward the end of the table. She was between the wife of Vitorio

Deminio, a successful wine merchant and their soured twenty-two year old daughter,

Diana, who had missed her chances at marriage because she was told by her mother once

too often she was too good for the men who approached her.

Benedette enjoyed the food if not the company and at the first sign that her cousin

was trying to get her attention, unceremoniously excused herself in the middle of

Deminio’s daughter’s droning description of her sad and loveless life. Benedette had all

she could do not to race to Rosalba and the conte. Benedette bowed to the conte. They

met earlier and spoke some that afternoon. Benedette was taken by Emilio as were almost

all the women who were there.

“You will be my chaperone, cousin,” said Rosalba.

“Of course,” answered Benedette, “when?”

“Now, the conte and I are going for a stroll outside.”

Over the course of the dinner, after receiving the attentions of this gracious

nobleman something flowered in Rosalba. She realized she was no longer a child, no

longer just a daughter. She would soon become a wife, more than just a wife, a contessa.

This was the first decision she made in her entire life that did not hinge on what her

mother and father would think or say. She found it exciting. She liked it. ”You will come

with us.”

“Yes, first let me find Auntie Ursula and tell her.” Benedette stood and was about to

go in search.

“There is no need,” said Rosalba as she and Emilio stood and headed for the door.

“Come with us.”

Outside the evening air was crisp and clean. Twilight slipped away and the only

light came from the torches on the walls. Emilio and Rosalba walked on the gravel path

next to each other as they headed for the fish pond. Benedette followed a few paces

behind. Crickets chirped. A pair of turtledoves noisily fluttered overhead and perched in a

tree just ahead of them not more than a few feet from the stone bench where they were

headed. Emilio and Rosalba sat down.

Benedette sat on an adjacent bench a few paces away. She folded her hands on her

lap and looked up into the night sky for a few seconds before she closed her eyes. She

heard the faint sound of the lute and the flute, along with an occasional word or muted

laughter echo from the great room.

Emilio and Rosalba were silent. Without a word or any encouragement, Rosalba,

ever so slowly, moved closer to Emilio, leaned against him, closed her eyes and put her

head on his shoulder.

The Flower

The darkening sky weighed on the mantle of soft lavender and golden light that spread

down into the valleys, over the hilltops and between the trees that surrounded Cesare

Lippo’s cottage as dusk surrendered to night. Marcella was in the kitchen. She stirred the

pot of vegetable stew, gave it a quick taste and put the wooden spoon down. She went out

the door, walked by the brooding chickens in their coop and crossed the yard to Cesare’s

workshop to tell him their dinner was ready.

The day was ending and she looked forward to eating and then her reading lesson.

Marcella made quick and steady progress. She easily learned the alphabet; it made sense,

a symbol for a sound. It was Latin she found difficult.

Marcella stuck her head in the shop and called, “Cesare, the food is ready.”

With the light fading Cesare had already stopped carving an elaborate sunburst on a

bench back. He swept up a pile of shavings and chips.

Marcella approached the carving table and looked at the work in progress. “That is

beautiful, Cesare.” She reached out and ran her fingertips over the stern expression on the

sun’s face.

“Thanks. I hope it will be more so when I finish.”

“How did you learn such things? How do you know how to make these things?”

Marcella brushed some wood chips that were on the table into her hand and added them

to the pile on the floor.

“You mean because I was never an apprentice?” Cesare put the broom on the hook

and they headed for the door. “My uncle was a furniture and cabinet maker. As a boy, I

spent a lot of time in his workshop. I watched and learned.”

By this time they were both outside and Cesare dragged the door closed and

continued his answer. “Fortunately for him he had four sons to take over his trade, not so

fortunate for me.”

Cesare’s eyes brightened and he spoke with a smile, “Marcella, I just remembered I

saw someone going to town today. I met him down on the path and gave him the message

for Giovanni Bellini. With any luck, he will be here in the next day or two with some

news.”

“Thank you, Cesare.” She wanted to hug him, but she settled for patting his

shoulder.

Cesare opened the door to the kitchen and they entered. The savory aroma of

Marcella’s stew filled the cottage. The candles were already lit and the fire in the hearth

cast a warm, flickering, orange glow against the walls and the ceiling.

“Smells great,” he took another sniff of the air. “You made the rosemary rolls too? I

was hoping you would. There is a place for you in my heaven.”

Marcella felt a tingle at his words. “Yes, they should be ready.” She knelt down at

the hearth and used a piece of kindling to push the hot coals off of the lid and away from

the shallow clay pot into the surrounding embers. She carefully worked the pot out of the

coals with a long iron fork and iron hook. She brushed off any cinders and ashes with a

little willow hand broom. Using her apron as a hot pad, she picked up the clay pot and set

it on the worktable and opened the lid. The rolls had a hard golden brown crust and were

steaming and ready.

Cesare had already taken off his work clogs and put on his open back slippers. He

stood behind his chair and watched Marcella working in the soft halo of the firelight. It

wasn’t until Marcella came to live in refuge with him did he truly realized how alone he

was, how isolated he made himself from not only the dark and petty side of humanity but

from its beauty too. He liked his solitude, but he liked her presence more.

He sat at the table and Marcella placed the small covered basket of rolls in front of

him. She put out the bowls and brought the pot of vegetable stew, put it on the table and

ladled some into both of their bowls. Marcella ate with Cesare now with a pleasant

familiarity and at times an unspoken intimacy that was just below the surface of a casual

word or unexpected smile.

Cesare took a roll, broke it in half and dipped it in the stew. “Did you check the

snares between the two big pine trees?” He savored the tasty stew before he swallowed it.

Marcella smiled. “Yes, one was tripped and the other was empty, I reset the tripped

one like you showed me. Maybe tomorrow we will have some rabbit in our stew.”

“That would be nice.” He ate a few more bites of stew. “I know you are finding it

hard to learn Latin. I do have a book that is in modern dialect. It is called The

Decameron. The book is a collection of stories told by different people to amuse each

other while they take refuge in a villa to avoid the plague.”

Marcella looked up from her bowl. “Like us.” She smiled.

“Maybe, if you consider some people of Terra Sanctus a plague and this a villa.”

“What are the stories like?” Marcella ladled more stew into Cesare’s bowl.

“Some are humorous and some are sad, some are quite bawdy and some make sport

of the clergy.” He told her the titles of some of his favorite stories.

“Who are the people? Do you know them?” Marcella’s interest was piqued and she

wanted to read those same stories and be able share them with Cesare.

“No, the people are not real like us. Some were real people, and some, the author

Boccaccio made up. They are like real people though.” Cesare took Marcella’s

sensibilities into account and thought it not a good idea to select a story from the first

four days that made sport of the church. “Maybe a tale from their fifth day, they are

stories of love.”

Marcella took the pitcher and filled the two clay tumblers with water. “Love

stories,” she repeated. Marcella asked timidly, “Do you have a love story?”

“Do you mean have I ever been in love?” Cesare smiled as he remembered those

heady days of his youth. ”Oh yes, I have a love story or two, and you?”

“Me? No, not me. Love is for other people.” Marcella’s voice tailed off and she

looked down at the bowl of stew.

“Why do you say that, Little Bird?” Cesare sat back in his seat and took a sip of

water. “Everyone can love and be loved.”

“I love Our Savior and my mama.” Marcella did not look at Cesare when she spoke.

More and more she felt something stir in her whenever she was around him. She did not

know why she felt self-conscious and vulnerable and excited in his presence, but she did.

“You mean a pretty woman like you has never been in love?”

“Cesare, please,” Marcella blushed and wished she could hide, but there was

something both delicious and tormenting about the moment. “Am I so pretty that any

man would fall in love with me?” She wanted him to say yes so very much.

Cesare was surprised by Marcella’s remarks. He always thought of her as being so

self-determined and strong. “Of course you are.”

Marcella clasped her hands together painfully tight. “Do you think I am?” her eyes

were filled with uncertainty.

“I think you are most pretty and modest and pious and kind.” Cesare assured her.

Marcella stifled a sigh of relief and relaxed her hands. She took several little

breaths. She stood up tall and straight, cleared the bowls off the table, returned for the

stew pot and the basket and swept the crumbs off the table into her hand. She went to the

kitchen door and tossed them out for the nightingales that frequented the back steps.

She returned with two lit candles and placed them in the center of the table. “I am

ready for my lesson,” she said softly.

“I must fetch our book,” Cesare said cheerfully. He went to the sideboard and

opened the top drawer. He found the book, brought it back to the table and returned to his

seat.

Marcella dragged her chair from the other side of the table and set it next to

Cesare’s and sat. He handed the book to Marcella. She took it, turned it over and ran her

fingertips over the red leather cover before she opened it. A few pages in from the

frontispiece Marcella found a simple line drawing illustration of the characters that were

going to tell their stories.

Marcella handed the book back to Cesare. He found the story he wanted to read.

“Ah yes, day five, story four. This story is told by Filostrato. He is one of the three men

who are part of the group.”

Marcella moved their chairs so close they touched. Cesare read the story out loud.

He pointed out each word with his index finger while Marcella silently followed along.

Tonight the words on the page were overtaken by the sound of Cesare’s voice and

Boccaccio’s talent for telling a tale.

Cesare stopped after the first passage. He felt the gentle pressure and the warmth of

Marcella’s shoulder on his. He did not move away. “Are there any questions so far, Little

Bird? Do you see how the letters make the sounds for the words?”

“Yes, please just read to me.” Marcella closed her eyes. “Read me the story,” she

whispered. The fire glowed in the hearth and the candles softly shone and warmed their

faces. The night was very still and the only noise to be heard was the sound their

breathing.

“Yes, I will gladly read to you.” Cesare felt a warm satisfaction at her asking. He

read her a story of two young lovers, Riccardio and Caterina who had known each other

since childhood. Caterina grew to be a beautiful young woman and Riccardio who was

from a good and wealthy family fell in love with her. Caterina felt the same way about

Riccardio. Neither knew how the other felt until Riccardio could no longer help himself

and confessed his love for Caterina who in turn happily declared her love for Riccardio.

“How did they know?” Marcella nudged Cesare until he looked at her. She gazed

deep into Cesare’s eyes.

“They just knew.” Cesare looked over at Marcella, at her face, at her anxious

expression. He placed the book on the table and shifted in his seat so he could look at her

better. Cesare hesitantly extended his hand to her face and with his finger wiped away the

tear at the outer corner of her eye. Marcella shuddered at his first touch and when Cesare

started to pull his hand away she reached up and took it in hers, brought it to her lips and

kissed his fingertip. With closed eyes, she held his hand against her cheek, not wanting

the moment to end or for him to pull away.

Cesare was beside himself. He had cloaked what he considered to be his adolescent

feelings for Marcella by reminding himself he was almost twice as old as she. He could

not deny he felt closer to her as each day passed. His own words came back to him...

”each one of us can love and be loved”... and he awoke to the fact that age had nothing to

do with it.

“Come Little Bird.” Cesare gently pulled Marcella toward him. She left her seat and

sat on his lap like a child might and put her arms around his shoulders and her face

against his. He felt her full weight against his thighs and against his chest. Cesare’s left

hand lay lightly on her elbow and his right hand gently caressed her hair. They sat with

eyes closed, lost in each other’s warmth, each quenching their thirst to be loved.

The Light of a Single Candle

Giovanni Bellini trudged up the path to Cesare’s cottage. He was greeted with a joyful

bird song and a cooling breeze. It was midmorning and he was hungry and thirsty. He

came without Jezebel and he came with news for both Cesare and Marcella.

Giovanni knocked on the front door, waited for a minute and when no one answered

walked around the side of the house. He saw Marcella in the garden. She knelt under the

warm sun in her vegetable garden and watered plants from a brown and white goatskin

bag. She looked up at Giovanni and stood.

“Good morning, sir. It is a lovely day is it not?” Marcella could not stop smiling. On

this day, the sun shone brighter and the air was fresher. The trees were greener and the

sky bluer. All that morning if a song came to her lips she gladly shared it with the cosmos

in a voice both confident and sweet.

“Why yes, a most beautiful day,” Giovanni took off his cap and wiped the sweat

away from his brow.

Marcella quit the garden and went to Giovanni. She handed him the goatskin and

after an appreciative nod he drank and dried his lips on the back of his hand. “And how

are you, signorina?”

Marcella savored the question. “I feel wonderful.” She smiled and took the goatskin

back, tapped the stopper into its opening with the palm of her hand and slung it over her

shoulder.

Giovanni was sensitive to Marcella’s joyful and radiant demeanor and could not

help but smile along with her, “And Master Lippo?”

“Let us go to his workshop and ask him.” Like a child, Marcella skipped ahead of

Giovanni across the yard to the door of the workshop. She waited for Giovanni and they

entered together.

“Cesare look who is here.” She had come into the shop several times that morning

already, for no other reason than to stand next to Cesare and watch him carve.

“Salve brother Giovanni.” Cesare put his chisel down and dusted a few wood chips

off the front of his shirt. He gave Giovanni a hug.

“Little Bird, go to the house and prepare us something to eat.”

Marcella wanted to hug Cesare before she left the workshop but held back. She was

new to this strange state and did not know the rules. She left him with a loving look and a

girlish grin.

When the two men were alone Giovanni spoke, “Ah my friend, I have some

unsettling news. Bishop DiMars has the town convinced that there are witches

everywhere. So now one must be very careful. He has even put a bounty on them.”

Cesare’s brow furrowed at the news. “A bounty... that is very frightening. Do you

realize where this could lead?”

“Yes as if the Turks and the plague are not enough, now we have witches and

demons to contend with.”

“Let us go inside and have something to eat.” Cesare headed for the door and

Giovanni followed.

Marcella busied herself with their early lunch. She cut up some apples and pears and

some hard cheese. She already had the half dozen rolls from last night on the hearth

warming. Cesare brought a stool in off the back stoop and set it next to his chair.

Giovanni sat at the table and Marcella brought the food, set it out and poured some

diluted wine for all three. Cesare took his seat and Marcella sat next to him.

“Let us thank the lord for our food.” Marcella, bowed her head, made the sign of the

cross, took Cesare’s hand and offered her other hand to Giovanni. She closed her eyes

and began, “Bless this food, Oh Lord, and may it give us the strength to do your will.

Amen.”

After a few bites, Cesare spoke. ”Giovanni tells me that DiMars seems to be

following suite with the Rhineland, France and Spain.”

Marcella chewed the bit of pear and swallowed it. “How?”

“Tell her Giovanni.”

“Everyone talks about witches and demons. DiMars and Renaldi have everyone

wondering about everyone else, if they might be a witch or in league with...pardon for

saying its name in your house...Satan.”

“Why now? Why would there all of a sudden be witches and demons in Terra

Sanctus?”

“Little Bird, people are driven by three things: fear, greed and at a distant third,

love. What better way to have power over someone than with what they fear? And if the

people have nothing to fear, those in power will find something new for them to be afraid

of.” His tone was not accusatory or cynical.

Cesare’s words saddened Marcella. She looked at Bellini who nodded in agreement

with Cesare then broke a roll in half and took a bite.

“Is what you say true?”

Cesare put his hand on top of Marcella’s. Bellini noticed and smiled inwardly. “Yes,

I am afraid so Little Bird. We are born into this beautiful world and the choices we make

determine how we live in it.”

“Master Lippo is right, signorina. We are given the gift of free will and it is up to

each one of us to choose our path wisely.” After a pause that left Marcella thinking,

Giovanni continued on a brighter note. “Your Aunt Prunella seems in good health I am

happy to tell you. I spoke with her the other day at the market. Your twin nephews were

with her, one on each side.”

“Did she mention me?” Marcella asked hopefully.

“No, not even after I intimated that I was your ally. She is a very wise woman to

keep silent.”

“Especially with the townspeople on a witch hunt,” Cesare added.

“Do they say anything about me?” Marcella slipped her hand from underneath

Cesare’s and onto her lap.

“I brought the subject up to everyone I spoke with, of course in a roundabout way.”

“What are they saying?” asked Marcella.

Cesare slipped his hand under the table and took hold of Marcella’s.

“You are still a topic of gossip and talk. But thanks to Signore Conino and his

indiscretions he has become the new talk of the town. Then there was the fire at the

chandlers that also burned down Carbone’s butcher shop.”

Marcella felt a tickle of satisfaction at the news and a tinge of guilt for feeling so

cavalier toward the Carbones. The crude and uncouth Signora Carbone not only spit on

Marcella but turned the other townsfolk against her. Carbone was the last person outside

of her aunt Prunella and the sleeping Farintino she had contact with before her self-

imposed exile to Cesare’s cottage. “I hope no one was hurt.”

“No, no one was hurt, thank the Good Lord. It was fortunate you were nowhere

near. Signora Carbone was sure the fire was the work of the devil and his agents here on

earth.” Giovanni slipped a slice of apple into his mouth.

“I miss my Zietta, and the twins and going to mass.” She turned her hand over in

Cesare’s so they could lie palm to palm and entwined her fingers with his.

Bellini looked over to Cesare, “if I may Master Lippo,” then he returned his

attention to Marcella, “I would strongly advise you not to come back, not now anyway.”

“What is this bounty you mentioned?” asked Cesare.

“A silver piece for proof of witchcraft. Now every lay about is a spy working for

DiMars or Renaldi’s little political machine.”

“Renaldi too, eh?” affirmed Cesare.

“Yes, his term will be up in two years and the most likely competitor will be

someone Patriarca backs. Renaldi and DiMars want to make names for themselves, and if

it takes the lives of a few old women, so be it.”

“Even the fiercest lion only kills to eat, not for advantage, and certainly does not kill

its own. That my friend is why I live away from Terra Sanctus.” Cesare raised his clay

tumbler as to make a toast. Marcella raised hers and Giovanni raised his. “To the refuge

we find in ourselves and those close to us.”

“Salude.”

The three clicked their tumblers together and each took a thoughtful sip.

Giovanni stayed a little longer, more for Marcella’s sake than anything else. They

sat at the table and chatted for a good two hours before he felt it was time to go. “Give

my love to Zietta Prunella and tell her I am learning how to read.”

Giovanni smiled and nodded and left Marcella at the table. He went to the workshop

to say goodbye to Cesare. “Well my friend, I must away to town. I congratulate you and

Marcella. It is a wonderful thing to see a handsome, strong young woman in love with

someone as worthy as you.”

“Thank you my brother.”

“La signorina wants me to convey a message to her aunt. What are your thoughts?”

“This might be time to visit Terra Sanctus myself. I do not want to put you in any

danger, or any of Marcella’s family members. Travel well and safely and thank you for

taking the time to sit and talk with her.”

Giovanni Bellini patted his friend on the shoulder and left Cesare to his work.

The Long Shadow

On the first Sunday after Easter the year he returned from his studies Rene and Bella

wed. Rosalba and Emilio after a two year engagement were married by Bishop DiMars

and with all the grandeur, pomp and excess that one might imagine. Testaoro laughingly

paid the sumptuary taxes. He clad his daughter in a dress that was so heavy with gold

thread and jewels the dressmaker had to work with a metal smith. He created an umbrella

shaped frame with little wheels that supported the bell-shaped outer skirt and kept it off

the floor.

Cesare and Marcella at last became lovers. She was hesitant at first to give herself to

Cesare out of wedlock, and he did not insist. She changed her mind when the four

horsemen galloped up the path and into the yard between the cottage and the workshop.

They turned their neighing horses about and in doing so trampled part of Marcella’s

garden. She was inside peeking out from behind the shuttered window. Marcella

suspected they were one of the groups of witch hunters in the employ of the bishop or the

mayor.

Antonio Gardetto, a known thug and bully wore a bronze badge on a heavy chain,

proof he was an agent of the bishop. Marcella stepped away from the window. Her heart

beat wildly and even in a state of fright she had the presence of mind to collect her

clothing draped over a chair back to dry and stash it under the bed.

The bishop’s agent dismounted, handed the reins to Nino his loyal, half-wit aide and

went to the workshop. Antonio dragged the door open and stood in the doorway casting a

shadow across the threshold. Cesare stood just inside. He heard the commotion and

readied himself for whatever Chance delivered to his door.

Cesare removed his apron, draped it over his arm and a held a large, sharp chisel in

his hand. He felt like a gladiator, his apron his net and his chisel his trident. Cesare

greeted his unwanted guest with a cordial smile. “Good sir, how can I help you today?”

he asked.

“Hear me Lippo, Bishop DiMars has sent us to the country. We seek witches and

demons.”

Cesare did not speak, but gave an expectant look that invited Antonio to continue.

“Have you seen anyone suspicious or women traveling alone on the road below?”

Cesare wrinkled his brow and cocked his head and held his inquisitor in suspense

for a long few seconds. “Well good sir, I spend most of my time in my workshop. I am

sorry, but I have not noticed anyone on the road. How can I help you? How can I tell if

someone is suspicious?”

Antonio relaxed his shoulders. “You just tell us if you see anyone on the road and if

you do, get word to us and we will decide if they are suspicious.”

“It reassures me a man like you represents the bishop and his effort to root out the

witches and demons in our midst. God bless you.” Cesare gave a very convincing,

heartfelt nod. “Would you and your men like drink or food?”

Antonio was unused to the cooperative manner and respect he received from Cesare.

“We must be moving on,” he said briskly.

“Sir, I rarely leave my work, how will I get you word?”

“We will come back by and by.” Antonio took the reins from Nino and mounted his

horse. The other two horsemen, also known troublemakers, maneuvered their horses so

the animals could eat the vegetables and greens they just trampled while they waited for

their leader.

The four took off in a slow canter down the hill. Cesare went to the head of the trail

and watched them go. He did not go immediately into the cottage but returned to the

workshop and waited what he felt was long enough for them to be out of sight. Only then

did he return to the cottage. He was anxious about Marcella. Upon entering the cottage he

did not see her and there was no place for her to go. “Little Bird, where are you?”

“Are they gone?” Cesare heard her muffled voice.

“Where are you?”

“Under the bed,” she answered.

Cesare went to her bed and lifted the corner up. Marcella was on her stomach. She

held the sharp cook knife in her hand, pulled herself along the floor and when she was

clear of the bed rail she got to her knees. Cesare offered his hand. She dropped the knife

and he helped her to her feet. The moment she was up she wrapped her arms around

Cesare, held him as tight as she could and buried her face against his chest. She was

shaking.

“Do not worry Little Bird. You are safe now. They are gone.”

Marcella looked up at Cesare and gave him several long, lingering kisses. He smiled

and put his arms around her. She kissed him again. These were not the innocent little

pecks she offered his cheek. Marcella wriggled her shoulders free of his embrace. She

held Cesare at arm’s length and looked at him with glowing serenity in her eyes. She took

his hand, kissed it, slipped it under her blouse, pressed it against her breast and held it

there. Marcella closed her eyes and surrendered to his electric touch. In that vulnerable

state, she felt the full purpose for her existence. A rare excitement coursed through her

body and stung her in that most secret place until she overflowed with the anticipation of

passion.

She slipped off her clothes and stood naked before him in the golden light that

streamed through the open window. She looked beautiful. Marcella knelt and removed

Cesare’s clogs and socks. She unlaced his britches and slowly pulled them down so he

could step out of them. She stood and pulled his shirt up over his head, folded it and

placed in on the side table, then she took his hand and they sat on her bed.

She welcomed his kisses and the capable and delicate touch of his fingertips as he

guided them over her breasts, down her midriff, playfully circling her navel and finally

cupping her downy Venus mound. Marcella pushed against his warm hand, lifting her

hips off the bed until an uncontrollable tremor rolled though every part of her body.

Cesare could finally share Marcella’s embrace and warmth and passion. He was

gentle and kind with his lovemaking. He knew Marcella was a virgin. He loved how

willing but unsure and awkward she was and the brave way she bore him until he entered

her.

They nestled in each other’s arms and shared the effortless endearments of two

lovers until twilight. Not once did Marcella feel guilt or shame or sin, only the gift of

love she allowed herself to have.

Life

Days followed nights and nights followed days as time lazily passed for Cesare and

Marcella. Even though they would never be able to marry in the church, Marcella was

sure God looked down at their love as something sacred and pure. She called Cesare

“good husband” just as her mother called Farintino. Cesare called her Little Bird and

found joy in almost everything she did.

Giovanni Bellini came to Cesare every two weeks or so with news of Terra Sanctus

and Antonio Gardetto and his witch hunters stopped in only twice in the eight months

that followed their first visit. Both times Marcella’s presence was not discovered. Cesare

visited town every few months for supplies. Sometimes he had to leave to accept a

commission. Marcella missed him fiercely and could not concentrate on anything until

she saw him in the distance on the road or heard him coming up the path.

The skies were gray and all but sunless over Terra Sanctus around the time of the

autumnal equinox in the year of Our Lord 1499. The weather had been troublesome since

Bishop DiMars hurried through the trial of his six witches. He and Renaldi took it upon

themselves to usurp Conte Emilio d’Benevita’s authority and speed the trials along. The

date was set for the burning. It was on everyone’s minds. The town wags suddenly

became quite sanctimonious and spoke of it day and night.

Giovanni Bellini sat with Cesare and a quiet and an anxious Marcella at the kitchen

table in the cottage and relayed the story of the burning being halted by the rain and the

miracle of Bianca Molina. Cesare was most interested in the wood that refused to burn.

“You are very quiet today,” Giovanni addressed Marcella who had not said more

than three words that entire morning.

“Yes sir. The thought of being burned at the stake is very frightening. Those poor

women, if I stayed in town I might have been one of them.”

“Thank your wise aunt and this kind gentleman for your safety.”

Marcella silently nodded and looked back down at a tiny knot on the table top that

resembled an eye.

“Little Bird, you have not eaten anything for midday.”

Even though she made the vegetable stew as before, today the smell of it made her

nauseous. She picked up some bread and ate just enough to settle her stomach. “No

Cesare, I have no appetite for stew today.” She looked at Giovanni and then back at

Cesare. “Please excuse me, I must lie down, I feel so tired.”

“Of course Little Bird, do rest.”

Marcella arose and poured her bowl of stew back into the pot. She nodded to

Giovanni and to Cesare. Marcella crossed the room to the far corner and slipped behind

the privacy screen. She sat on the bed and had to pull her sandals off her swollen feet.

Marcella rubbed the small of her aching back. Just yesterday she noticed how hard it was

to do the scrubbing.

She put her pillow under the small of her back and lay down on the bed. She found

some relief from the soreness. She closed her eyes. Her blouse weighed heavily on her

chest and only by pulling it up over her breast did she feel better. She wondered why she

did not have the blood curse since before the Feast Day of Saint Verena eight weeks ago.

Lately, she wanted to be with other woman.

Marcella tried to sleep but couldn’t. She found solace in the birds’ songs and the

wind whispering in the trees. Marcella settled for just lying there with her eyes closed and

listening to Cesare and Giovanni talk about the miraculous ending to the witch burning.

She did drift in and out of sleep and was awakened by Giovanni’s laughter when he said

his goodbyes.

She heard the door close, Cesare’s footsteps cross the room and the sound of the

screen being pulled out away from the wall. She opened her eyes and smiled at Cesare.

He was kneeling next to the bed just looking at her.

“How do you feel? Any better?” He extended his hand.

Marcella pulled her blouse back down over her breasts, took his hand and entwined

her fingers in his. “Maybe a little better, what is the matter with me? I cannot eat

anything and I am so tired. I have never felt like this before.” She teared up. She dabbed

at the corners of her eyes with her fingertip. “And now this, I seem to want to cry over

nothing and everything. Is God punishing me because we are not married?”

Cesare sat on the bed and cradled her in his arms. “God does not punish anyone. We

punish ourselves. Marcella, God has given us a gift. Rejoice. You are with child.”

Hands

Cesare was up early the next morning. He grabbed a few rolls, a handful of nuts and an

apple and put them in his hip pouch. He donned his cloak and placed the strap of his

waterskin over his shoulder. Cesare looked in on Marcella. The faint glow of dawn barely

lit the room. She was asleep. He gently kissed her on the forehead and quietly headed out

the door.

It was cold enough outside for him to see his breath. He plunged his hands into the

folds of his cloak for warmth. His face and ears tingled. He trudged down the dirt path

onto the muddy road. The rising sun crested on the mist shrouded hills and Cesare

welcomed the warmth on his back. He held a steady pace.

Cesare was going to Terra Sanctus to seek out and employ a metal smith to create

the small shields that were part of the decorative element on the cabinet he was going to

make. He received a commission from Conte Emilio d’Benevita for a very special

cabinet. The overall design of the cabinet was left to Cesare. After seeing Cesare’s other

work, he knew the master craftsman’s creation would be both fanciful and beautiful. The

conte insisted on the exact arrangement of the metal decoration. It was of the utmost

importance that the cabinet was executed exactly as it was illustrated on the detailed

diagram.

Over the years, Conte Emilio and his fellow alumnus Rene Hermes, now doctor to

the court of Gunter the Just, corresponded and exchanged theories and thoughts

concerning necromancy and alchemy. Emilio was a distant relation of Duke Gunter and

visited Adler Kralle castle three or four times a year. During each visit, Rene and Emilio

became better acquainted and eventually friends.

Cesare wanted the perfect wood for the cabinet. He wanted the wood that came

from Signore Mezzi’s apple tree. Cesare was sure the wood from that tree was sacred or

at the very least blessed with some unusual qualities.

His thoughts also happily returned to Marcella. He was glad she was safe in their

hidden little cottage. She had been away from the cottage less than a dozen times in the

past year and a half. She was still hunted as a witch and each time she entered Terra

Sanctus she was hidden in Giovanni’s cart. Marcella made her secret visits to Aunt

Prunella whose health and mind had, unfortunately, begun to decline. On her last visit,

Prunella did not know who Marcella was. That was the last time Marcella risked

returning.

Cesare had unsettling thoughts about the witch hunts. Some found the practice a

lucrative business, and many found it morbidly exhilarating. Now every woman, every

wife and every daughter did their public errands humbly and quickly and when their

errands were done fled to the relative safety of their homes.

The people witnessed public whippings, beheadings and hangings. As far as Bishop

DiMars and Mayor Renaldi were concerned those public displays were over much too

quickly. There was no spectacle to it. A burning had spectacle. Everyone could be made

fearful for their souls. Those punished did not have just the one victim as a thief or a

murderer might. Anyone could be a witch’s victim and not even know it. Anyone could

be a witch. Anyone could make an accusation with no more proof than their word and

send the accused to trial.

Conte Emilio d’Benevita, who decided secular concerns and court rulings for Terra

Sanctus and the surrounding area, was away to the east protecting his family’s business

and Europe from the Turks. DiMars along with Renaldi gladly took over the conte’s role.

Cesare heard talking and looked up. A way down the road he saw two men coming

toward him. They were leading a donkey that was pulling a two wheel cart. They stopped

when they came upon each other.

“Good day, sir,” the young man leading the cart said. His companion nodded and

the donkey exhaled cones of frosty breath from its nostrils.

“Good day to you, young man. Certainly a brisk morning, is it not?”

The young man rubbed his hands together and blew his breath into them several

times to feel the fleeting warmth. “You will get no argument from me, sir.” The other

young man pulled his cloak that much tighter and shivered. “Were you here for the

burning yesterday?”

“No, I was not. I take it you were.” Cesare slipped his hand through the slit in his

cloak, opened his pouch and pulled out two of the four rolls he brought for his lunch. He

offered one to the donkey’s handler and tossed the other one to his companion.

The boy took a bite. “Oh yes sir, a remarkable day. We saw our Contessa Rosalba,

and we saw the bell on the campanile get struck by lightning not once but twice and fly to

the ground, and we saw the miracle.”

“A miracle you say.”

“Oh yes sir, Our Lord cleansed Bianca Molina of leprosy.”

“Praise be,” Cesare mustered as much enthusiasm as he could at the news. “Where

are you lads going?”

“Back to our master Il Signore Testaoro, back to Casa Bella.”

“And your names?”

“I am Bartolo and that is Giuseppe. We are cousins. Thank you for the bread.”

“Travel well and may you reach your destination safely.”

DESTINED DESTINATION

Two men delivered the Alchemist Cabinet to Roland’s granny flat a little past seven

o’clock. He shoved all the furniture against the walls to make room. It dominated the

small living room. It was now half past eleven. Roland sat cross-legged on the living

room floor in a T-shirt and his underwear in front of the Alchemist Cabinet. At this point,

the cabinet was almost empty; some of its contents were in neat stacks in a semicircle

behind him, and other scrolls, parchments and loose books were piled on the futon.

Roland got to his knees, removed the last few scraps of paper, lifted out the shelf and

turned it around in his hand. The shelf had writings on it; not only on the top and bottom

but on the edges, as well. He leaned the shelf against the futon and turned back to the

cabinet.

Roland let his hand dally over the bronze scales that covered the bottom portion and

the Alchemist Cabinet’s legs. Roland closed his eyes and ran his fingertips over the

embossed symbols and signs. His reverie was jolted by the image of the same ugly

soldier who gave him a menacing look in the crosswalk the day before when he was on

his way to the college library. Roland quickly pulled his hand away and opened his eyes.

“Oh man, not again.” If his eyes had been open when he touched the scales, he would

have seen the faint ruby glow under his fingertips.

He sat back on his heels, shook his head, took a deep breath and looked back into

the cabinet. On the cabinet back, he saw what looked like a small rectangular door. He

pushed on it and it opened. Inside, standing up was a red leather bound book tied shut

with a piece of twine. Roland teased it out of its tight little nook. He settled into his easy

chair and untied the twine. Roland looked at the imprints on the cover. In each corner

were the alchemic signs for water, an inverted triangle, fire, a triangle standing on its

base, air, a triangle on its base with a horizontal bar a third of the way below the apex,

and earth, an inverted triangle with a horizontal bar a third of the way down. The initials

R. H. were branded into the leather.

The book was well worn. He carefully opened it. Little flecks of leather and paper

came off in his hand and spiraled onto the floor. The book was handwritten in Latin with

a brown ink. Roland yawned and looked at a long sentence that was repeated three times.

He read, ”Per aqua sanctum regenerate ad animus novo super tempus novus et locus

novus cum intent genero flamma aeternus.* Roland rubbed his eyes and loudly yawned.

He kept the page with the twine. “Well, I actually understand most of that.”

Roland carried the book with him as he locked the front door and put out the light.

When he reached the hallway, he opened the book and looked over the sentence again

and read it in a loud whisper. Roland entered the bathroom, reached in behind the shower

curtain and turned on the water. He read the sentence out loud one more time, closed the

book and put it on the bathroom sink countertop. Roland shed his T-shirt and underwear

and got under the shower. The hot water washed the residue of the day away. He felt

relaxed, refreshed and renewed.

Roland dried himself, grabbed the book, and got into bed au natural. He had

intentions of reading more, but couldn’t help nodding off. He turned off the lamp on the

nightstand. Roland left the book open, cover up, on his chest and in a very short time he

was asleep.

* By means of sacred waters shall occur rebirth and renewal of the soul beyond

place and time for those with intent to create an eternal flame.

From the clouds above a single strand of ruby red light, the product of Valentino the

Elder’s experiment carried out those many years ago ended its chaotic six hundred year

journey from one plane of reality to another. The tight ruby beam of light passed through

the skylight over Roland’s bed and reached its destination when it touched Rene’s

Journal and its new owner. The sleeping Roland was enveloped in the glowing web of

ruby light.

He moved his head back and forth and made some low whimpering moans. The

light pulsated even more. Roland levitated off the bed. He floated chest high off the floor

with the bed clothes draped over him. Roland moved toward the bedroom wall and he

and Rene’s Journal effortlessly passed through. The blanket and sheet remained on the

bedroom side of the wall and fell to the floor. Roland floated to the front of the Alchemist

Cabinet.

As if moved by unseen hands the cabinet doors barely opened. The muffled

conversations of men and women speaking Italian faded in and out. Then came the sound

of horses neighing and the echo of their hoof beats, laughter, snippets of a harpsichord,

swords clanging together, children crying and all the while the sounds of different birds

could be heard singing or calling, even a hawk shirking. The sounds built to a cyclic,

wavering cacophony and then abruptly stopped.

The doors violently swung open. The interior of the cabinet was a black pulsing

universe spangled with countless stars in a slow rotation. Roland floated through the

cabinet doors and into the void. He opened his eyes and watched the stars flicker and drift

in and out of focus. Huge parchment pages covered with Latin, diagrams, and drawings

formed a seemingly endless tunnel that ended in a speck of light. Roland was on his back

and unable to move as he hurtled down the tunnel. Along the way, he caught glimpses of

Liz, of his parents, Brian and even Lila. As Roland neared the focal point, the tunnel

twisted the parchment pages, the faces and the hundred sounds and noises into a swirling

black vortex taking everything with it.

Rite and Ritual

Bartolo and Giuseppe spent the better part of the day on the return trip to Casa Bella.

Their errand was to deliver six half barrels of mulberry wine to the tavern in town and

buy twenty balls of lavender scented soap from Signore Turano and a hundred weight of

salt from the salt monger.

The white-haired Helmut and his nine year old granddaughter Fiona greeted the

cousins when they reached the front gate of the villa.

Bartolo gave the sack of soap to Fiona and the pouch with the six silver coins in it to

Helmut. Helmut emptied the coins into his hand and shook the pouch in a show to the

boys that it was empty. He handed the coins to Fiona and bid her to count them. She did

and handed them back one at a time to her grandfather who returned them to the pouch.

Helmut waved Bartolo and Giuseppe along and returned to his other duties.

Inside the house, upstairs in her room, Rosalba lay on her bed with a cool, damp

cloth across her forehead. It was late afternoon and she suffered from a headache since

her morning prayers. Benedette sat in a chair next to the bed, her back to the window,

doing needlepoint.

Rosalba stirred and the cloth fell off her head. Benedette put her hoop down and

leaned over her cousin. “Rosy, are you feeling any better? Has your headache gone

away?”

“Somewhat, please close the shutters; the sun hurts my eyes.” Rosalba turned on her

side and looked away from the window. Since she returned from the witch burning her

belly was tight and tender.

Benedette closed the tall shutters. “Would you like water and wine, cousin?”

“Please, and bring a dainty, those little biscotti with the dates.” Rosalba turned onto

her back, closed her eyes and rested the back of her hand on her forehead. As soon as

Benedette left the room Rosalba experienced a painful cramp. She placed her hands on

her lower stomach and let out a gasp.

Eight weeks earlier, the night before Emilio left, they made love. The next morning

when she awoke Rosalba felt different, as if her body was confused. By midmorning after

the rush of worry and emotion connected with bidding farewell to her husband and his

entourage eased, Rosalba knew why she felt the way she did.

Rosalba and Emilio were unsuccessful for so long trying to conceive. Cosimo was

disappointed but showed his daughter understanding and uncharacteristic tenderness, not

so much to the son-in-law. Rosalba wanted to wait until she was sure. She did not

mention her suspicions to Benedette or her mother. Try as she might to keep her secret

she could not hide the glow that came over her being. Ursula saw it right away.

The burning would be Rosalba’s last public appearance until after the baby came.

That was fine with her. Being contessa was exciting and confidence building for her

younger self. Now she was given responsibilities she was not prepared for and did not

want. As soon as Emilio left with his troops, Bishop DiMars and Mayor Renaldi came to

visit. They suggested she make them her proxy. Rosalba gladly did so. She knew she

would not be much good to anybody with legal disputes.

For the next seven months, Rosalba was the center of everyone’s attentions. It was a

difficult confinement. The first two months went well enough and Rosalba’s body

adjusted. The severe cramps, headaches and dizziness started the morning after the failed

witch burning. Rosalba had Benedette sleep with her because she was frightened by a

recurring dream of the convicted witch Maria Lillo repeating the icy words: “Pretty

contessa a flower so pure and so white, what grows in your belly is as dark as night.” The

prick on her finger from the needle hidden in the little straw doll that the bishop’s servant

Annamarie gave her remained slightly swollen, sore and pink even after all these months.

There were days when she was unable to get out of bed and when she did it was to

go outside and sit in the sun. She was afraid Maria Lillo’s words were true. One morning

the pain was so bad Rosalba considered calling in a wise woman to take away the curse.

She could not make herself do it. Instead, she called for Father Eduardo to come out, to

hear her confession and give her the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist.

11

“Bless me father, for I have sinned, my last confession was three weeks ago.”

Father Eduardo sat in a chair next to Rosalba’s bed. He held her hand. “Yes, my

child, tell me your sins.”

“I have doubted Our Lord.”

Eduardo moved uncomfortably in the chair. “We all have our doubts. Tell me, what

made you doubt the Lord?”

“Father, I know that a child is a gift from God and all that God does is good. But,

sometimes the pain is so unbearable, I ask myself why does Our Lord make me suffer so?

I pray, but the pain does not go away.”

“Our Lord suffered for his children, perhaps you should follow Christ’s example.”

“Our Lord was sent by God for that reason to save mankind. I just want to have my

baby. Sometimes it feels like I have knives cutting inside my belly.”

“You must not lose faith, think of your unborn baby.”

Rosalba looked into Eduardo’s eyes. “You were there when Maria Lillo cursed me.”

“Contessa, that wretch said something to the bishop and the monsignor as well, she

was desperate and frightened,” he explained gently.

“It is the pain. Father I almost asked my servants to seek out a white witch to lift the

curse.” Rosalba dropped her head in shame and held on to the priest’s hand a little harder.

“Dear Contessa, the Holy Mother Church holds the answer, not a witch. It was best

to call on me to help you.” He wondered how much help he could be to anyone. After

almost two and a half years, Eduardo still shuddered at the image of Amelia Andano

underwater in the bath tub with her last breath streaming out from the corners of her nose.

He remembered how limp and heavy her dead body was when he pulled her up out of the

water and laid her next to the tub.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Have faith in Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior.” Father Eduardo placed his hand

on top of Rosalba’s head. “Ego te absolvo peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et filii et spiritus

sancti. Now for your penance I would like you to pray the rosary and make a good act of

contrition. And contessa, let us have no more thoughts of witches with their silly spells

and signs.” He raised his hand over Rosabla’s head and made the sign of the cross.

“Thank you, Father.” Rosalba felt spiritual and emotional relief. The pain inside her

remained but now she found it more bearable. “You will say mass tonight in the chapel?”

“Yes I will. Your papa has already instructed me. I will stay and say mass and I will

give you Holy Communion. Now you must rest. If there is no more contessa, there are

some sick among the peasants I would like to visit.”

“Yes, please, go and visit them, thank you, Father.” Rosalba took the rosary from

around her neck and held it her hands.

As Father Eduardo left the room, Benedette entered, curtsied to the priest and

looked at her cousin propped up in bed. Benedette sat in the chair. Rosalba kissed the

crucifix at the end of her rosary and made the sign of the cross. She said her prayers out

loud. Benedette took her rosary from her dress pocket and joined her cousin.

Creation

The sun lay just beyond the horizon and the sky was touched with soft lavender backlit

with golden light that clung to the skyline. Marcella was still asleep and Cesare was

dressed and had already eaten. He warmed his hands one last time at the hearth, left the

kitchen and crossed the yard. He pulled the door open and entered his workshop. He went

to the large windows on each side of the sturdy and stout building, opened the shutters

and looked at the dawning sky.

Cesare made a fire in the metal box he had the blacksmith Antonio Delatorre make

for him so he could have a nice hot and confined fire in his shop. He had Delatorre put it

on wheels so he could move it about. The smoke seeped out of the straw roof.

Cesare went to his bench and laid his hands on the trunk of Mezzi’s apple tree. Each

time he touched the wood, he felt a pleasant sensation in his fingers and hands. Cesare

closed his eyes and could see the piece of furniture that he was going to make from the

tree. The sides would follow the curve of the tree trunk. The legs would be carved and

shaped with a drawknife and attached with dowels and pins. The cabinet would have a

drawer and two doors. It would be like nothing else ever made. The top would have a

gentle peak to it. Under the peak, he saw a sunburst in dark bronze.

His work began. First he stripped the bark. He studied the curve of the tree trunk.

With chisel, mallet and saw and all of his knowledge he split the trunk in such a way that

he had two gentle S curves for the sides. When Cesare was in the depths of his work, time

seemed to disappear. It was as if he were watching someone else’s hands do the work.

For the next three weeks, Cesare spent every hour of daylight in his workshop. He

finally had the carcass put together. He spent the next three weeks scraping and

smoothing the wood. Cesare opened and closed the drawer several times, then added a

little more bees wax to the runners. He held the curved doors in place and filed and

scraped until they were as perfect as he could make them. When he felt satisfied, he stood

back and looked at his creation. Cesare was exhausted when he finally finished.

Marcella was steadfast and ever helpful. When she brought Cesare his midday meal

she would watch him eat, run her hands over her tightening belly and marvel at the new

life growing in her.

With the piece done, for the next two days they could be lazy and loving. Cesare

made it a point to give Marcella his full attention. They read from The Decameron and at

this point Marcella found the parodies of the churchmen funny.

“I must go to Terra Sanctus, stop in on the metal smith and see if my shields are

ready. Then I must see Antonio Delatorre. I am sure my hinges and handles are ready by

now.”

Marcella smiled. Cesare would be paid handsomely for his creation. She suggested

they buy a cow and maybe a pig and some cloth so she could make curtains for the

windows. He would have to make a cradle and a highchair. She already started to

rearrange things in their little cottage.

Peace

The Alchemist Cabinet was a gift for Rene Hermes from Conte Emilio d’Benevita. Rene

and Bella were living in Bavaria outside the town of Adler Lager in his ancestral home.

Only his mother Isabelle survived. His father Titus died not long after the wedding. Rene

thought it best if his despondent mother lived with his sister Giesella and her husband,

Rudiger, and their five children. They were glad to take her in and keep her occupied

with the living and not the dead.

Rene and Bella enjoyed a good life. The only thing that would make it complete

would be a child. Their first two children were stillborn. They still held hope. Four

months prior, Bella again found herself with child. Rene took on an extra servant to tend

to Bella’s every wish and whim, though she was never a very demanding person.

Rene figured their baby would come on Mayday. “It is fitting, do not you think my

love, that our child may always remind us of that first time we met?” he asked one

evening as they sat in front of the fire.

“Yes my dear, most fitting.” Bella looked up from her tatting, “This house is so big.

I hope we will finally hear the sound of a child in it.”

“As do I.” Rene did not want to consider any other possibility and the child would

arrive in just a few more months.

December and January of that year were terribly cold and dark months. The stinging

winter wind blew down from the Alps. Across northern Italy, southern Germany and

Bavaria a terrible sickness came with the unforgiving cold.

Those unfortunates who became sick were the very old and the very young. So

many people died; some households lost half of their members. Rene tended to the sick.

He was always surprised and very thankful he did not contract the sickness himself. His

bachelor brother Alfeo was not so lucky. Alfeo was second steward at Adler Kralle castle

and was asked to live elsewhere and stay away until he became well.

Rene had a sick room prepared and took him in. Alfeo took to his bed with a high

fever that lasted three days. His brother told Rene he had a sore throat and the poor man

would go into coughing fits that convulsed his entire body. He was weak and barely able

to stand. Alfeo’s fingernails and lips had a blue tinge to them.

Bella was quite fond of Alfeo; she looked on him as the little brother she never had.

Even though Rene told her several times to stay away from her brother-in-law, she

yielded to the soft spot in her heart and had a chair brought in to be near him so they

could talk or pray.

Toward the end of the first week, Alfeo took a turn for the worse. His coughing

became deeper and longer. He complained he could not breathe. Rene placed his ear on

his brother’s chest and could hear fluid surging with each labored breath. Rene ordered a

brazier brought in heaped with coals. The room became blistering in a very short time.

The heat caused his brother to gasp for air. Rene had the brazier removed and opened the

windows allowing the cold air to roll in from the outside. He felt Alfeo’s forehead; his

brother was burning with fever. Rene went to the flower box on the window and scooped

some snow in each hand and pressed it against Alfeo’s cheeks and forehead. This had a

negative effect too. Alfeo began to shiver and only stopped when he went into a fit of

coughing.

Flustered, Rene closed the window and bundled his brother up. The extreme

changes sent Alfeo into shock. His breathing became more and more labored and his

lungs slowly filled and by midnight he was dead.

Rene closed Alfeo’s eyes, sat in the chair next to the bed and held his younger

brother’s hand. Bella came in and patted Rene’s shoulder. She knelt down at the side of

the bed and silently prayed for Alfeo’s soul. It was past one o’clock and with a subtle tug

on Rene’s hand he stood. Bella kissed Alfeo on the lips and made a final sign of the

cross. Rene pulled the sheet up and covered him. He took his wife’s hand and they went

to bed.

Bella died three weeks later. She contracted the sickness. No matter what Rene tried

or did, Bella’s life slowly, day by agonizing day, slipped away. When she died, he quietly

and slowly washed Bella’s body himself and dressed her in her best clothing. With the

help of Floriano Fiore and his daughters, they wrapped Bella in a shroud and placed her

in her favorite place which was the potting shed in her flower garden. There would be no

burials. The ground was frozen. The dead were prepared and stored in out buildings

where they would be preserved by the cold until spring and the thaw.

The burden of such a great sorrow broke Rene. He barely slept or ate or spoke for a

week. Rene refused to go to the castle or see visitors. Every morning was the same. He

would eat a small piece of bread and drink some red wine. He walked the twelve

measured steps it took to cross the garden and he would unlock the door, kiss the key and

put it in his pocket. He entered his makeshift mausoleum that was ill lit with the frosted

light of the winter sun. Surrounded by a heavy halo of cold Rene would gently pull the

shroud away and arrange it carefully the same way every day. He looked on Bella’s

beautiful sleeping face. Every morning he kissed her lips, sat in the folding chair and held

her hand imparting his warmth into her until his hand was numb from the cold. Rene

closed his eyes and thought of his beautiful Bella and the first day they met. He talked to

her in a low, serious voice about their baby and how happy they would both be when the

child was born. He heard Bella’s sweet voice answer and the echoes of his never-to-be

child’s laughter in the warm and happy halls of their home.

For twenty-eight days, Rene continued his vigil. During that time, he did not wash

his face or comb his hair. He kept on the same clothing he wore the day Bella died. At the

end of the day, Rene would come in shivering. He forbade Ornella to make a fire. He

would then eat a few bites and retire to a cold bed and a dreamless, restless sleep. On the

twenty-ninth day, Rene went to the potting shed and when he opened the door Bella was

standing there.

He walked toward her with extended arms.

Bella shook her head and held up her hand. “No my love, we must not touch.”

“You have come back to me. Let me hold you.” Rene was ecstatic.

“I have never left,” Bella’s voice was gentle, sympathetic and loving.

“You are right here. You are right before me.”

Bella turned toward the table and pointed at her shrouded corpse. “You must let me

go, my love.”

“No, no.” Rene could not resist and as his hand reached to touch her, Bella gave him

a sad, loving smile and vanished. Rene knelt before the table where Bella’s body lay. He

closed his eyes and try as he might he could not see her face or hear her voice. It wasn’t

long before he noticed how bitterly cold he was and how hungry, how he hurt all over

and how tired he was. He pulled himself up and stood before Bella. He pulled back the

shroud, looked on her calm, lifeless face and took her hand. He was startled by how cold

it was. He put it down and felt revulsion, not toward Bella but himself. He covered her up

in the shroud, entered his house, ordered a fire, went to his bed and slept.

On the last morning of March, when Rene came to breakfast his hair was combed

and his face washed clean, his beard trimmed and neat. He wore clean clothes and sat

down to the breakfast Ornella made for him, four eggs, cheese, bread and stewed fruit.

He ate heartily for the first time since Bella’s death. He drank two cups of hard cider.

“Ornella, thank you,” he stood and gave his sister-in-law a healthy hug. “Bless you

for your patience and the efforts you made to be here for me. I thank you again.” Rene

went to the window that looked out on to the garden and the potting shed. A wisp of a

smile crossed his lips. “Tomorrow I will return to Adler Kralle, I must make sure the

carriage is in good repair.”

Ornella was happily shocked. “Yes brother-in-law that is wonderful. That would

make Bella very happy.”

The Eternal Nature of Being

Winter passed and spring gave new life to Casa Bella in a cacophony of bird song and

amber sunrises and an explosion of all the wild flowers that waited so long underground

to finally bloom and blossom.

Rosalba suffered through the winter carrying her pain along with her child. Emilio

finally returned. Correspondence was impossible. The snows and storms of winter

stopped commerce and travel. He did send a messenger a day ahead so she was not

caught unaware. Their reunion was joyous. Emilio was tired and glad to be back at Casa

Bella. He marveled at the change in Rosalba. Her face and arms were fuller and of course

the baby rounded her belly.

One week after he returned, Rosalba gave birth. It was a bloody affair and if it

wasn’t for a quick thinking midwife with a liberal use of Lady’s Mantle salve and cold

compresses, the baby might have been motherless. The midwife saw something sparkle in

the blood she wiped from the inside of Rosalba’s legs. She opened the bloody cloth and

found a gold embroidery needle. Without a thought, she slipped her valuable little find in

her apron pocket.

The baby, who they named Rosanera, lay in her exhausted mother’s arms. Cosimo

wanted a grandson and Emilio was glad his wife survived. For Rosalba, the pain was

finally over although much damage was done and she would have no more children.

11

Call it coincidence if you will but Marcella gave birth to her daughter Sofia at the

same moment and the same hour and the same day that Rosalba gave birth to Rosanera.

Marcella did not have a midwife present. Cesare was there with the string, the scissors

and the swaddling clothes. He was nervous but hid it quite well and reassured Marcella

with gentle words and a hand to squeeze. All in all, things went very well. Marcella was

sore and tired but so very happy. She was in that place where her life up until now faded

away and the door to eternity was opened to her.

Darkest Fate

Summer was on the wane during those first cooler and wet days before the equinox

arrived. September thirteenth at midmorning, Cesare was with Giovanni Bellini on their

way to Casa Bella to deliver the cabinet made for Conte Emilio. Marcella was outside in

the garden. Sofia was on her mother’s back in a carrier Marcella fashioned out of the leg

she cut off from a pair of Fausto’s worn out old trousers.

Marcella knelt down on the soft warm earth and pulled out small weeds neatening

up the row of late vegetables. She did not hear the horse until it and the rider turned the

corner and spied her at her work. She looked up too late to hide. Marcella remained

motionless hoping the rider did not see her.

“You! Stand and be seen.” It was Antonio Gardetto, Bishop DiMars’ witch finder.

Marcella stood and faced the man.

“May I help you sir?” She put her hand up on her brow as if to shield the sun from

her eyes; she cast her gaze to the ground.

“Who are you?” Gardetto dismounted and walked to Marcella.

“I might ask you the same sir.” Marcella stood straight but shook inside.

Antonio Gardetto held the bronze badge up and let it drop back onto his chest. “I am

an agent for the bishop. What is your business here?”

“I am visiting my brother, Cesare Lippo.”

Gardetto looked at Marcella more closely. Every time he moved his head to get a

better look, Marcella would move her head in the opposite direction to hide her face. “I

know you, you are not Lippo’s sister. You are that Adano woman. You are that witch

who killed her mother. That is who you are.” He chuckled out loud, “My lucky day.”

Gardetto reached out for Marcella’s arm. She pulled it away and took a step back.

“You cannot get away from me,” he said smugly.

Marcella looked all around her and quickly plucked the wooden rod that of late was

a support for the scarecrow. She held it up like a sword.

Gardetto could not believe his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief and laughed out

loud.

“Stay back,” Marcella warned.

“Or what? You will hit me with a stick?” He rubbed his hands together in

anticipation of the unbalanced fight. He advanced again and this time Marcella swung the

rod at his face. Gardetto put his hand up and swatted the stake away.

Sofia began to cry. Gardetto momentarily lost his focus looking about for the baby.

Marcella took the advantage and swung the stake again as hard as she could. She caught

him off guard and heard a pop. She broke his nose.

Gardetto grabbed his nose which was now bleeding. “Curse you bitch! I will kill

both of you.” He pulled out his dagger and lunged at her. Blinded by his temper and still

holding his broken nose, Gardetto’s attack was feeble and off balance. He fell to his left

knee and before he could get up, Marcella hit him again, this time across the back of his

head. He dropped his dagger and grabbed his head. Gardetto lay directly in front of her,

face down at Marcella’s feet. She immediately knelt down with her knees on his

shoulders and squatted on his head. All during the attack Sofia was bawling at the top of

her lungs.

Gardetto lifted his head up and turned it to the side. All he saw was a little bit of

sunlight sneaking under the hem of Marcella’s skirt. He had to spit dirt out of his mouth

before he could speak. “I will kill both of you,” is all he could muster as he tried to push

himself up.

Marcella saw the dagger, picked it up and stabbed Gardetto in the back. The blade

only went in an inch or so. He screamed. She lifted the dagger up and stabbed him again

only much harder. Using both hands and with all of her strength and weight she pushed

the dagger through the muscle; she felt the blade scrap between his ribs and reach its

mark. She could feel the handle of the dagger pulse in her hand with each beat of

Gardetto’s punctured heart until it finally stopped.

Marcella stood up and backed away. She lowered her shoulder, swung Sofia around

in front of her and took her out of the carrier.

“Dear God, forgive me.” She looked at the dead man at her feet. “What have I

done?” Marcella burst into tears and held Sofia tight against her breast. She turned away,

ran back to the cottage and bolted the door.

11

Cesare and Giovanni returned right before dusk. They rode in Giovanni’s cart. The

cow that Cesare took as part of his payment from Conte Emilio was tied to the back of

the wagon and made the going slow.

“I am sure Marcella will be pleased with your beautiful cow,” Giovanni said.

“Yes, I just wish I could have taken her with us. It is so lonely and boring for her.

She is a very intelligent woman.”

“Oh, she will never be alone with Sofia.”

They turned up the pathway and started the ascent to the cottage. Cesare looked up

and saw the silhouette of Marcella at the head of the path.

“Your queen waits for you, I see,” Giovanni joked.

It seemed like hours to Marcella for the cart to finally reach the top.

Cesare waved. “I brought you a cow,” he said with a wide grin. He was puzzled

when he got no reaction from her. She stood there like a stone. Her face was pale and

when Cesare jumped down from the cart she burst into tears.

“Is it Sofia?” A pang of panic snaked through his body.

She shook her head no and grabbed on to Cesare as tight as she could. Her whole

body shook against his. Her eyes were closed and she wished when she opened them

what happened earlier would be nothing more than a bad, evil dream.

“Little Bird, what is it? Tell me.”

She dropped her embrace and as if in a trance, took Cesare’s hand and led him to the

garden to the corpse of Antonio Gardetto. Cesare saw the handle of the dagger sticking

out of Gardetto’s back. He went to the man and knelt down. He was cold to Cesare’s

touch.

All three went to the cottage. She tearfully told them the terrible story. The plan was

simple. Giovanni would take Marcella and Sofia east, leave the Republic of Venice and

find lodgings in Bavaria. They would take Gardetto’s horse with them and let it loose

three of four leagues down the road. Cesare would bury the body, wait for Giovanni to

return and join Marcella and Sofia.

He gave Marcella the gold piece her Aunt Prunella gave him to keep her; along with

two more from his payment for the cabinet. She packed, and they said their goodbyes.

Giovanni, Marcella and Sofia left that night.

Part 11

1523

Ancestral Home of Rene Hermes

Outside of

Adler Lager, Bavaria

On the path outside of Rene Hermes’s barn a red rooster with iridescent green tail

feathers scratched up a few kernels of golden corn, eyed them and ate them one at a time.

Above in the hayloft, the morning sun came streaming through the vertical boards and lay

in yellow stripes across Roland Hughes who lay there in the hay naked and fast asleep.

He was on his back and Rene’s Journal he found in the Alchemist Cabinet the night

before was open, face down on his chest.

The rooster crowed and Roland stirred. A breeze passed through the openings

between the boards and rustled a single blade of straw that tickled his forehead. With his

eyes closed, Roland brushed it away. Again the breeze blew and again the straw teased

him. He ran his hand over his forehead and face and brought it to his side. He grabbed a

handful of straw, held it up and opened his eyes.

Roland looked past the straw in his hand and saw the gray weathered boards of the

barn’s roof. Directly above him was a large jagged hole with charred edges. He found it

difficult to sit up in the hay, and grabbed onto a massive hand hewn wooden upright. He

pulled himself up and stood. He had a terrible headache and was nauseous. His hands

were shaking. He looked down and saw he was naked. The journal lay at his feet along

with broken and snapped chunks of wood he guessed to be part of the roof. Roland

slowly looked all around him. “What is going on?” he said. He knew he was in a barn.

Where? He had no idea.

Roland was dizzy but made his way over to the catwalk next to the wall, knelt down

and looked through the slats. He saw a gray stone country house with a thatched roof, a

front porch with a flower laden trellis and smoke curling out of the chimney. He looked

to his left and at the end of the catwalk he saw a ladder that lead down to the floor of the

barn. He felt light headed and slowly and carefully climbed down. Next to the ladder was

a crude wooden workbench. He saw bellows, a pair of pincers and something that looked

like a leather lab coat, quite stained and smudged with soot. He put in on. It was stiff and

cold, but it made him feel better.

Roland looked around the barn. On the far wall, there was a cord of hand cut

firewood. Different wooden farm tools hung from pegs. There were barrels of all sizes,

sacks suspended on ropes from the cross beams, some wooden buckets, and large, lidded

wooden bins. Roland heard the neighing and foot stamps of a horse. He looked up and in

the far corner of the barn were two stalls with a horse in each. After a few deep breaths,

his head ache lessened a little bit. Roland wandered through an obstacle course of small

boxes, broken tools, and an unsteady pyramid of what looked like small bird cages or

traps.

His curiosity drew him to a carriage covered by a large, dusty canvas tarpaulin. He

pulled the canvas back. The carriage was smeared with mud. Deep scratches ran the

length of the body. The brass lamp was bent over and the spokes and wheels were caked

with mud. There was a crest painted on the door. He opened the door and looked in on

the sumptuous leather interior.

Roland’s attention was drawn away from the carriage when he heard a woman’s

voice coming from outside the barn. She was humming and half singing a pretty tune.

Roland pulled the canvas down over the carriage and quickly slipped out of sight between

the vehicle and the barn wall.

Still humming, the girl lifted the iron latch and pulled. The door opened with a long,

low creak. Roland shifted his position to see the person who entered. The sun poured in

and formed a halo behind her silhouette. She stopped, brushed her strawberry blonde hair

away from her face and tucked a few of the longer strands up under her kerchief. She

filled the shallow basket she carried with oats from one of the large wooden bins.

Her eyes were hazel and large, and her nose was straight and fine. She had full lips

and a very distinctive dimple in her chin. Her neck was slender and her complexion was

as pale with a healthy blush. She wore a white, loose fitting blouse that covered her soft

girlish shoulders and bosom, and a light blue, medium length skirt. She was barefoot.

One of the horses whinnied. “Be patient Zeus, and you too, Nero.” She walked to

the stalls and filled the wooden troughs that were on the outside of the stall doors. The

horses snorted their thanks and began to eat. She stood between the horses and petted

their muzzles. “And what were your dreams my two worthy princes?”

Roland changed his position to get a better look and brushed against a wooden

pitchfork that fell against the poorly stacked pyramid of bird cages causing the stack to

fall to the floor. The noise immediately caught the young woman’s attention.

She dropped the basket, turned and took a few steps toward the tumbled pile of

cages. Roland moved back behind the carriage, but she saw the movement, looked around

and snatched a sickle that’s blade was wedged in a crack of one of the wooden uprights.

She bravely brandished it. “Who’s there, come out, show yourself,” her voice wavered.

Roland knew he was caught and sheepishly stuck his head out from behind the

carriage. He smiled and stepped into view. He was a ridiculous sight in the filthy leather

smock, hair mussed up, bleary-eyed and with an unsure but hopeful smile on his face. “It

is only a stranger.” He took a step toward the cages, knelt down and started to restack

them.

“Leave those and come over here.” There was authority in her voice and she

brought the sickle up a little higher.

Roland stood and took a few steps closer.

“Who are you?” She followed his every movement with her eyes.

He had to think for a few seconds and finally spoke, “My name...my name is

Roland.” He didn’t know why he stumbled on the question.

“Why are you in my barn?” She was direct and very serious.

He rubbed his forehead with his hands as if doing so would clear his mind. “I don’t

know.” He looked all around him, gently shook his head and lost his smile. Their

exchange brought gravity and reality to the situation. He wondered if this was not another

hallucination and he could not hide the bewilderment in his eyes. “I really don’t know.”

He dropped his gaze and his shoulders involuntarily slumped.

“Are you a smithy?”

“Smithy?” He quickly glanced at the dirty smock he had on.” No, not a smithy, I

have no clothes.”

“Do you always enter someone’s barn and take what you want?”

Sofia’s hand holding the sickle slowly fell to her side.

Roland shrugged. “I can honestly say this is the first time.”

“And what were you doing over there by the carriage? The duke did not send you,

did he?” She leaned in and looked at him intensely.

“The duke? No duke sent me, I’ve never seen an old carriage like that close up. I

just wanted to look at it.”

“Old?” She was taken aback. “Duke Gunter had that carriage made for Pater only

five years ago.” She stuck the sickle back into the crack in the wooden upright and

looked back at Roland.

“Five years ago?” Roland was afraid but asked anyway. “And what year is this?”

The young woman put her hands on her hips and wrinkled her brow. “Do not make

light of me. You know very well what year, the year of Our Lord and Savior, 1523.”

“1523.” Was the last thing Roland said before his sight was filled with an inky

blackness swimming with red and gold specks.

When he opened his eyes, his head was cradled in the young woman’s lap. He felt

her soft, warm hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes again and before he tumbled back

against his subconscious he softly whispered “Liz, is that you?”

She looked down at the stranger. “No, my name is Sofia.” She said softly. Sofia

took in his regular and masculine features. She dared to gently touch his face and softly

traced his lips with her fingers. She stroked the stubble on his chin with the backs of her

fingers and watched the vein pulse on his neck. And when he stirred she patted his cheek

until he opened his eyes again. “Are you able to stand?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Roland sat up with a little tug from Sofia. He felt dizzy and

all of a sudden quite thirsty, hungry and weak. He laid his head back in her lap. “Let me

rest for a minute.” He closed his eyes and slid into a shadowy world.

11

Sofia stood before the hearth. She had just built up the fire below and the iron top

was beginning to warm. She set the clay pot of barley and onion soup on the cook top to

heat up. The sun cast a golden glow on the whitewashed kitchen walls in front of her. To

her right was a worktable where a few of her knives were laid out. Below the table was a

simple rack that held her other utensils. Bunches of dried herbs and small glass jars

holding her spices were set off to the side. A dead rabbit and a few grouse hung head

down from pegs on the wall above. The worktable on her left had wooden canisters of

various sizes pushed up against the wall. On the floor underneath the table was a large

wooden flour bin with a heavy lid. Next to the bin there was a medium-sized demijohn

for water. A sack of salt hung on a hook attached to the table apron. Above the worktable

were shelves that held different size crocks, bowls, some ceramic and some wood, a few

wooden spoons and a wrought iron fork and ladle.

On the work table was a tray covered with cheesecloth. Sofia lifted the cheesecloth

and looked at the rolls she was planning to bake. She pressed on a few to see how they

were rising.

111

Roland woke up in bed. His eyes were closed and when he felt the sheets and covers

he sighed with relief. “Thank god. I am not crazy. It was just another of those stupid

dreams,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and grimaced and moaned when he saw he

was in a heavily draped four post bed. This was not his bed or his bedroom. Nothing was

familiar. Roland propped himself up against the dark wooden headboard and sat there in

the muted light that filtered through the brocade cloth. His head ached.

He had on a tattered, threadbare shirt and when he pushed the blanket back he saw

he was wearing a pair of baggy pants in not much better condition than the shirt. He was

exasperated and on the verge of panic when Sofia pulled back the side curtain, looked in

and smiled.

“Ah, I see you are awake. You slept the morning away. Are you rested enough to

eat something?”

“Where am I?” Roland implored. He reached out and touched the back of Sofia’s

hand. That surprised her and also made her smile.

“Do not worry, I am real enough. Can you get to the table?”

“Who are you?” Roland pressed his hand on hers.

“I am Sofia.” She said gently and realized Roland was afraid.

“Where am I?”

“You really do not know where you are?”

“I could barely remember my name.” Roland closed his eyes for a second and

rubbed his forehead.

Sofia sat on the bed. “You are in the home of Rene Hermes. I am his daughter,

Sofia. We live in the countryside outside of Adler Lager, in Bavaria under the protection

of Duke Gunter the Cruel.” Sofia cocked her head a little and waited to see if Roland

understood what she was saying.

“And it’s 1523,” he added. “How?”

Sofia stood. “You need to eat and drink. Come along.” She held out her hand and he

took it. She led him across the main room to the walnut dining table and bid him sit.

Roland sat while Sofia went to the kitchen and finished preparing the meal.

Roland looked around him. The room was spacious. The walls were whitewashed.

He looked up at the open beam ceiling. A rustic, round chandelier hung directly over the

table. The room was appointed with tall, wide windows. The windows were made up of a

lead latticework and the pieces of glass in each pane were small, bluish and wavy.

A large, brightly colored tapestry of a unicorn in a pen and a virgin offering it a rose

hung on the adjacent wall to the right of the windows. In the center of the wall to his left

was a raised hearth and a shoulder high fireplace. The heavy mantle was supported by

soapstone uprights decorated with a rope motif. There was a matched set of very ornate,

silver candelabras on either end of the mantle and a large round mirror with a gilded

frame in the center.

Sofia brought in two bowls of the hot barley and onion soup, set them on the table

and returned with a few rolls and spoons. She sat across from Roland.

“Thanks, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” He picked up the roll and was about to

bite into it. He caught the shocked expression on Sofia’s face.

“You are not going to say the blessing?”

Roland put the roll down. “I’m sorry, I was just so hungry.” At a loss, he continued.

“Why don’t you say the blessing?”

“Me? Pa...” she cleared her throat and continued, “if you like.” Sofia reached across

the table and took Roland’s hand and closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, we thank you

for this sustenance. May it keep us from temptation and give us the strength to do your

will and to serve others in your name. Amen.”

Roland watched Sofia with respectful curiosity as she said the blessing. He was

attracted by her sincerity, peaceful countenance and her natural and easy beauty. When

she opened her eyes, she saw Roland’s appreciative look. They unconsciously continued

to hold each other’s hands until they noticed and slowly pulled them away. “Eat while the

soup is hot,” she said.

Roland blew on a spoonful of soup and ate. He had some of the roll. “This is very

good.”

“Thank you, Roland.” Sofia was secretly delighted with the compliment. She

lowered her eyes and smiled.

“You have very beautiful eyes and a wonderful smile.” Roland’s subconscious

slowly validated this new reality. He discovered he had no problem talking to the fairer

sex. ”I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

Her eyes opened wide and she gave Roland a radiant smile. ”Thank you but please,

you will make me vain.”

“Thank you for the clothes and food. About these clothes, and how did I get into

bed?”

“I helped you from the barn, you do not remember?”

“No. I don’t.”

”You were like a drunken man. It took a while, but we made it.”

“And the clothes?”

Sofia felt a flash of heat start from her stomach and rush to her face. “Must I tell

you?”

Roland smiled. “Yes,” he said playfully.

“I took off the leather smock,” She shrunk, “dressed you, and put you to bed.”

“Something about you seems so familiar. I don’t know why, but I feel I’ve known

you for years.” He took her hand for no other reason than to show his sincerity.

Sofia thought for a moment. “Who is Liz?” She pulled her hand away.

“That name is familiar. I should know that.” The harder he tried to remember the

quicker he felt his personal memories rush away like so much flotsam disappearing over

a waterfall. Roland was left with only his name and what had happened since he awoke in

the barn. He didn’t know whether to be angry or to cry. “Right now I don’t know who I

am.”

Sofia was conflicted. Her simple life had been put upon by this strange man whom

she found attractive and also a little suspect. She made the difficult decision to ask, “on

the blood that flowed from the wounds of Jesus Christ swear to me you are not from

Duke Gunter.”

“I swear I don’t know anyone named Duke Gunter.”

“Please say the oath.” Sofia was quite serious.

“I swear on the blood that flowed from the wounds of Jesus Christ.”

“Swear you will not repeat what I am going to tell you.”

“Never.” Roland was trying not to be overwhelmed.

“The duke believes Pater was killed when his carriage went into the lake. “

“I don’t understand.”

“Pater is,“ she leaned in closer and almost whispered, ”an alchemist. He is a good

Christian. He is not a heretic.”

Flashes of Rene’s Journal and the Alchemist Cabinet sprung up and fell just as

quickly back into his memory.

“When I was little, Pater was a loved member of the court. At that time, the duke

ruled justly, he was happy and was like a father to us all.”

Roland sat up and leaned in closer, “Go on.”

“The dark times came, the plague...so many died. So many died the fields lay

fallow. When the fields were sown again, blight ruined the wheat and barley. For three

winters, the snow came early and stayed to May. It was so cold, the sky was always

gray.” Sofia quickly made the sign of the cross. “Then the worst happened, the Duchess

Rosalba left us to abide in heaven. There was so much sorrow. After the duchess died, the

duke changed so. Now everyone is weak and poor and desperate.”

“Why does Pater want people to think he’s dead?”

“You are not from here. The Reformist and the other cults were always arguing with

the faithful. They are always ready to insult our Holy Father Pope Leo. They went to our

churches and tore the cross from the altar, stole the chalice, broke our holy statues and

stained glass. They beat the priest and did awful things to the nuns.”

Roland nodded.

She continued. “Now more noble houses have joined the Reformist lead by that

Judas, Luther, first in the north and now at our borders. The plague and the famine made

us weak and losing the duchess made us weak. Now the other dukes and barons are here

at our borders. Pater said they made an armed camp on our land and just took what they

wanted.

“Didn’t you fight back?”

“Our knights won many battles. They drove out the invaders. They even captured

nobles whose ransoms would have restored our wealth. But Duke Gunter is much

changed. He is no longer just. He is always angry. With his own hands, he killed his

cousin and his brother-in-law.”

“Murdered them? Where does Pater fit in?”

“He was the court physician. He saw the change in Duke Gunter and stayed on in

hopes to give him wise counsel. Gunter became suspicious of everyone. He always

thought Pater was an alchemist. He pressed Pater to tell him the secrets of the art. The

duke was obsessed with having gold to continue making war and he thought Pater could

change lesser metals into gold.”

“That can’t be done.” Roland picked up a second roll and took a bite.

“Pater knows the secret. The duke wanted it. First it was all honey and friendship,

and then it was gall and hate.” Sofia pointed beyond the door. “The horses and the

carriage in the barn, those were gifts along with casks of the best wine, wheels of cheese

even a barrel of Dutch ale.

Gunter wanted Pater to make gold so he could make war. He wanted revenge on

those who attacked us. I think he wanted to strike the sky for sending us the cold and

snow, and the wheat and barley for withering in the field. He lost his faith. He blames

God for taking Duchess Rosalba, and he blames himself. He takes his revenge when he

wants. Even on us. What he does is not right.”

Roland was captivated by her words. “Did you say your Pater actually changed the

lead into gold?”

“No, he said he needed more time. He needed to do the steps in the right order. He

needed one more ingredient. The duke pressed and pressed. Pater resisted. His friends at

court warned that Gunter would keep me in the dungeon until he got his gold.”

“What happened?”

“When Pater discovered the duke’s plan he sought him out to plead for more time.

The duke was dispassionate. They had a great argument and Pater left the castle angry.

He had the driver go very fast, it was October and the rains mired the roads. The carriage

slid and turned on its side and went into the lake. The coachman, God rest his soul, was

unlucky. Pater was able to wade to shore and he walked home in the dark and rain. The

horses knew the way and were still in harness, waiting at the barn door before Pater

returned. By morning, the duke knew of the accident. He and his men came asking for

Pater. I rode in the duke’s carriage to the lake. Some men had long poles and they looked

in the rushes around the lake. Others were in boats. They threw large hooks on the ends

of ropes into the water and dragged them back to the shore. They did that for two days.”

“What happened to your Pater?” Roland forgot himself as he listened to Sofia’s

incredible story.

“He left the night of the accident. Pater shorn his beard and donned threadbare rags.

Those you are wearing. He took our work cart and headed north. He returned early in the

morning with the corpse of a hanged man.”

Roland was repulsed by the thought, “a hanged man?”

Sofia frowned. “Do not make sport of me. Yes, a hanged man. You speak as if you

never heard of such a thing. The poor wretches are at every crossroad.” Sofia softened

her tone and continence. “It was as if heaven bestowed a gift upon us. The dead man in

age and size and even beard was very much like Pater. The weather and the sun and the

birds left very little of the poor man’s face. We stripped him and dressed him in Pater’s

clothes.

I put Pater’s rings on the dead man’s fingers. Pater put his court medallion on him,

as well. We carried him to the cart and Pater and I drove to the lake. We said a prayer and

put him in the water. The wind blew him to the center of the lake and the hand of God

held him there until he sunk. He was found the next day. “

“What a great story.” Roland admired Sofia’s and Rene’s courage.

“It is not a story. I am an honest woman. It truly happened.”

Roland shook his head in reassurance. “I certainly believe you. I find it and you

extraordinary.” She felt herself glow at his words. “Didn’t you find it unsettling to handle

the corpse?”

“Of course, but Pater’s life was at stake, and I love Pater. I will do anything for

someone I love.”

“That makes you a very special person.” Their eyes met and neither said a word. At

that instant, something flashed between them. “I guess the duke stopped looking when

they found the corpse.”

“The duke was remorseful. I believe he was truly sorry to lose Pater. He continues

to give me a yearly stipend until I marry.”

“You must have had many offers of marriage,” Roland said lightly.

Sofia’s eyes saddened. “It would be good for you to meet Pater.”

Sofia quickly grabbed Roland’s hand, squeezed it and led him over to the unicorn

tapestry. She pulled it back exposing an alcove. Sofia pushed on the back of the alcove

and the wall pivoted enough for them to squeeze through to find themselves on a landing

where they stood before a wooden door. Sofia repeated the same distinctive knock three

times. “Pater, Pater may I enter?”

Rene Hermes, a man of fifty-eight, sat at a worktable grinding sulphur and saltpeter

together. His beard was thin and white. His disheveled hair was covered by a brimless

hat. His face was furrowed and he wore spectacles that were in thick, black, wooden

frames. His dark clothing fit loosely. He was surrounded by all types of small containers,

boxes, beakers and bottles. He wrote in his workbook and when he heard Sofia he closed

the book and put it in a drawer. “Yes child, you may come.”

“It is with a friend,” she added and waited for Rene’s reaction.

“Yes. Who?” Rene picked up a small blue bottle off the table and opened a painted

wooden case with the bright yellow Star of David painted on the lid. He put the bottle in

a cloth lined cutout, closed the box and locked it.

“He calls himself Roland Hughes.”

“Does he now? You may come.” Rene arose and crossed the room as Sofia and

Roland were descending the stone staircase. He met them halfway. Sofia fell behind

Roland and studied her father’s face to see if he was upset with her. He smiled at Roland

and gave Sofia an impatient glance.

Roland extended his hand. Rene took it and held it as Roland talked.

“It is an honor sir, to meet you.”

Rene smiled and nodded. Then he looked at Sofia. “Child, bring us refreshments,

cider from the summer pantry.”

Sofia turned and ascended the stairs. At the door, she looked down at Roland and

Rene and smiled.

When they were alone, Rene grabbed onto Roland’s shirt front and pulled him very

close to his face. Tell me, who are you and why are you here?”

Roland was surprised at Rene’s strength and fierce attitude. “My name is Roland

Hughes. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even know where I am or how I got here.”

“Do not play me the fool, young master. If you are from the castle, you will meet

your end right now.” Rene raised a dagger up and touched the point under Roland’s chin.

Roland was in a panic and he spoke quickly. “Please sir. I swore to Sofia this

morning that I don’t know the duke, I’ve never met him and I have never been here

before.”

Rene let go of Roland’s shirt front and took a step back. “Did you come in a

carriage, or did you ride a horse here. Did you walk?”

“I woke up in your hayloft this morning.” Roland shook his head as he spoke.

Rene could tell Roland was telling the truth. He managed the slightest smile. “We

are the sum of our memories. Try to remember.”

Roland closed his eyes. He tried to visualize the last thing he saw the night before.

“I remember going to sleep last night, in my own bed. I had a book...a very old book,

handwritten in Latin.”

Rene motioned that they sit at the worktable. Roland followed and sat across from

him. “Try to remember.”

“I got the book out a cabinet, a very strange piece of furniture. It had curved sides

and hooves for feet.” Roland became impatient with himself. “Everything that happened

before this morning is so dreamlike.”

“You can remember.”

Roland closed his eyes and concentrated. “There was a woman. We argued. I

remember a gold coin rolling on the ground. It’s strange, but I remember the Latin I read

from the book perfectly.”

Rene was very curious, “The Latin?”

“Per aqua sacrum regenerate ad novo animus ante locus novo ad tempus novo cum

intent genero flamma aeternus.”

Rene stood, went around the table, grabbed Roland’s arm and pulled him up out of

his chair. He held Roland at arm’s length and said with a smile. “Come here my son.

Those are my words. No one could know those words except me. Now I understand, I

understand quite well, my words have brought you to me.” He hugged Roland and kissed

him on both cheeks.

Sofia saw the two embrace as she descended the stairs carrying the jug of cider and

the cups. She was relieved and delighted to see that her father took to Roland.

She set the jug and cups on the worktable. “I am glad you accept Roland as a friend

as do I.”

“More than a friend,” Rene took Roland’s and Sofia’s hands. “This young man has

come a long and dangerous way. He is part of our family now. He will be a son. He will

be a brother. Sofia, embrace your brother as I do.”

Sofia and Roland shared a bewildered smile and willingly stepped into an embrace.

Roland slid his hand down to the small of Sofia’s back for a second or two. She felt an

unknown thrill and pulled back, lingered for just a few seconds more, then dropped her

arms.

“Let us celebrate.” Rene poured the cider into the cups. He handed one to Roland,

the other to Sofia and held his high. With smiles, they touched their cups together then

drank.

Rene put his arm around Roland’s shoulder. “I have many things to show you

filius.” He looked over to Sofia, “Drink daughter, you have a house to attend to.”

Sofia drank and when she was finished she looked at Roland and shyly kissed him

on the cheek. He returned her kiss with no hesitation.

After Sofia left the room, the men sat next to each other at the worktable. “She is a

wonderful child ...I should say, woman. She will need a protector someday. ” Rene

looked into Roland’s eyes. “Will you be that man?”

Roland diffidently nodded, “Yes, I will.”

“Good. There are so many things to show you and teach you. What do you know of

Alchemy?”

Roland shrugged, “Only what I’ve read in books. I suppose it’s about turning lead

into gold.”

“When I was younger, like you, I turned to alchemy for my own selfish ends. Gold?

That is simple, a childish pursuit. Foolishly I let myself be drawn to necromancy, but that

is in the past. Alchemy is a discipline for the self, for the soul.”

“No gold?”

“Oh that? It is possible, but only when the motives of those involved are selfless and

pure. And only when those involved have transformed the self through dismemberment

and putrefaction and rebirth can one attempt such a task. As I said alchemy is a

transformation of the soul from something base to something pure. The symbol for gold

is a circle with a dot at the center. That is also the symbol for the sun as well as the

symbol for light.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“The lot of the alchemist is to strive for illumination. Some interpret the same

symbol differently and find themselves on different paths. We are the gold, we are the

light and we are the illumination of the soul.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“A very good first step,” Rene smiled and affectionately mussed Roland’s hair.

Rene and Roland stopped talking when they heard neighing and the clatter of

horses’ hooves on the stone apron in front of the porch. They stood when they heard

muffled masculine shouts and loud banging on the front door of the house, then the

sounds of Sofia arguing.

“It has come to this. Thank goodness you are here. Go to Sofia, now.”

Roland stood so quickly he knocked his stool over. He ran across the floor and up

the stairs. He flung the door open, pushed on the corner of the false back of the alcove,

squeezed through, and stepped out from behind the tapestry.

Roland saw Sofia across the room being man handled by a greasy haired soldier. He

had Sofia by the wrists and was easily and cruelly jerking her around. With difficulty

Roland ignored his inner warning to stay put, to not to get involved. He ran across the

room not caring about the unknown consequence. Roland was unseen and he came from

behind. He grabbed the soldier by the shirt collar and kicked his feet out from underneath

him. The soldier let go of Sofia as he fell face first on the floor. Roland gave him a few

good kicks to the backsides and pinned him to the floor with his foot on the middle of his

back.

“You, stand back.” Roland noticed the soldier’s superior, Sergeant Leo Cardetti who

was watching from in front of the fireplace. He was clumsily trying to put one of the

silver candelabras from the mantle into a linen sack that was just a little too small.

Cardetti put the candelabra down and drew a short sword. His soldier wiggled under

Roland’s foot but could not get up. Cardetti approached Roland. Roland felt a chill when

he saw the sword. He was unable to move.

Roland had his arm around Sofia trying to comfort her. She had tears in her eyes

and was holding her blouse together at the shoulder where it was torn.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Roland asked him in a voice that was just on

this side of breaking.

“Let him up.” The sergeant looked at Sofia and Roland and sighed. He put his

sword back into its sheath. “Let him up.”

“You’ll call him off?” demanded Roland.

The sergeant nodded. “Mario, get up and wait over by the door.” Roland picked up

his foot and the soldier slowly stood up. He glared at Roland and Sofia while he dusted

himself off. Roland had a flash of recognition. There was something about the soldier’s

face, especially the eyes that seemed familiar. He knew he had seen that face before, that

terrible complexion and those cold, ruthless eyes. Sofia snuggled closer to Roland and

put her cheek against his chest. The soldier rubbed his buttock where Roland kicked him.

As he made his way across the room, he took a weighted club from his belt and hit an

iron candle stand sending it to the floor. The candles went rolling.

The sergeant spoke calmly, “God’s name is not associated with this business. We

are here in the name of Duke Gunter to collect those things of value that he needs.”

“Those candelabras are a gift from the duke. We are under his protection,” Sofia

protested.

“That may be so. He knows they are here. That is why he sent us. He wants them.

Give them up willingly and you will enjoy his protection. If not, my friend here just

might come back in like company and I can assure you that bunch will take anything they

want.

“Take them and go,” Sofia said with defiant resignation.

“That’s not right. Why should he steal things out of your home?”

“We live here at Duke Gunter’s pleasure. Render unto Caesar what is his.”

“Listen to the girl my friend.” Sergeant Cardetti said amiably. He returned to the

mantle, picked up the candelabra that he had already bagged and put the other one under

his arm. He bowed to Sofia and the two left. Sofia and Roland watched as they passed by

the window on their way back to Adler Kralle Castle.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Only a little, hold me, I feel safe in your arms. That is how I feel, safe.”

Roland held her tighter.

Rene slipped from behind the tapestry and joined his daughter and Roland. He put

his arms around both of them. “Tell me daughter, did they do you harm?”

Sofia looked at her torn blouse. “You see that,” She held up her arm,”and I will

have bruises on my wrists for a few days.”

“What possessions will give me no worry now?” Rene asked with a twinkle in his

eyes.

“They took the silver candelabras,” Roland offered.

Rene shrugged and gave something of a smile. “No loss, those were given out of

greed not love. They were lovely though.” He let out an airy sigh. ”Oh children, what has

become of our world? I am a ghost. You dear daughter are a prisoner here tending to this

ghost. Et Filius meus, you have come such a great distance, for what reason, no one

knows. Let us ask our Heavenly Father for guidance.”

Roland followed Sofia’s and Rene’s lead and joined them to make a triad. They held

hands, bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

Rene began. “Dear Lord, forgive our duke his sins. Show him your divine mercy.

Bless his daughter Lady Rosanera for her efforts to help our people. Though she comes

from foreign soil, please allow those she helps to accept her as our own. Thank you for

guiding Roland to us. Help us to stay on our paths so we may always do your will.

Amen.”

Deeds

The black stallion threw its head to one side and reared high against the lavender sky

when the boy quickly passed in front of it with the torch. Lady Rosanera tightened her

legs against the horse’s sides, gripped the red leather reins and pulled the horse back

down. The horse’s red lacquered hooves narrowly missed the boy’s head. “There, there

Enzo, calm yourself.” She patted her steed on the side of its neck. “There, there my love,

be calm,” she whispered. The horse settled down as its mistress relaxed back into the red

leather saddle. “You boy, do that again and you will be whipped.” The boy cringed at the

thought of feeling the sting of her riding crop on his naked backsides again and went

about his task of readying the supplies for the other members of Lady Rosanera’s party.

Dawn’s warmth and light was just reaching the rear of the stables at Adler Kralle

castle where Lady Rosanera and her mounted company waited for Clotilda, the servant

girl. Catharina was Rosanera’s first lady in waiting. She was the daughter of Benedetta,

making her a second cousin. Catharina was tall and serious, judgmental, pious and aloof.

Her black, straight hair was pulled tight and hidden under a dark headdress that came to a

peak at the forehead and covered the sides of her face and ears. Her wardrobe befitted her

courtier status, but Catharina leaned to sober, bordering on somber colors; dark browns

and inky blues.

Cecilia was as true a friend as a foil to Rosanera. Cecilia was older than Rosanera

by nine years. She was widowed and wise and asked to court because she was kind and

generous, honest and always smiling or on the verge of laughter. Her pale, oval face was

surrounded by ringlets of red hair. Her features both in face and body were regular and

pleasing. Her riding habit was rust colored, her blouse shiny gold with a frilled front. Her

gloves and boots were tan.

The boy put his torch in a wall sconce, picked up the bundled clothes and tied them

fast behind Cecilia’s saddle. He then went to Catharina with her medicine bags and did

the same.

Lady Rosanera’s two gentleman escorts were her second cousins Luis and Angelo.

Both were foppish and effeminate. Angelo was tall and muscular and even though he had

sad eyes he was almost always in a good humor. His brown hair hung in springy curls out

from under the oversize beret he wore. His face was smooth and boyish. His doublet was

striped in blue and white and his britches were dark, mid-calf and loose. He wore high

boots with the cuffs turned down. Angelo came from her father’s side of the family.

Luis, a Spaniard, came from Rosanera’s mother’s side of the family. Luis wore a

pointed goatee. That along with his bald head made a long caricature of his face. He was

short, and thin and with a dark, pocked complexion. Luis dressed in dark clothing and he

always wore a red sash and scarf.

The boy tugged the reins of a pack horse that had two large baskets tied together at

the handles and draped over its back. The baskets were filled with loaves of bread, dried

meat, and chunks of cheese. He led the horse to Luis and handed him the reins. Luis took

the reins and patted the boy on the head as one might a pet. The boy looked up at Luis

and smiled. Luis winked back, fetched a copper coin out of a little pocket in his waist

band and tossed it to the boy.

Rosanera called out, “You, boy, tell Clotilda to hurry.”

The boy disappeared into the shadows and returned less than a minute later walking

in front of Clotilda who was carrying five military cloaks over her arms. She handed one

to each of the mounted group. They pulled the cloaks over their outfits as a disguise. It

was common knowledge Rosanera left the confines of the castle against the orders of the

Duke.

“Listen my loves, we visit the orphanage first and then the hospital. Remember,

anyone we meet along the way give them whatever they ask for. Except for you Cecilia,

the clothes are for the orphans.”

Luis cleared his throat. “Dear cousin, must we stop for them? They stink so badly.

They are so poor and filthy. Not a pretty girl amongst them.” His lips shriveled in disgust.

Cecilia spoke up with a wry smile on her lips. “Pretty girls should not concern you

Luis. Now a pretty boy, that is another thing all together.”

Everyone in the party broke into laughter except Catharina. She frowned and

everyone, including Luis resignedly waited for the moral point she was about to make.

Catharina shook her head and gave Luis a disappointed look. “The devil has made

Luis the way he is. We should pray for his immortal soul, not make light of his

depravity.”

Angelo hoped to defuse the moment with his own humor. “You would make a great

prioress.”

It was Cecilia’s turn, ”The convent will not take her. They say she is much too

serious and pious, even for them.”

Everyone had a chuckle at Catharina’s expense. She sat straighter in her saddle,

looked off to the side and held her nose up a little higher than usual.

“Come my pets, let us away.” Clotilda opened the side gate. The five rode through

and into the dawning light of this new day, and on the road to Adler Lager.

Stories Twice Told

On that same morning, not too far away, Roland and Sofia sat at the dining table and

lingered over their still warm cider. Roland’s personal memories had all but slipped

away. He had to have a mother and father, maybe brothers and sisters. He had someone

important to him named Liz. “Maybe it’s better that I can’t remember my past, less to

miss.” He looked at Sofia and attempted to smile.

“If it was not for you, I do not know what would have happened yesterday when the

soldiers came.” She patted the back of his hand and left her hand on his.

“All I know is I’m from somewhere else. I wish I could remember. I wish I knew

why I am here.”

“You came to us, to me, when we needed someone. Is not that reason enough? To

be given purpose?”

Roland did not answer. He picked up the mug and drank. “Are we still going to

market?”

“Oh yes, definitely.”

Roland saw the sparkle of anticipation in her eyes. Sofia nodded and cleared the

table. She came back, stood next to Roland and gently leaned her hip against his

shoulder. “It must be difficult not to know who you are. I know that feeling too. I am not

Pater’s natural daughter. I am a foundling.”

“A foundling, what do you mean?”

“I never knew my mother or my father. I was left here for Pater to find. He took me

in a raised me. We were both alone. We both needed each other.”

“You were lucky to be taken in.” Roland reflected on his recent good fortune.

“Oh yes, I am thankful.” She said with a note of longing in her voice. “Pater is a

very wise and kind man. But I wish I knew my mother and my real father. Who they were

and what they were like. I sometimes wonder if they gave me away because they did not

want me.”

“It is hard to know why people do what they do. There had to be a good reason.”

Sofia continued, “I wonder why they left me here, in this place, in this house? Even

though we are only a little over two leagues from Adler Lager I feel so far away from

everything and everyone. When I go to mass or to market, I hear talk of Duke Gunter and

Lady Rosanera and Pope Leo and the battles against the Reformists. I see the families,

the mothers and fathers and their laughing children. I wonder what it would be like to

have that. But then, Pater needs me. He is not well.” Sofia sighed. Roland looked up at

her. “I am sorry. I must sound silly and selfish.”

“No, no you don’t,” Roland fought an urge to put his arm around Sofia’s waist as a

gesture of comfort. Instead, he stood. “It is certainly no good to be alone. If I had to wake

up in anyone’s barn, I’m glad it was yours.”

“Let us away to market.”

Sofia and Roland went to the barn. She led the gray, Zeus, out of his stall and

outside. Roland watched Sofia ease Zeus to the cart and back him in between the shafts.

“Do you want to hitch him?”

Roland shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how.”

“No?” Sofia smiled and happily took on the role as teacher.

“Go to the back of the cart and bring me the bridle.”

Roland looked at the jumble of leather straps. He knew what a bridle looked like

and brought it to Sofia. Roland watched as she gently slipped it over Zeus’s head and put

the bit in his mouth. All the while, Sofia spoke in a kind and reassuring tone to the

animal. Roland brought her the reins, the trace and the girth straps. Sofia finished the

harnessing. She rechecked the straps and climbed onto the seat. Roland joined her.

“Now do not tell me you do not know how to drive a cart.”

He smiled at her, “That would be a lie if I said I did.”

Sofia reached over Roland’s arms with hers and placed the reins in his hands. She

kept his hands in hers. “If you want the horse to go, you slap the reins on his rear and say

‘gittup’. If you want to go left you tug gently with your left hand. ”Sofia pulled on

Roland’s left hand. If you want to go right, tug gently with your right hand. If you want

to stop, you pull back on the reins with both hands together and say ‘whoa’.” Sofia let go

of Roland’s hands. Their faces were almost touching. “Are you ready?”

Roland felt her breath against his cheek. “I’m so ready.” Roland snapped the reins

and the cart lurched forward. They looked at each and laughed. Roland got the feel of

driving the cart quickly and Zeus was very forgiving. They bounced and squeaked down

the road that passed through green meadows under a bright cloudless sky.

“So, there is no Signora Hermes?”

“There was. She passed away a long time ago, since before I was taken in. It has

been only me and Pater for so long now.”

The cart took a bounce and Roland guided Zeus back to the center of the road. “He

never remarried?”

“Oh no, she was the love of his life. Out of respect Pater will not.”

Roland shook his head in mild disbelief. “People actually do that?”

“Of course they do. If the love is true, it is eternal.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Roland became introspective.

“Have you found the love of your life?”

Sofia looked down at her hands and spoke just above a whisper. “Maybe.”

“How will you know?” Roland asked.

“I will know,” said Sofia.

The cart made a sudden lurch and the two were jostled together. Roland let go of the

reins. He turned toward her and she toward him and they found themselves in an embrace

which led to a kiss. The first kiss was the sweetest and the ones that followed were primal

and driven.

Unattended, Zeus left the road and headed across a meadow when he spied an apple

tree. When Zeus was close enough to reach the apples on the lower branches, he stopped

and bit into one. Roland and Sofia were still in an embrace when they realized they were

no longer moving.

Roland stood and jumped down from the cart. He held up his arms and Sofia let

herself fall into them. In a second, they were on their knees, in another, lying on the grass

next to each other. Roland stroked her hair softly and slowly kissed her on that little place

just below her ear lobe, down across her neck back up under her chin and finally on her

lips.

Sofia had never been kissed by a man. Her entire body was alive. Every movement,

every caress, every kiss stirred her blood and put fire in every cell of her body. Roland’s

hand found its way down her side; he let it dally on her hip. He ran his fingers up and

down her thigh, lower each time until he reached the hem of her skirt, then up underneath

on the soft warm skin of her inner thigh. He slowly pulled her skirt up exposing more and

more of her beautifully pale leg to the welcoming sky. She felt a warm breeze on her

skin. It was more than she could take.

Sofia pushed herself away from Roland’s embrace. She was out of breath. She took

his hand away a second before his fingers could touch her sex. “No, please do not.” She

tugged at Roland’s arm until he let it hang at his side.

“You really want to stop now?” Roland slowly caught his breath.

“Yes, you must.” Sofia was already standing. She adjusted her skirt and blouse.

Roland lay on his side with his head propped on his hand looking up at Sophia. Her

cheeks were flushed and she was doing battle with herself.

“You didn’t like that?” Roland was at a loss.

She relaxed and tried to regain her composure, “oh, very much.”

“Well. What’s the matter? We’re two adults. We can do whatever we like. “

Sofia leaned against the cart and crossed one leg over the other. “I made an oath to

Pater, not to until I wed.”

“Pater? What does he have to do with it? I won’t tell if you don’t,”

Roland said with a hopeful smile.

Sofia crossed her arms and bowed her head. She could not hide the disappointment

on her face. After a moment’s reflection, she looked down at Roland and sighed. Sophia

slowly climbed back on the cart and sat. She crossed her arms and looked out at the

horizon.

Roland stood and dusted off his clothes. He tucked his shirt into his pants and patted

his hair into place. “Sofia, what’s the matter?” He stepped up on the spoke and clumsily

took his seat.

Sofia was subdued. She made herself smile and acted as if nothing had happened.

Her attention was drawn to pearlescent feathers that fell in a steady rain from a branch

high on the apple tree. A raven called out. It sat on a high branch deliberately plucking

the feathers from the breast of an unfortunate dove. Sofia frowned and tugged Zeus’s

head to the left and headed him back to the road. When the front wheels of the cart

touched the dirt road, she slapped the reins against Zeus. “Gittup!” The horse picked up

speed until they were down the road and then slowed to its usual lackadaisical pace.

Roland made an attempt to put his arm around Sofia, but she nudged him away. He

was puzzled and more than a little irritated. “What did I do that was so wrong?”

Sofia pretended not to hear. “Do you remember what we need?”

“That’s not an answer. What did I do that was so wrong? Kiss you? Hug you? Want

to make love? I know we both want it.”

Sofia looked straight ahead and spoke in a steady, unemotional tone, “None of those

things are wrong,” She looked directly at Roland and waited until he looked at her before

she continued, “If those things are done with love.”

“Come on now, that’s not fair. Ever since we met I know as well as you there is

something between us. You can’t deny it. Think how I must feel. We kiss, we hug, and

get each other all excited and ready and then you say, ‘Pater would not approve.’ What

am I supposed to do?”

Roland’s words pricked Sofia enough that she lost her temper. “You do not talk of

Pater like that. You must respect his wishes. He is a very wise man and if he asks

something of you, you do not question, because everything he does and what he might

ask of you is out of love.”

Roland did not like to be scolded and replied peevishly, “I’m sure he does.” After a

moment’s reflection, he softened and spoke in a conciliatory tone. “You’re right, I’m sure

he does. I’m sure he has his reasons, although, those were some wonderful kisses and

hugs.” He playfully bumped his shoulder against hers until he saw the stern look leave

her eyes and a smile come to her lips.

“Roland, we know so little of each other. Let our feelings flower and not be rooted

in baseness.”

Roland reluctantly agreed. He didn’t want to lose any romantic ground he gained

with her. “Fair enough, but we are human and we all have human needs.” Roland

hopefully put his arm around Sofia’s shoulder and again she nudged it away.

“Let us finish our errand as friends would, as brother and sister.” She slapped the

reins on Zeus’s rump; the horse gave a surprised neigh and quickened his pace.

“If that’s how you want it, brother and sister it is.” He slowly moved as far away

from Sofia as the seat would allow and looked out at the brooding horizon.

Best Laid Plans

Lady Rosanera and her entourage approached the gates of Adler Lager. Along the way,

they were stopped by the hungry, destitute and homeless. Anyone who asked was given a

small loaf of bread or dried meat or a piece of cheese, enough sustenance for another day

or maybe two. They passed under the observation arch and looked out on the square with

its fountain flanked by vendors in their stalls. For all the brightly colored banners,

canopies, and enthusiastic barking, the stalls were scantily supplied. The baker had loaves

that most could not afford. The loaves they could afford were three and four days old, the

oldest might sport a patch or two of copper green mold. The butcher offered two cows’

heads, a sheep’s head without the tongue and some very dry and dusty, leatherlike

sausage that needed to be soaked for at least two days before it might be edible. The

green grocers offered a better fare. The honey seller was fairly well stocked, but the

people had little money to spend.

Old Greta, seller of potions and remedies was wrinkled and missing her two front

teeth from an unfortunate tumble she took at an early age. She and her sister, Eva,

watched the nobles enter the square. Greta hung a bunch of dried hemlock on an upright;

then arranged her little pots of salves and other dubious concoctions along the front of the

table. She pointed to Rosanera, ”Look at high and mighty there, trying to buy us with a

crust of bread from her daily feast. May God strike me dead if what she is doing is not the

work of Satan.”

Eva nodded in agreement. “It is the work of that dog Pope Leo. He keeps the war

going through that Italian bitch. Ever since the duchess died good riddance, look how the

daughter makes the duke a madman with her wiles. She is nothing but a temptress. I told

you once and I will tell you again, my cousin Terese, the washer woman at the castle;

well, she says she saw that slut have the duke the same day they buried her mother.” Eva

spit on the ground.

The tinsmith in the next stall over could not help overhear the two. “Watch your

tongue Greta or the Papists will cut it off.”

Old Greta let out a little cackle of a laugh. “I am not going to worry. There are not

many left, except for that Italian bitch and her dainty little dandies. They can all go to the

devil.”

Once inside the city the riders slipped their cloaks off their backs and let them drape

over their horses’ hind quarters. They carefully wended their way through the narrow

avenues that defined the market place. Some of the market goers and stall tenders bowed

or curtsied with respect and others showed their contempt by standing up straighter or

crossing their arms. The baker was angered when he saw the loaves in the basket that

were being given away for free. Some women looked beyond politics and couldn’t help

commenting on the beautiful outfits the ladies were wearing, but the glow of their

admiration faded when they looked at the coarse and scratchy homespun they felt against

their skin every day. Admiration turned to jealousy and jealousy turned to disgust and

even hate.

Rosanera, Catharina, Luis, Cecilia, and Angelo turned the corner and stopped at the

front door of the orphanage. Luis and Angelo dismounted and swung the knocker against

the massive wooden door. “Open the door for Lady Rosanera.”

Angelo and Luis heard the buzz of children’s voices, the laughter and the sound of

footsteps from inside approach the door. The door swung open and the roly-poly Fra

Benito stepped through and bowed.

“Bless Lady Rosanera, welcome, welcome. Come in, come in.” Fra Benito looked

over his shoulder and called into the large room. “Boys, come quickly, take the mounts to

the alley, keep them out of sight and wait with them. Quickly now, La Patrona is here.” A

dozen boys ran for the honor, but only six were needed, one for each horse.

Luis and Angelo helped the ladies down. The six boys made short work of

unloading the baskets of bread and cheese and Catharina’s and Cecilia’s bundles which

they took inside and set on the long refractory table. The honored boys led the horses

down the alleyway and behind the orphanage.

Toddlers to twelve year old boys and girls moved in masse and surrounded the

visitors. Their smiles and bright eyes were the warmest of welcomes. Fra Benito turned

and held his hands up. “Now, now, you are all being very naughty, go back inside, now.”

The children stayed right where they were. Rosanera looked over at Cecilia and

laughed.

“I am so sorry, so sorry, your Lady,” Fra Benito said as he attempted to snatch up a

little boy closest to him. The boy moved away with catlike grace just in time.

“Oh, pshaw!” Cecilia bent down and picked up a little red haired boy, held him at

arm’s length and swung him around. In no time, she was cooing and the boy was

laughing. Rosanera spied a little, dark haired girl whose timid countenance reminded her

of herself when she was that age. The little girl was afraid at first, but melted into

Rosanera’s arms, put her head against her breast and closed her eyes. Rosanera felt a rush

of calm come over her as she gently stroked the girl’s hair. Angelo, jolly as ever, hoisted

a little boy up on one hip and a little girl on the other and bounced them up and down

until they shrieked with joyful laughter.

Luis shrugged and picked up a little boy who was standing off by himself. He sat

him on his hip and followed Angelo’s lead and bounced him up and down. Unlike the

other children, instead of laughing, a serious expression came over the boy’s face.

Something quite malodorous wafted up to Luis’s nostrils. His smile was replaced by

repulsion. Luis put the little boy down and patted him on the head. He pulled a scented

hanky from his sleeve and held it under his nose.

“Now, now, everyone inside, come, come.” Fra Benito stretched out his arms and

guided everyone inside the orphanage. They entered a large, plain stone room with a very

tall ceiling. Light came through small windows high on the wall. On the floor against the

walls were pallets covered with a layer of straw and a neatly folded blanket and pillow at

the foot of each little bed.

There were two long wooden tables the children sat at for meals. As of the moment

Cecilia and Catharina occupied the tables. Catharina opened her bags and was putting the

contents, salves, herbs and unguents out in a row on the table before her. The children

gathered around fresh and wide-eyed and watched her every move.

Catharina called for the children to make a line, and then she called them to her one

at a time. She looked in their mouths at their teeth and smelled their breath. She looked

into their eyes and ears. She told them to bow their heads and she searched their scalps

for lice. She found them very much more often than not. Catharina used a tightly toothed

boxwood comb and swept the lice out the children’s hair onto a plate that Angelo held to

catch the scrambling vermin. A little boy of seven named Nico sat nearby, and after

Angelo put the plate on the table Nico would gleefully crush the tiny creatures into a little

brown stain under his thumbnail and giggle with each little crunching dispatch.

Catharina also showed the children how to clean their mouths, first with a good

rinse and then with a scrubber that was nothing more than a little piece of cloth dipped in

some salt and powdered anise seed. The children were instructed to rub their teeth and

gums with it. Catharina showed the same children every week and became impatient with

those who did not follow her regimen, which sometimes caused her to overlook the good

she did.

When the children were finished with their visit with Catharina, Cecilia called them

over to her table that was laid out with old clothing donated by those more fortunate. One

at a time the children stood in front of a smiling Cecilia as she held up an item of clothing

matching the size and color to the happy little boy or girl. Luis handed the children their

new clothing and either approved of Cecilia’s choice with a nod or disapproved with an

over exaggerated wave of his hand and a roll of the eyes. The children found his antics

very entertaining.

Past the tables, through an archway was the kitchen with its pot of stew ever

simmering and steaming over the fire. Lady Rosanera and Fra Benito stood under the

archway and watched the children.

“Lady Rosanera, bless you, bless you. Your help is most needed and appreciated,”

said the pudgy little man with much sincerity.

Rosanera acknowledged his comment with a slight nod and a wisp of a smile. “I am

glad you appreciate it, Fra Benito. There seems to be more children here than just last

week.”

A grave look came over his face. “Yes there are. Each week maybe five or six come

to us. Half of the new arrivals die before the week is out. Before you came there was

never enough money for food, never enough money or food.”

“As long as the people know I am here to help. You have mentioned my help, have

you not?”

The question made the man nervous. He clasped his hands together in such a way

that resembled one who was praying. “The people know you help them. I am sure your

work pleases God. I see very few people outside these walls what with tending to the

little one and all. I do include you in my prayers every morning and night.”

Rosanera felt impatient, not particularly with Fra Benito but with the townsfolk and

her inability to connect with them like her mother did. She arrived here with her mother

when she was eight years old and after fifteen years Rosanera was still the outsider. With

her future and the future of Adler Lager at risk, she wanted the support of the people and

to be thought of as the next duchess. “May our prayers be answered,” she said softly. She

continued with a note of frustration in her voice, “This despicable fighting, will it never

end?”

“I am of no politic, but Duke Gunter must prevail for the sake of our people’s souls

and the good of our Holy Father, Pope Leo.”

The dichotomy irked Rosanera. Pope Leo wanted to hold on to this last bastion of

Catholic ruled Bavaria. The only way the Pope could maintain his control was through

Gunter. The duke had run roughshod over the people with crushing taxes and endless

expropriations in order to feed, clothe, and keep his men mounted. The gentry were at the

end of their ropes.

As for Rosanera, upon Gunter’s death, if he did not remarry and have an heir, she

would be duchess. It was unlikely he would remarry but not impossible. Her own

mother’s marriage to the duke was arranged through the Vatican to unite their noble

houses and strengthen the agreements and treaties and loyalties. Rosanera hated that she

was a Papal pawn and could be cast aside and lose the status she so dearly paid for. She

wanted the people on her side. “Yes, Fra Benito, for the good of the church. But today let

us tend to the unfortunates. Please let our townsmen know my concern.”

“They do know Lady Rosanera, and I will tell them again.

Silenced Hearts

Zeus pulled the cart along the country road. The sky changed from an electric blue earlier

that morning into a faded turquoise sea with towering, milky clouds. Roland avoided

looking at Sofia. Instead, he aimlessly searched the horizon. He held onto the

disagreement he just had with Sofia as if it were a life buoy in the empty sea of his

memory. His subconscious recognized this lover’s spat as familiar, almost haunting. He

was frustrated because he could not attach it to anyone from his past.

He did not realize it, but he was building a new life, and that life so far was

encapsulated in a little over a day and a half. He had no idea who or what he was like

before yesterday morning. Wrestling with the thieving soldier was exhilarating but also

very unsettling and frightening and he had to hide his trembling hands from both Rene

and Sofia. Roland did not know how he was going to act next or why. He knew he

instantly felt something for Sofia and it was obvious she had feelings for him. He second

guessed his motives toward her and was actually glad he did. At least he knew he had

scruples. He had to keep in mind everything was a discovery and an experiment.

Sofia held the reins and looked over at Roland several times. His silence made her

impatient, anxious and nervous. At the moment, she was calm, but at the slightest

thought, her memory amplified the thrill of their kisses and the touch of Roland’s hand

excited her all over again. Sofia was vexed. She did not want to disobey her papa, but she

could not ignore her feelings.

They both looked out on the countryside of unplanted fields and abandoned

livestock that was too scrawny and bony to bother to butcher.

“Do you see that?” Sofia tapped Roland’s shoulder and he turned toward her. She

held back a smile until she saw his face. His expression was unreadable, so she too

presented herself calmly and coolly. She slowed the cart down and pointed.

Roland looked where she pointed. He saw something but could not tell what it was.

“What am I seeing?”

“It is a man lying there. Nobody lies face down in the grass.” Sofia stopped the cart.

“I am going to look.” She stood and saw that Roland remained seated.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

Sofia was relieved that Roland finally spoke. ”Yes. Why?”

“It could be the plague,” Roland looked up to Sofia.

“The plague? He may need our help.”

Roland wrinkled his brow, “I don’t know. Is it worth the risk?”

Sofia put her foot outside the cart onto the wheel and readied herself to jump down.

“Would it be worth the risk if it were you? You do not have to come with me. I must go

and at least look.”

Roland wondered why he sat there and said nothing. He wondered if he were being

vindictive and petty toward Sofia for putting him off earlier or if he really was uncaring

and cold.

Sofia jumped to the ground. She turned to him. “If you do follow, please do not

touch and cover your face and mouth.” She removed her headscarf and beckoned for

Roland to lean toward her. She put it loosely around his neck and searched his eyes all

the while she tied the knot. “They say if you touch, you wake the demon who will jump

into your mouth and carry the sickness into your belly.” She lingered a moment longer. A

bit disappointed she turned away from Roland and left him.

Roland sat quietly and watched her. Sofia walked through the calf high grass to the

man. She heard a low moaning and she knelt down and touched his arm. “Sir, do you

need help?” She gently turned him over. His face was dirty and little pieces of dead grass

were stuck to it. Sofia brushed the grass away. He was thin and pale. His clothes were in

a terrible state, tattered and torn. His eyes were half open. When he opened his mouth his

breath was foul and his yellow teeth were pitted and brown at the gum line.

“Have you any food?” His words were labored.

“Praise be, you are not dead. Wait my friend.” She stood and called to Roland. Sofia

was glad to see him already on his way to her.

“Bring the food and the water.”

He returned to the cart and grabbed the water skin and the cloth sack that held their

lunch and followed in Sofia’s footsteps across the grass.

“Have you bread?” asked the starving man.

“And cheese,” Sofia offered with a smile.

Roland stopped short and pulled the handkerchief up over his mouth and nose.

Sofia waved Roland closer. “He is faint from hunger. He does not have the black

sickness. He needs food.”

Roland pulled the handkerchief down from his face and knelt at Sofia’s side. He

handed her the water skin. She pulled the stopper and offered it. The man drank his fill,

spilling as much as he drank. Sofia handed the skin to Roland and pulled a small barley

loaf out of the sack. She broke off pieces which the man began to wolf down.

“You must eat slowly, my friend.” She withheld the next bite until the man chewed

at a more leisurely pace.

“What good bread.” The man smiled and held out his hand to Roland for help to sit

up. After a few attempts, the man was in a sitting position.

“What brought you to this? Why are you starving?” asked Roland.

The man nodded to Roland but took a bite of cheese first before he would answer

the question. He slowly chewed and savored the cheese before he swallowed it. “It seems

like the powers of heaven and earth are punishing me. I try to live by God’s word. The

black sickness took my family. The tax collector took what little I had left. Now I have

nothing. I go from poor farm to poor farm looking for work. No one has anything left. If

they cannot pay their rents or feed their own, they cannot pay or feed me.” He held out

his hand for Sofia to pass him the water skin. She did. He drank.

“Doesn’t the duke take care of the people?”

The man gave a chuckle of disbelief and shook his head. “Our great duke is always

away fighting. Everyone knows the Pope is just using us. Those scoundrels Duke Gunter

left behind to protect us are no more than criminals, thieves and rapists. “

Roland looked over at Sofia for a second and then back at the man. “Is there nothing

you can do?”

“Pray to Our Lord that peace will return to our people,” Sofia offered.

“Amen. Thank you both for this food. I have been four days without. May God

protect and reward you.”

The man got to his knees and pushed himself up. Roland and Sofia stood, each

taking the man by his thin arms and helped him up to his feet. Neither let go of him until

they were satisfied he could stand on his own. He wiggled his shoulders and Roland and

Sofia took their support away. He was able to take a few unsteady steps.

Sofia bent over and snatched the sack up off the ground. “Here, take what is left.

There are some strawberries and a little jar of clotted cream.”

Roland had a flash of déjà-vu. Like earlier that morning, it was that same eerie

feeling he had when they argued about making love. He felt Sofia giving the man the

strawberries should have meaning to him. He searched his mind and again was frustrated

that he could not make a connection to anyone.

The man, so fortified, bowed. “Bless you both, and fare thee well. Stay clear of the

duke’s men.” He slung the sack over his shoulder and slowly headed away across the

field toward a farmhouse in the distance.

Silently, with their heads bowed they returned to the cart. They mounted and took

their seats. Sofia handed the reins to Roland. A crow and an owl were squabbling

overhead and it caught their attention. Roland and Sofia watched the crow zigzag just

ahead of the owl. They watched the aerial show until the crow headed away over the tree

line and out of sight. The owl returned to its perch in a nearby cypress tree.

“What do you make of that?” Roland asked as he slapped the reins on Zeus’s rump.

The horse pulled and the cart lurched and headed back onto the road.

“Wisdom and sacrifice always overcome the darkness from the past.” Sofia was

subdued and pensive by this haunting portent.

“All of that? I thought owls only flew at night.”

“Have the faith to believe what is in front of your eyes,” she said softly.

Roland thought about what she said for a moment. “That was a really good thing

you did. What do you think will happen to him now?

“What we did,” she corrected. “Let us hope he remains under God’s protection. Be

content that we were able to change his world today. Sometimes one person can change

the world, if the world is not too big,” she added with a smile.

“Sofia, what I said earlier, I didn’t mean to offend your Pater. I know he is a very

wise and good man. Where I came from, it must not be like that.”

“You ignored me and the oath I gave to Pater. My word is all I have to give anyone.

If you take such things lightly, then you take me lightly. If that is so, anything we do

means very little, except for the moment. The moment passes so quickly.”

“You’re right about the moment passing quickly, and I think you were right to stop

before anything happened.” Actually Roland was glad Sofia did what she did. He was not

at all grounded in this new world and the last thing he needed was to deal with a woman

of such depth and gravity. He knew she was attracted to him. Roland questioned the

surprisingly deep feelings he had for her. Those feelings could be no more than an

infatuation with a pretty young woman who took him in. He wondered too if he was

sincere just now by agreeing with her, or if what he said was a fabrication to keep her on

the hook and to fool himself into thinking what a thoughtful person he was. Roland

wondered why he was so quick to promise Rene he would protect her. “Who knows

what’s going to happen?” he said with an uncertain smile.

Sofia felt a twinge of desperation when she heard his answer. She hoped the choices

she made and the things she said to Roland that morning wouldn’t lead to her

squandering something she could never retrieve. “Let us look ahead and not back. Maybe

someday...” her voice tailed off. She was afraid to finish the sentence.

It wasn’t much longer before the city gates appeared on the horizon.

Absolute Corruption

Sergeant Leo Cardetti led his band of soldiers toward Adler Lager. The duke left him

behind and allowed him to do whatever he thought he needed to keep the order. He also

made Cardetti tax collector. His task was made simpler with a third of the population

dead from the plague. Every young man who was able was riding with the duke and the

perennial famine kept those who were left in a weakened, torpid state.

“Sergeant, how many?” Mario rode up next to Sergeant Cardetti.

“Ten. Six girls and four boys.” Due to an oversight on his part Leo had to take

Mario into his confidence on this shameful endeavor. He did not really like anything

about Mario, but cutting him in was the only way he could trust him.

“Will not that fat little friar make a stink?” Mario asked as he pinched a pimple on

his cheek.

“Most likely, but what is he going to do?” Leo kept his eyes straight ahead so he

would not have to look at this excuse for a soldier next to him.

“Not a God damn thing.” Mario inspected the white glob on his fingertip and wiped

it on his horse’s mane.

“I have asked you not to use God’s name in vain around me, have I not?”

“Yes captain,” Mario said with a grin.

At one time, Leo Cardetti was a captain. A miscalculation of the enemy’s strength

and number and a string of impossible lies to cover his error cost him the lives of all his

men except Mario and subsequently his commission. Duke Gunter demoted him but

allowed him to stay in his service.

“I should have sent you to the frontlines that day with the others,” he said dryly.

“Come on Leo, I was only thinking of the good old days.”

“You will call me Sergeant Cardetti in front of these numbskulls.”

Mario pushed it as far as he could and settled back down. He had business to

discuss. “When we get to the orphanage what do you want us to do? “

“Six girls,” the agent said, “light-haired girls, blonds if there are any.”

“Little ones or thems that are budding?” his eyes sparkled when he asked.

“The older and stronger ones. Same with the boys.” Cardetti never in his life

thought that he would sink so low. He was old and he lost his pension along with his

commission. The money would have to come from somewhere.

“How long will we have them in camp?” Mario licked his lips and sat up a little

straighter in the saddle.

“The Jew said he’d get them in two or three days. Why?” Leo already knew the

answer.

“That will give me and the boys enough time to break them in.”

“Mario, you make me ashamed of myself. I am too old and tired to stop you and the

men from doing what you like, but remember they are worth a fair amount, so do not

break them when you break them in.”

“How much are they worth?” His eyes narrowed as he leaned in to hear.

“Lean away, your breath stinks like death, “Five gold Florins.” In actuality, it was

ten gold pieces, five now for the deed and five when the Jew returned. The exchequer

would receive two, one for the coffers and the other to smooth things over if there are any

problems. Leo would keep the other three and give Mario three silver pieces for his

participation. “Four go to the exchequer and you and I will split the other gold piece,

three silvers for you and seven silvers for me. When we get there, Fra Benito will only

open the door if it is me. When it is open give me enough time to get outside the gate.

You can do whatever you want. One other thing, do not even think of telling those idiots

we are riding with about any money. Understood?”

“Do not worry Sergeant Cardetti, I know enough to keep my mouth shut about that.

Where are these whelps going?”

“Who cares? The Jew said some Moor who has his castle on an island off of

Sardinia or maybe it was Corsica.”

“That is a good place for them. They will not be coming back from there.”

“No, I do not suppose they will. Get in formation.” When Mario was out of earshot

Leo Cardetti looked up to the heavens and closed his eyes. “God, forgive me,” he

whispered.

Comes the Tempest

Eleven year old Hans, one of Fra Benito’s favorites, stood on the parapet between the

two towers that flanked the city gates and looked down on the road. He saw a cloud of

dust swirling maybe a mile off and determined it could only be one thing. He turned

around and cupped his hands against his cheeks. “They are coming! The duke’s men are

coming! They are coming! The duke’s men are coming!”

Hans scurried down the stone steps. “They are coming!” he shouted as he crossed

the square and headed for the orphanage.

Sofia put the string of dried fish she was considering back down in the vendor’s

basket and stood. She and Roland watched the ensuing commotion. “What’s happening?”

he asked Sofia.

“I do not know.” She shook her head and looked on.

Babies and young children were called after or picked up by frightened parents.

Food stuffs were covered up and hidden. Coins were snatched up and hastily stashed. The

butcher put his coin pouch under the fly covered sheep’s head. Canvas fronts were

unrolled and securely tied. Some parents rushed their sons and daughters to the

orphanage for safe keeping. Fra Benito hurriedly let them in along with Hans and locked

the door behind them.

“Fra Benito!” gasped Hans, “the duke’s men are coming on horses.”

“Many?”

The boy held up his two hands and spread out his fingers, “That many for sure.”

“Do not worry children. Do not worry, come and sit at the tables and be still.”

The boys and girls obeyed Fra Benito, quieted down and sat on the benches.

Fra Benito looked at Lady Rosanera and her entourage. “I fear you must leave here

quickly.” The three woman and two men looked to Benito and heartily agreed. Duke

Gunter made it abundantly clear to Lady Rosanera she would stay confined to the inside

of the castle walls. Rosanera was the only link Gunter had left to the Vatican. It was

through her great uncle, the influential Cardinal Georgio Funari along with Rosanera’s

presence at Adler Kralle castle that Gunter was ensured financial support for the war

efforts against the Seven Princes who were trying to unite Germany into one Protestant

State. Gunter had no great like for his stepdaughter nor did he trust her. He knew she was

clever and ambitious. Gunter left orders with the chancellor and Sergeant Cardetti that if

she was discovered beyond the walls, she was to be arrested and she and her court would

be confined to their rooms until he returned.

“One at a time, go out to your left and then left down the alley. Your horses are back

there.” The five stood in line by the door.

Cecilia was the first to go. Fra Benito opened the door enough to see that the duke’s

man had not arrived and motioned to Cecilia. He opened the door and she hurried left and

into the alley. She was followed by the others one at a time. Rosanera held back when Fra

Benito saw the duke’s horsemen at the gate.

The people in the square watched Cardetti and the hated soldiers pass under the arch

and approach at a reckless canter. They rode through the narrow pathways between the

stalls; one rider made sport of pulling over several canopies and another upset a few

tables with his foot. He sent the glassware on display to its sparkling conclusions on the

paving stones. It took both an instant and an eternity for the riders to pass through the

marketplace and turn the corner. The horses reared, snorted, and whinnied when their

riders pulled their reins hard and stopped short at the front of the door of the orphanage.

Roland and Sofia helped the vendors pick up their spilled wares. Roland kept

looking at the corner where the riders turned. After he put the last basket back on the

garlic sellers table, he turned to Sofia. “I’ve got to see what’s happening.”

“It is better you stay with me.” She did not try to hide her concern.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. I’m just going to take a look, that’s all.” He

dismissed her concern with a reassuring nod and jogged away from her. He got there just

in time to see the door to the orphanage close. Roland’s attention was drawn to the two

soldiers who stood at the head of the alley holding the horses that were still unsettled and

nervous. When he walked past, one of the soldiers gave him a stern glare and the other

soldier put his hand on the handle of his short sword. Roland bowed his head and walked

close to the wall on the orphanage side of the cobblestone lane. The two soldiers laughed

at him and returned to their conversation.

Roland felt he saw enough and was ready to return to Sofia and finish the

marketing. When he passed a deep doorway a woman called to him in a loud whisper.

“You, you, please, you must hide me.”

Roland glanced into the shadows and saw a beautiful woman, dressed in black

standing there. She implored him with her fearful eyes. Roland was taken with her and

the situation. He looked over his shoulder at the two men holding the horses and casually

leaned against the stone door casing as if resting.

“I’ll help you,” he whispered.

Inside the orphanage, Sergeant Cardetti stood before the soldiers and addressed Fra

Benito. “Good day Fra Benito, children.”

“What do your men want here? We certainly have no gold.”

“Calm yourself. We are here on the duke’s bidding. Give us six strong girls and four

strong boys,” he said amiably and reasonably. The men behind him were looking over the

human lucre.

“For what reason?” Benito held his own.

The sergeant hesitated while he thought of a quick answer, “Reason? To help in the

scullery and stables.”

“You have papers signed by the bishop?”

Leo looked over to Mario, gave his confederate a subtle nod and then he looked

back to Benito. “My corporal will show you such papers. I myself, must away. The

children will be in good hands. Good day Fra Benito, children.” Sergeant Leo Cardetti

turned his back on the children and his men and quickly left the orphanage. He collected

his horse, mounted it and rode toward the town gates as fast as he could, wishing he

would never stop riding.

Fra Benito looked at Mario and the men behind him. “You have the papers?”

Mario laughed. “There are no papers involved here, old man.”

Benito went right up to Mario and stood nose to nose with him. “The children are in

my charge, in the charge of the Holy Mother the Church.”

Mario was surprised at the courage the friar showed. He backed up a step. “Come

now, what do think we are going to do with them? Sell them to some stinking, black

Moor in Sardinia?” Mario turned to the men and laughed. The men laughed back, but in a

dark and evil way. Their laughter stopped abruptly and each man trained his attention on

a suitable catch. Mario nodded and the men paired up. Mario dispatched the distracted

Fra Benito with two quick blows to the forehead with his weighted club.

The children jumped up from the benches when they saw the men charge toward

them. Though they ran about the room trying to avoid being caught, the soldiers made

short work of it. The children who tried to fight back by kicking and scratching were

thrown to the floor with more force than necessary, or sent flying with a sharp slap or

shove. Those girls and boys in the clutches of the soldiers were subdued with a few

stinging slaps across the face to quiet them down; those who still struggled were punched

in the back of the head until they gave up their efforts and resigned to the terror, or in two

cases, a boy and a girl were knocked unconscious.

Fra Benito lay on the floor bleeding. The toddlers and younger children who

surrounded him were crying and clinging to each other. One soldier, a brute named Nero

Emiliani, carried away two frightened young girls, one over each shoulder. He kicked the

door open which caught the attention of Roland and the two soldiers who were tending to

the horses. One by one the soldiers, each holding a child by the wrist or by a handful of

hair, roughly led them outside into the bright morning light. As a soldier mounted his

horse a girl or boy was handed up, and held fast in front of the rider.

Mario was one of the last to leave. He kicked the door closed and mounted up. A

blond girl named Martina, her parents just moments earlier ushered her to the orphanage

for safety, was handed up to Mario. The girl was in tears. Mario already shoved his

groping hand under her skirt.

Roland was frozen in place. He could not believe his eyes. Rosanera crouched

down, bowed her head and pressed against the wall. Her black riding habit was lost in the

triangle of the dark shadow. Roland stood in front of her. She was all but invisible.

The horses reared and wheeled and whinnied as their riders circled into a ragged

formation and readied to ride out.

Martina saw Roland and held out her hand for help. Against all of his instincts, he

left Rosanera and took a few bold steps toward the girl and reached up to her.

“Step back,” yelled Mario. He took a better look and recognized Roland.

“Oh, it is you is it? Have I got something for you.” Mario grinned, abandoned his

groping and deftly and quickly unsheathed his weighted club that hung from his belt and

gave Roland a smart blow to the top of his head. Roland grabbed his head, staggered, fell

to his knees, slumped forward and was on the verge of blacking out.

Mario laughed and held Martina a bit tighter. He spurred his horse and galloped

around the corner, back through the be-shambled market place and past Sofia. Sofia

looked at the sobbing girl and into the horseman’s cruel eyes. She felt a jolt when she

recognized him as the soldier who manhandled her the day before.

Rosanera waited until she was sure the soldiers were gone before she ran out to

Roland. She knelt down, turned him over and put his head in her lap. She was distressed

when she saw the blood run down on his face from the wound on the top his head. She

took a hanky from her sleeve and pressed it against the wound.

Antonio timidly looked out from the alley. All was clear and he motioned with his

hand for the others to follow. When he saw Lady Rosanera kneeling down in the middle

of the cobblestone lane, he rushed to her side. Catharina, Cecilia and Luis followed just

as quickly. Hans, the little boy who warned every one of the soldiers’ arrival, took it upon

himself to run to the church to fetch the priest or maybe one of the nuns.

“Help me get him up and onto my horse.” Luis and Antonio hoisted Roland up

between them. With Catharina’s and Cecilia’s help, they worked Roland’s leg over

Enzo’s back and held him there until Rosanera mounted, took the reins and was able to

support him in front of her between her arms. The others mounted and left the lane.

Sofia got to the corner just as Lady Rosanera and her entourage were leaving.

Antonio was in the lead. Catharina and Cecilia flanked their lady on either side and Luis

rode behind. Sofia saw Roland sitting in front of Lady Rosanera. She saw blood running

down his face. Roland’s head was bent forward and it bobbed in time with the horse’s

gait. She took a step forward.

“Stand clear,” Antonio said loudly in a commanding voice.

“He is my friend,” Sofia called back just as loudly.

“Stand clear.” Antonio raised his riding crop and gave it a shake intimating he

would use it.

Sofia took a step back and watched as the group passed. Rosanera looked down at

Sofia.

“Gittup.” She nudged her stallion and the group picked up its pace.

Sofia could do nothing more than stand silently and watch the nobles and Roland

cross the square and pass through the gate. She sadly and slowly walked through the

market place back to the empty cart.

Tabula Rasa

A black bird sang in an aspen tree just outside Lady Rosanera’s bedroom window. Inside

she sat with Catharina next to her bed where Roland lay unconscious for two days. The

room had a high ceiling and wide, tall windows. It was beautifully appointed. The crown

and panel moldings were gilded and the walls were painted a creamy yellow with narrow,

light blue borders. Several tall candle stands were placed about and a shiny brass

chandelier hung in the middle of the ceiling. Tapestries decorated one wall and a huge

dark portrait of Duke Gunter dominated the wall above the massive fireplace.

A white bombe chest with fancy ormolu decoration along with a massive, matching

wardrobe and an equally large bed of the same motif dominated the room. Rosanera’s

writing desk and chair were delicate and very highly polished. They were made of cherry

wood with ebony inlay. By the window was a full length mirror in a plain gilded frame

and next to that was her washstand with a cut crystal pitcher and bowl.

Catharina noticed a slight movement. Roland made the softest of moans.

“He may awaken. Thank God.” She made the sign of the cross.

“Yes, thank God,” Rosanera spoke softly. She stroked Roland’s forehead and played

with a wisp of his hair.

Roland opened his eyes and looked up into Rosanera’s welcoming smile.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

Roland blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head yes. He looked closer. “It is

you, the lady from the shadows.” He looked over at Catharina. Her expression was

inquisitive. ”I do not know you,” he said as he propped himself up on his elbow. Roland

felt something on his cheek. It was the gauze that was tied under his chin and held the

poultice on his head. He followed the gauze up to the bandage and gently patted it.

“Oh no, sir, please do not touch. “ Catharina guided Roland’s hand away from the

bandage and back down to his side. She helped Roland sit up and put a pillow behind his

head.

“I am Lady Rosanera and this is Catharina my cousin.” Catharina nodded.

Roland looked wide-eyed around the room. “Where am I?” he asked as he felt the

linen nightshirt he wore.

“Adler Kralle castle, in my quarters and more so in my bed,” Rosanera gave a subtle

smile. She looked over to Catharina. “Bring this good man something to drink.”

Roland took in the richness of the room, the furnishings, and the elaborate clothing

both Rosanera and Catharina were wearing.

Catharina nodded and filled a glass with diluted wine and brought it to Roland’s

lips. He drank.

“Catharina, go tell Hilda to prepare something for my guest to eat.” Catharina

nodded and left the room. “I do not even know who to thank for hiding me from those

terrible men.”

“My name is Roland Hughes.”

“Englishman? Are you with title?” Rosanera leaned in closer when she asked.

“Does ‘mister’ count?” Roland drank in Rosanera’s beauty and smiled whimsically.

“I hoped you might be nobility. You certainly act nobler than anyone at Adler

Kralle. I thank you my dear Roland Hughes.” She put her hand on his and left it there.

“You are more than welcome.”

Rosanera’s face was radiant. She was more engaging after Catharina left the room.

“You needed help. I do not do think I did that much.” Roland remembered standing

in front of the doorway to hide Rosanera. He was a little less sure what happened next.

“There was a little girl on a horse with a man. I remember that much, and I think I was

going to help her...I do not remember anything after that.”

“The man struck you down.” She pointed at the wound. “Thankfully he did not see

me before he rode off.”

“Was he after you too?”

There was a knock on the door. “Come,” said Rosanera in a loud voice. A girl of

sixteen with her black hair in pig tails and nervous eyes entered the room. She carried a

tray with a small soup tureen, bowls and spoons, a loaf of bread, three different kinds of

cheese and some cut up pears and apples in a bowl.

“Put it there Clotilda,” Rosanera’s tone was flat, almost impatient.

The girl put the tray of food on the writing desk and set the bowls out. She took a

ladle and filled the bowls with the soup. She looked to her mistress.

“That will be all.”

Clotilda hurried out of the room. Rosanera sat for a moment, rose, quickly went to

the door, flung it open and looked down the hallway in both directions. She slowly closed

the door and returned to the bed.

“Do you know anything about me?” she asked.

“You told me your name. I think you are Italian, you look Italian. Your mother was

the duchess, but she died of the plague. You do good things, but the people do not

appreciate it.”

Rosanera was duly impressed with Roland’s knowledge about her. Her smile faded

at the last bit of information he shared concerning her relationship with the citizens. “It is

all so very true about me and my mother. As for the people, that seems to be the cross I

must bear.” She sighed and rested her hand on top of his. “You certainly know more

about me than I do about you. If you are not an Englishman, where do you come from?”

Roland thought for a second, “From far away.” He wished he knew where. “How

did I get here?”

“Luis and Angelo helped you onto my horse and we rode back to Adler Kralle. That

is how you got here.”

“When was that?”

“Two days past. Catharina and I sat with all that time. You were in and out of

wakefulness, though you never opened your eyes, you would say a few words, or call a

name. Who is Sofia?”

Roland gave a start at the mention of her name. He tried to get out of bed. When he

exerted himself, he felt an acute pain across the top of his head followed by a throbbing

headache. “I have got to find out if she is all right. “ He grimaced and sank back down.

“You must rest and you must eat.” Rosanera offered Roland her arm and he slowly

got from beneath the covers and stood. He took a few deep breaths and with Rosanera’s

help made his way to the desk and lowered himself into the chair.

“I guess I am weaker than I thought.” He picked up the silver spoon and stirred the

soup. It smelled and tasted delicious. The bread was warm and the cheese was unlike

anything Roland had ever tasted. He found it strange, his inability to remember his home

or family or what he was doing two weeks ago or anything before the last few days. He

knew what foods he liked, he recognized that his sensibilities included an appreciation

and knowledge of the beautiful furnishings and architecture.

He looked appreciatively at his hostess. Rosanera was beautiful. Her dark eyes were

deep and intense. Her features were classic like a goddess. And her complexion was

almost flawless, except for a small strawberry birth mark she had on her neck. He knew

he had seen her face before, her face very close to his and he knew he felt her heated

breath on his cheek. She was in his memory from sometime before now. Roland could

not place her.

Roland was glad Lady Rosanera made sure he was cared for. He seemed to know

about this world around him, but in a strangely removed way as if it was a memory

within a dream. He did not know why everything around him seemed so familiar but then

again curious and new. He remembered upon waking in bed at Rene’s house, how

relieved he was when he felt the sheets, how he thought he was in his own bed and how

he said out loud that he wasn’t crazy, that it was all a dream, and how disappointed and

frustrated he was after he opened his eyes.

“Do you enjoy the soup?” Rosanera asked as she pulled a slipper chair upholstered

in gold damask from beside the bed over to the desk and sat. She also ate some of the

soup.

“Yes, it is very good. You were going to tell me about the men who were after you.

I heard the little boy run across the square and warn everyone the duke’s men were

coming.”

“The little boy was right. The duke’s men came.”

Roland used his spoon to smear some soft white cheese onto his bread. “Why would

you be afraid of them? They have to do what you tell them; do they not?”

“No, I am in... limbo. Sometimes it feels more like purgatory. I have no more power

over those men than my handmaid, Clotilda. My little court and I visit the orphanage and

the hospital as often as we can. We bring them those things they need. It is our obligation

to help those less fortunate.”

“I do not understand. Why would there be a problem?” Roland felt better and less

shaky after eating something.

“For now, let us just say the duke does not want me to be anything other than his

bothersome stepdaughter, shut up in this fortress called Adler Kralle. That is why we go

in disguise. The people know it is me, I know they do. They could give us away for coin,

but they do not. Their needs are greater than their resentment for me which makes them

resent me more. I might as well be a prisoner here, but a prisoner with no chance of

ransom,” Rosanera shrugged her shoulders and sighed.

“Was not the duke a good leader, at least until the duchess died?”

“He was. He was a different man when I was little and mother was alive. He was

thoughtful, even cheerful. Duke Gunter was sick the first time the Black Death came.

That was two years before it visited us the second time and took so many souls. That

second time is when my mother and so many others died.”

“He survived? Is that not rare?”

“Yes, he recovered. We had to keep everything secret. If the other nobles knew of

his sickness, they could have taken advantage. Catharina, the court physician Rene

Hermes and I were the only ones who knew. During the sickness, he suffered from a

fever for six days and nights. The demons inside made him scream and yell. He would

call for my mother, speak and make no sense. Sometimes his whole body would shiver or

shake until finally he fell into a stupor and slept for three days. He awoke possessed. He

is still possessed. He became this strange man, melancholy and dark. He was in such ill

humor, sad one moment, laughing the next. When he first left his sickbed, he needed two

lads to help him about. In time, he became well and he grew even stronger than he was

before he became ill. When he is lost in his cup he does not laugh like before, he becomes

mean and cruel. He is always angry.”

Roland remembered Sofia told him the same story. “High fevers can change a

person.”

“God called him to his side and he did not go. The devil keeps him here on earth

and now we all must pay.”

“The devil,” Roland repeated. Unable to agree he changed the subject. “What were

the duke’s men doing with the children?”

“May the Lamb of God show his mercy on their poor souls. Their fate is beyond our

help.” Rosanera sadly shook her head.

“What do you mean?”

Rosanera looked away from Roland. Her eyes flashed and her continence stiffened.

“That band of filth will use those girls and boys for whatever perverse sport they wish,

then who knows? If the children are lucky they might find their way to some almshouse

or convent, but they will be despoiled. Their lives will be broken.”

“That little girl on the horse was so scared.”

Rosanera looked past Roland. She gave an icy and hateful glare at the portrait of the

duke. The memory of the day they laid her mother to rest rushed into her mind. She was a

grief stricken thirteen year old girl again, trying to accept her mother’s death and quite

unprepared for the heinous actions of her plague addled and angry stepfather.

It was late afternoon. After the crypt was locked and people left, Gunter, Rosanera,

Catharina and Monsignor DeDeo returned to the castle’s great room. Gunter sat heavily

in a chair at the long table and cradled his head in his hands. Rosanera stood near him.

She was numb and felt so very alone even though Catharina held her hand.

Monsignor DeDeo placed his hand on Gunter’s shoulder. “Remember, it is God’s

will to call the duchess to his side. Have faith my son.”

Gunter’s eyes flashed as he roughly pushed the monsignor’s hand away from his

shoulder. “Oh yes monsignor, all in God’s plan. God’s plan was to make my wife suffer

and die horribly, make me suffer, make all those around me suffer and for what

purpose?”

Catharina flinched at his hateful words and squeezed Rosanera’s hand a little

tighter. Gunter grabbed at the decanter of brandy that sat on the table in front of him. He

filled the crystal tumbler to overflowing with a trembling hand. Gunter drank down the

brandy in three gulps. He filled the tumbler again. This time he drank slowly. His eyes

were dull. He went to a distant and dark place. “For what purpose, have we not suffered

enough?” His words were angry and slurred. “Get out of my sight, and take that girl with

you.” He gestured with his hand toward Catharina.

Monsignor DeDeo shook his head and approached Catharina and Rosanera.

He patted Rosanera’s shoulder and took Catharina’s arm. He pulled until

Catharina’s arm was outstretched and she reluctantly released Rosanera’s hand. The

monsignor guided the anxious girl away. Duke Gunter’s head involuntarily jerked as the

two passed on their way to the door.

Rosanera stood a few paces away as still as a stone statue. She closed her eyes, took

her own hand and held it tight. She wished she was invisible. Gunter drank down the last

of the brandy in his glass. He rapped on the table with his knuckles. Rosanera opened her

eyes. Gunter pointed to the table and Rosanera knew he wanted her next to him. She took

a deep breath and did what he bid.

“Tell me, what am I supposed to do now?” His upper body was unsteady. ”I said,

what am I supposed to do now? We just put your mother in the crypt, so now what do we

do? Huh?” His breathing was labored. He looked upon Rosanera’s sad face. Gunter’s

tone turned gentle. “You look so much like your mother, so beautiful.” With that besotted

declaration, he put his arm around Rosanera’s waist and pulled her to his side. She stiffly

let herself be guided. Gunter poured the contents of the decanter into his glass. “Here,

drink to your mother.”

Rosanera shook her head no.

Gunter was insistent and held the glass to her lips, “To your mother, my dear wife

and duchess.”

Tears were in both of their eyes and Rosanera took a sip. The brandy burned her lips

and mouth. Gunter finished off the contents of the glass and carelessly brought it down

hard on the tabletop. He looked at Rosanera again. “God, you look like her. You even act

like her. But she is dead and gone. But not you, you are here with me. Now it is you and

me.”

Gunter pulled Rosanera onto his lap. She was confused, but needed to share her

grief with someone and took Gunter’s actions at face value. He put his arm around her

shoulder and took her clasped hands in his and pressed them against her upper thigh. “We

will be together now?” Gunter tightened his arm around her shoulder and gently pressed

their locked hands into her lap. Rosanera did not answer. Gunter could see only Rosalba

when he looked at his stepdaughter. He let go of her hands and turned her unwilling face

toward his. Tears silently rolled down her cheeks as Gunter tried to kiss her on the lips.

She moved her head from side to side until Gunter grabbed a fistful of hair and held her

fast. Gunter kissed Rosanera on her tight, stiff lips. He kissed her again and again and felt

no response from the girl.

Angered, Gunter clumsily stood up. He picked her up and laid her on the table with

her legs hanging over the edge. Gunter stepped in between her legs and bent close to her

face. Rosanera struggled and turned her head from side to side and closed her eyes.

They heard a loud metallic click and the moan of the hinges as the door opened. He

put his hand over Rosanera’s mouth, looked up and stayed as still as a cat in mid stalk. A

washer woman with a bucket and a handful of rags came into the room to do her work.

She saw the two of them, looked a little closer with squinted eyes, then immediately

looked away. She quickly turned, held her hand up to hide her face, hurried out of the

room, and quietly closed the door behind her.

“You will take your mother’s place and cleave unto me. I will have you anytime and

anywhere I want. Do you understand?” He took his hand from Rosanera’s mouth. She

gasped for breath and tried to fight him off as he pulled her dress up over her face. He

pressed his left forearm just under her chin and pushed her head back onto the table.

Rosanera froze in disbelief when she felt his right hand clumsily explore the delicate

places of her young body.

Gunter was good to his word. He sent Catharina back to Casa Bella. Rosanera’s

correspondences were cut off. He told her the priest or the monsignor or the bishop could

not help her. Gunter’s loyalty and his willingness to fight for the church eclipsed the

“ridiculous stories” of a spoiled and depressed teenage girl. Her long time servant Betina

was replaced by an efficient and morose, mute woman named Droga, who never smiled.

Gunter instructed the staff to tend to her needs but not to engage in any conversation as it

might throw her into hysteria. Those who spoke to her about anything other than the

domestic subject at hand were given five lashes and sent to work in the fields. Rosanera

felt ashamed. She became quiet and withdrawn and could not look at anyone in their eyes

when she spoke. The only one there for her now was Gunter. He only spoke and listened

to her when they were alone. Rosanera’s loneliness and hunger for company

overshadowed her resentment. She had no choice but to accept Gunter as her confidant.

It became their habit for Gunter to send his servants away and call her into his study

for “prayers” when the bell rang for nones on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. She was

to be washed clean and to come to him in one of her mother’s white dresses. Inside the

study, Gunter gave her a white headdress with a white veil to wear. She was to sit on the

edge of the desk, lay back on it, raise her dress up to under her chin, and spread her legs.

She had to remain silent. The veil had to cover her face.

The first few times Gunter had her she fought. He was rough and terrible. She

quickly learned to be passive and receptive. It was the same every time. When she was on

the desk with the dress pulled up under her chin he would step in between her legs and

lay on top of her. He would kiss her through the veil. He called her “my dear, my

Rosalba”.

It wasn’t until their ninth or tenth meeting that something changed, something

awoke in her. The thought of their meeting no longer made Rosanera’s heart beat with

fear. She was distracted on the days she would be with Gunter. She would sit at her

needlework unable to stitch, and if she did she would make mistakes or prick herself with

the needle. Her reading and music lessons suffered. At matins, she would look over at

Gunter with calling eyes. He might or might not acknowledge her with a subtle nod and

all but ignore her in the presence of the others.

Gunter could do things with the daughter that he could never do with the mother. He

would start by lightly lying on top of Rosanera, kiss her through the white veil and

whisper niceties in her ear. He wetted his lips and kissed her budding breasts, slowly and

softly, circling each nipple with his tongue. He then kissed her midriff and playfully

wiggled his nose in her navel. He would kiss her lower and lower into the upper regions

of her pubic hair and then slide his wet warm tongue against the focus of her sex. When

he felt her body rock against his lips they would quit their play, enter into coitus and

almost always come to a united conclusion.

Rosanera entered this strange world and played her part in the masquerade thinking

it the most natural behavior of adults. She eagerly and naively took Gunter’s attentions

for love. Outside of the room their relationship was quiet and staid, suitable for a father

and stepdaughter. Inside the dark paneled walls of his den, she saw him as her lover. She

did not realize he did not see her at all.

In her fifteenth year, Rosanera became pregnant. She was frightened. When she told

Gunter he said nothing, only nodded his head as if he expected it. He told her not to

worry.

“Ready yourself. In two days, I will take you out to hunt. We will leave early.

Everything will be taken care of. “

Rosanera felt a wave of relief and gratitude toward Gunter. She hugged him and

kissed his lips, the first time ever without the veil. He reared his head back and pushed

her off. She tried to cling to him, but he held her back. He showed her the back of his

hand. She didn’t care if he was going to hit her. She would welcome it as she did his

kisses.

“You must never do that again.” He lowered his hand.

The two days passed and Gunter and Rosanera rode out early into a brisk March

morning. The green grass sparkled with dew. The cold air reddened their cheeks and

made their eyes water. Off in the distance across the spreading meadow where the forest

started, Gunter could see the thatched roof of a small hovel.

Gunter pointed to the white smoke that seeped through the thatch.

“We are going there. Shall we race?“ He suggested with a smile.

This idea delighted her. She nudged her horse and broke into a gallop. Rosanera was

excited to be out of the castle, in the brisk morning air, racing her lover over the broad

emerald meadow with the golden sun on her back and her red cape fluttering behind her.

She felt as if she had wings.

Gunter gave Rosanera a decent lead. He took the bow out of the case on his back

and an arrow out of the quiver that hung from a strap around the horse’s neck. He held

the reins in his teeth, put the arrow to the bow string, pulled it back and let it fly. The

arrow was just wide and passed by Rosanera’s head. Smiling, she quickly looked back

over the opposite shoulder at the lead she had, barely noticing Gunter. Gunter tried again,

he pulled the bow string back and it snapped and unraveled. In disgust, he threw the bow

on the ground and spurred his horse on to catch up with Rosanera. They reached the edge

of the meadow together.

“You win this time,” said Gunter. The outing he planned for Rosanera had two

possible outcomes. The first one failed with the broken bow string. The doubts he had

about himself were allayed. He now knew he had the resolve to attempt its execution.

The second outcome awaited behind the door of the mud hovel nestled under a massive

oak tree.

They dismounted, tied the horses to a low hanging branch and followed a poppy

lined path to the arched front door. Gunter gave the door a good rap. “Lillo. Maria Lillo,

open for Lady Rosanera.”

They heard movement and the door opened slightly. They could see only a shape

that blocked the light that came from inside. “It is you, is it?” It was an old woman’s

scratchy and broken voice. “Come in. I have been expecting you.” A hunched over,

white-haired woman swaddled in an array of different, dull colored hanks of cloth opened

the door.

A sickeningly sweet smell hung in the dingy, low room. The rafters and thatch

above the fire pit were soot blackened. Bunches of dried flowers and herbs festooned the

yellowed, crumbling walls. Light, along with the cold morning air poured through the

one, large, un-shuttered window. Lillo’s workbench was covered with little baskets and

clay vessels, some open to the air and others sealed with a piece of cloth held on by a

string. The only other pieces of furniture were a bedstead with a straw filled mattress, a

crudely built table and a three-legged stool.

A fire had burned to orange coals in the pit and a clay pot hung from a tripod. Steam

rolled up and formed wispy little clouds that blew about and disappeared into the air.

Gunter had to bow his head to get through the door as did Rosanera.

“Come dear one, take my seat. You look so cold. I have a nice tonic here. It will

warm you up.” Rosanera was wide-eyed and ill at ease. She looked to Gunter. He

nodded. Rosanera sat. Gunter stood silently. “And you sir, may I get you something hot

to drink?” Her voice was raspy and the words so airy and labored.

“No, nothing for me.” He smiled at Rosanera and bid her drink from the cup given

her.

Rosanera was heartened to see Gunter’s smile and she obediently drank the slightly

bitter brew.

“Drink, it will warm you,” she waited for Rosanera to finish the cup, “you look so

much like your mother.” She glanced at Gunter and continued. “I would say the very

image.” She gave a little cackle.

Rosanera suddenly felt very relaxed. She felt sleepy. “You knew my mother?”

Rosanera asked dreamily.

“Oh yes, I knew her when she was married to the conte. I knew her when she was

carrying you. Think of me as your secret godmother.”

Rosanera’s head jerked as she tried to pull herself back from the hold of Morpheus,

but the sleeping draught did its work. Gunter went to her side and caught her before she

fell off the stool. He laid her on her back on the table. The old woman pulled Rosanera’s

skirt up and exposed her belly.

Lillo brought out a wooden box from under the bed. She placed it next to the

slumbering girl and opened it. She reached in and brought out a piece of charcoal. With a

deft hand, she traced an upside down pentacle on Rosanera belly with the tip of the

lowest point of the pentacle pointing to the flower of Rosanera’s womanhood.

She reached into the box and brought out two very long, solid gold needles. Lillo

went to the fire pit, knelt down and ran them through the shimmering heat given off by

the glowing coals. She returned to the table, pulled up the little stool and sat before the

unconscious girl. The old woman closed her eyes and swayed her head and chanted in

dark meditation. She picked up one of the gold needles and pricked the fingertip of her

left index finger several times. She pushed with her thumb until three tiny droplets of

blood rose up and sat on the end of her finger. The old woman held her hand over

Rosanera’s belly and flicked her finger twice with her thumb. Five tiny crimson dots

appeared within the black borders of the pentacle.

Gunter watched the old woman go to her worktable and remove a gray wooden lid

from a crock. She lifted out a large tan and black toad and held it up in her gnarled hands.

The toad wrapped its claws around her fingers. It looked at her with eyes the color of a

blood moon. She held the toad up and bowed her head. “I give my life to your master,”

she whispered.

Lillo returned to the table and carefully placed the toad in the center of the pentacle

facing its head toward Rosanera’s sex.

Lillo positioned the stool and sat. She found one of the tiny red dots. She worked

and wiggled the golden needle through the skin and muscle into the girl’s womb, being

careful not to pass entirely through it. She took the other needle and did the same using

an adjacent red dot as her guide. With each penetration into Rosanera’s womb, she

moved the two needles in a knitting motion until she felt them touch. She repeated the

practice until she entered through each red dot.

The old woman cleaned the blood from the needles by running them through her

thumb and forefinger, greedily licked her fingertips and put the needles back into the box.

She picked up the toad; Satan’s tabernacle, the new dwelling place for the soul of the

unborn dead. She kissed the toad and returned it to its crock.

Lillo took a rag, wetted it in some warm water and carefully washed the pentacle off

of Rosanera’s belly, inspected each tiny puncture, applied a salve and pulled the girl’s

dress back down.

“It is done.”

“What do I owe you, Lillo?”

“Good Duke, you owe me nothing. It is I who owe you. My circle can finally close.

Thank you. The girl will return to her blood curse this month and your problem will be

solved.” She handed him a small bunch of leaves. “Give her this in tea. It will stop any

bleeding.”

Gunter put the semiconscious Rosanera in front of him on his saddle. He tied the

reins of her horse to his saddle and in a roundabout way headed back to Adler Kralle. The

effects of the sleeping potion wore off by midmorning. Rosanera awoke cradled in

Gunter’s arms. She was confused and nauseous. She felt a stinging pain in her belly. She

had a succession of severe cramps that made her body jerk forward. Rosanera grimaced

and put her hand just below her stomach and held it there.

“What happened?” she asked. “It hurts so much.”

“You fell asleep. In a few days, all will be fine.”

She continued to press her hand against her stomach. Rosanera was overtaken with

anger when she surmised what happened. “You had her take my baby away, did you not?

How could you?” She tried to turn toward Gunter. He would not let her. “You had that

witch take it away? Did you not?” She again tried to turn toward Gunter. She hit at his

hands and arms with her clenched fists until he tightened his grasp on her. Tears ran

down her cheeks.

“There, there, everything will be just fine, just like before.” He held on to Rosanera

even tighter and dug his spurs into his horse’s side. She rode the rest of the way in silent

sorrow.

From then on Gunter’s attitude toward Rosanera changed. He invited Catharina

back to Adler Kralle. Rosanera was given liberty to do whatever she pleased. She could

talk to anyone she wished. Gunter was affable and cool at the same time. Three weeks

after their “hunting” expedition, Rosanera impatiently asked the duke when they could be

together again.

“Daughter, what do you mean? We are together all the time.” He gave her a

dismissive pat on the head.

After the bell tolled for nones that following Tuesday, a resolute Rosanera dressed

in white and headed to Gunter’s study. As she reached the head of the stairs, she saw a

woman in a white dress standing at Gunter’s door. Rosanera recognized her as one of the

scullery girls named Lida. Lida turned when she heard Rosanera’s footsteps and

frantically knocked on the door until Duke Gunter opened it. He smiled at the unsure

young thing in his doorway and ushered her in. Gunter looked up at Rosanera and

wrinkled his brow as if to ask a question. “Yes daughter, what is it? Should you not be

going to prayers in the chapel? You heard the bells, yes?

Rosanera tried to look past him at Lida. Gunter moved slightly to block Rosanera’s

view and gently closed the door.

Roland saw the distressed look on Rosanera’s face. “Lady Rosanera? Are you all

right?”

His words brought Rosanera back from her dark reverie. “Yes, yes I am all right. A

ll those poor orphan girls, despoiled for a lifetime,” she said softly. Rosanera poured

more wine into both of their glasses, broke off some bread for herself and offered some to

Roland. They drank the wine and ate the bread together. Roland saw the deep sadness in

Rosanera’s eyes.

Ever Mindful

Rene Hermes sat at the dining table with Sofia. It was midmorning and they shared a bite

to eat and a few minutes of their time together as was their custom. Rene looked dully

into his cup at the spices that floated on top of his mulled cider. Sofia was pensive as she

worked at her crocheting. She looked down at the work she just completed and saw she

had made an error. She let out a huff and tossed the ball of thread and her two hooks

down on the table. Sofia let out a sigh, took a deep breath and crossed her arms.

“What vexes you, filia mia?” Rene added more cider to his cup.

“Pater, tell me about you and Bella. How did you know she was the one for you?”

“Child, that is something you feel in every fiber of your being. When I saw Bella for

the first time, I could not take my eyes off of her. It was the May Day festival. Even

though all the young girls were dancing around the May pole, I could only see her. I can

remember the clothes she wore, the way her hair shone, the sparkle in her eyes, and her

smile. Her smile could lift you out of the darkest humor.”

“And what about her?”

“I caught her looking at me. How could she not? I was young and as handsome as I

was ever going to be. I was just a year away from earning my doctorate, home for a visit.

After the last ribbons were woven together and the May Pole covered from top to bottom

all the girls formed a dance circle around it and were ready to start their dance, all the

girls except Bella. Without a word spoken, as if bewitched we started walking toward

each other. Everything around us fell away the closer we got until we made our own

cosmos. She was Luna and I was Sol.

“What did you do then?”

Rene chuckled. He had a twinkle in his eye. “I stood dumbstruck. Finally with great

effort I asked her name. She told me and asked me mine. All of our questions were

answered when we looked into each other’s eyes. Our lives lay before us and there was

no doubt we would be together.” Rene fondly held the thought of Bella to his heart, “why

these questions filia?”

“Oh Pater, I do not know what to think or do.”

Rene looked at his daughter and could not help but smile. “Ah, does this concern a

young man, perhaps a certain Roland Hughes?”

Sofia could not disguise the ache in her voice.” I do not want to lose him before he

knows how I feel.”

Rene sat back in his chair. He took a sip of the warm and spicy cider. “Well, how do

you feel toward him?”

“One moment he fills me with joy. He was so brave when that awful soldier tried to

hurt me. When we are together, my heart races. Then, he might do or say something that

makes me want to scream. But when I am in his arms I feel so safe and at peace.”

“I see. You might tell him how you feel.”

Sofia sat up straight. “He says he feels as if he has known me forever.”

“Do you think he means it?” The playful side of Rene knelt before the concern of a

loving father.

“That is what he said to me soon after I found him hiding in the barn, of all things to

say.” She looked to her Pater for an answer.

Rene reached out for Sofia’s hand and took it. “What does your heart say?”

Sofia looked down at the table and spoke softly. “I think I love him. I want to give

myself to him. I want to embrace him and stay in his arms forever. When I told him the

oath I made to you, his ardor waned. I all but scolded him and I was so cold. Now he is

with that Lady Rosanera. Pater, I am afraid I have lost him. He has been gone over a

week.”

Rene hated to see Sofia is such pain and turmoil. “Have faith. If it is to be, he will

return to you. When he does, you must help him anyway you can. No matter how you

feel you must help him. He has come to us for a reason. I cannot release you from your

oath to wait coitus. The reason is something beyond explanation. But, it must be.” Sofia’s

shoulders slumped. “Come now; give your old Pater a hug. Things will be fine.”

They stood and Sofia hugged her father. He patted her on the back and when they

broke the embrace he kissed her on the forehead.

Offerings

A screech owl sat on the highest branch of an ancient cedar tree and swiveled its

head scanning the twilight for its next kill. Inside the great room at Adler Kralle castle,

the servants had lowered the chandeliers. A fair-haired girl of eight proudly took to her

task of lighting the candles. Her two older brothers hoisted the chandeliers back on high

and tied them off. Other servants readied the table for dinner setting out plates and

glasses. A fire blazed in the fireplace and the soft light it gave off played on any

reflective surface throughout the room.

Cecilia sat at the harpsichord and played and sang a rather beautiful rendition of

Amarilli mia bella. Her voice was crystal with a slight tremolo. As she played, Rosanera,

Roland, and Catharina descended the stairs and took seats near the fire. Roland and

Rosanera shared a settee and Catharina sat on a chaise. She made it a point not to join in

with the others and took out her rosary and started to mumble her prayers. Luis and

Angelo were already sitting at the table. They turned their chairs around so they too could

watch and hear their dear companion play. Even the servants took a few seconds to listen.

When she finished everyone clapped and Cecilia stood and smiled. “Bravo, bravo!”

Angelo and Luis congratulated her in unison. The two men engaged in conversation and

Catharina kept up her sanctimonious praying.

“She plays very well,” said Roland.

“Yes.” Rosanera was proud of her friend’s abilities. She stood and Roland followed

her to the table. Rosanera pointed that she wanted him to sit next to her. Cecilia and

Catharina followed and took their regular seats. Luis looked at Angelo and whispered.

“Look, now he sits next to her. That is my place.”

Antonio shrugged and answered philosophically. “Not for long, all of us will have

to leave. The duke can never win his war.”

Rosanera snapped her fingers at her two cousins, “children, please, be polite.”

Angelo and Luis chuckled.

“Boys, please, do not embarrass yourselves. Be kind to our guest. If it were not for

him, we would all be locked up in our rooms.”

Before the servants brought out the food and served it, Rosanera gave everyone a

stern look and put her index finger to her lips as a sign for everyone to be silent.

It was a simple dinner of venison and celery soup, bread, fruit compote and one

roast capon and wine. Rosanera took Roland’s and Cecilia’s hands, bowed her head, and

said a short blessing.

Angelo looked at the fare on the table. ”Only one capon for the six of us?” he

looked over at Roland with a smug grin.

“Be truly thankful,” said Catharina.

“Yes, do be thankful,” agreed Rosanera, she bid them to lean in close and spoke just

barely above a whisper. “I spoke to the Exchequer, the coffers are almost empty. Our

people are starving and sick. Gunter and his tax collector will never stop. This bounty

before us is so much more than most people have in a week.

Luis raised his hand and got Rosanera’s attention. “Dear sweet cousin, why do you

refer to them as our people? They blame you for everything bad and do not give you

credit for the good you do.”

“That may be true but a hungry baby knows no politic. The people need hope,

someone they know cares for them.”

Still holding her rosary, Catharina kissed the silver crucifix and addressed all at the

table. “It is God’s will that our Lady Rosanera help them.”

Luis rolled his eyes. “Yes God’s will, that is all well and good. How will you get

this collection of bumpkins on your side?” Luis took his knife and cut the leg off the

capon and put it on his plate.

“People will follow a leader who is just and kind,” answered Rosanera. She was

irritated by Luis’s banter.

Angelo sighed and looked at Luis. He shook his head in disappointment for Luis’s

lack of tack. He looked at Lady Rosanera. “Dear cousin, I am afraid to say they follow a

leader with gold in the coffers.”

“Which do you think is more important Roland?” Cecilia wanted to enjoy the dinner

and hoped a new voice might add novelty.

“Surely, this is not his concern.” Angelo teased the bulbous tail off the capon and

put his little prize on his plate.

“That is enough from you two.” Rosanera’s patience was gone. “Nor was it his

concern to keep me safe or his concern to try and save the little orphan girl from that

brute. And where were you my brave cousins, hiding behind the wall like cowards?”

Rosanera’s outbreak brought Roland to his senses and cast a serious pall over the

dinner. He sat back in his chair wanting to remove himself from the fray.

Catharina put her spoon down and cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention.

“Lady Rosanera, dear friends, bickering opens the door for the devil.”

Cecilia agreed and added something that was on everyone’s mind, but did not dare

say. “Catharina is right. We should not argue. Soon all of this will be gone. Gunter is at

war with everyone. His mind is not his own; his soul is not his own.”

Luis added sardonically, “It seems the pope bet on a sick horse to win.”

Catharina flinched at the remark and fired back. “The pope does not bet on horse

races.”

Luis softened his tone. “Sweet Catharina, we are one of the last dukedoms under the

Papal flag. We are the doorway the Pope has into Germany. If the duke loses, the Pope

loses.”

Catharina felt mollified and nodded her forgiveness.

Rosanera spoke, ”I for one, do not want to lose. Gunter has no heirs, no sons. By

rights, I will be duchess at his death.”

“Duchess of what? A broken land full of starving people? You will not have the

Pope to protect you. The Reformist have all but won.” Angelo was pessimistic.

“What do you suggest I do?”

Luis looked at the others before he spoke, “sweet cousin, it is gold that you need.

With gold, you can feed those... your people. They will follow you then. You could even

wage war against the duke if you wished to.”

“You are correct, as usual. We definitely need gold. As for a war against the duke, I

have no appetite for that.”

Roland listened and ventured into the conversation. “Please, is there anything I can

do?”

All at the table gave a surprised glance at Roland. Even though he was scolded

earlier by his cousin, Luis still spoke to Roland in a condescending manner. “Please dear

guest, this is clearly not your concern.” By the end of the sentence, he replaced his

derision with a modicum of respect.

Rosanera championed Roland. “Well dear friend, I ...we... all appreciate your

concern. But there is only so much anyone can do.”

“It is said that one person can change the world, if the world is not too big.” He

thought of Sofia and smiled.

Clotilda stood in the doorway to the great room, not wanting to move. Helga the

head scullery girl, actually a plump woman of forty, nudged a reluctant Clotilda to enter

with the silver tray of fritters and spiced fruit and nuts. She shyly approached the party

and stood next to Rosanera with her eyes downcast.

“Speak,” Rosanera said in a flat tone.

“Does your Ladyship wish to have dainties?”

“Set it on the table.”

Clotilda put the tray on the table, bowed several times and waited. Each one took

what they liked best. There was a friendly tussle between Angelo and Cecilia over the

pecans that were sautéed in butter and drenched in honey and sesame seeds. Rosanera

wanted to speak to Roland alone and she was getting impatient with the others for being

so persnickety. Finally, she clapped her hands. “Clotilda take the tray and go,” she said.

The little servant picked up the tray, bowed several times and scurried away like a

frightened mouse.

“Ah my pets, to your beds or other distraction. I will take the air with Roland.”

They said their goodnights. Angelo stayed at the table and called for a chess game

with Luis. Cecilia returned to the harpsichord and Catharina to her missal.

Outside, the night was moonless and dark. The air was cool but pleasant. Rosanera

and Roland walked the perimeter of the courtyard. The exercise did Roland good. He was

overly pampered by Catharina and Rosanera and other than standing out on the balcony

and a walk to the stables with Rosanera this was the first time in over a week he was

outside.

Roland looked at this beautiful woman next to him and wondered what kind of

privileged life she must live. “If I may ask, what is going to happen? What is this war?”

“The poor state of the people will lead to, I know not what. This endless war has

reduced us to no more substance or future than a shadow.”

Roland nodded. “I have seen how badly off the people are, hungry, dirty, and sick.

Sofia and I stopped to help a poor soul who was too weak to stand. We gave him our food

and water. But that only could help him for a day maybe two.”

Rosanera slowed her pace. “Who is Sofia, and what is she to you? Friend? Lover?”

Although her tone was benign, she felt a surge of jealousy at the mention of another

woman.

“She is the daughter of Rene Hermes. I really do not know yet what she is to me.”

“Oh yes, that Sofia, Rene’s daughter, may he rest in peace. I so enjoyed his

company.”

“He is a very interesting and wise man.” Roland did not think before he spoke.

A quizzical look crossed Rosanera’s face at Roland’s use of the present tense

regarding Rene. They came upon a bench and she took Roland’s hand, led him to it and

sat. “And how did you come to know him?”

Roland stretched and yawned to gain a few seconds to think. ”Well, we exchanged

books and letters.”

Rosanera moved a little closer to Roland. “And how did you come to know Sofia?”

“He mentioned her in his letters.”

Rosanera crossed her arms and spoke in a dismissive tone. “I believe I met her once

or twice, years ago. I saw her at her father’s funeral. She was skinny as a rake, ill dressed

and ill mannered.”

“She is all grown up. She is thoughtful and no longer skinny.”

Rosanera clenched her jaw. She guided the conversation to something more

important. “Tell me, how can you change my world?”

“You mean what can I do to help you?”

“It is my duty to help the people. We have no coin for food stuffs or I would send

out the Jew to broker a deal and buy what we need.”

Roland thought what both Sofia and Rene told him about the possibility of changing

base metals into gold. He was a bit hesitant, and with some reservations spoke. “I did not

want to say this in front of the others, but I may be able to help you with gold. I may have

a way to get a fair amount of it. You could use it to buy the things you need for the

people.”

Rosanera’s immediate skepticism was tempered with hope. Could this guileless man

deliver her from the darkness she lived under for more than half of her life? She could not

keep up with the ideas and visions of the future that flashed through her mind in quick

and dizzying succession. She imagined herself as duchess. She would bring Gunter down

along with his toadies and henchmen. She would be free to do whatever she wanted. Who

knows, she might even gain the loyalty of the peasants. “Yes, I could use gold to help the

people.”

Roland remembered Sofia’s words about his purpose. It seemed to make sense.

“Yes, I think that may be why I am here, my purpose, to help you.”

His sincere words brought tears to Rosanera’s eyes. She was glad they were in the

dark so he could not see her face. “You would really do that? You would really help

me?” she said breathlessly.

“Yes, I will help you.” Something swelled in Roland. He felt confident and strong.

Rosanera took his hand. She spoke softly. “You saved me. You tried to save the

little girl at the orphanage. You want to help me and give me gold. Thank you, thank you,

Roland.” She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “And what might your

reward be?” She turned his face toward hers and kissed his lips.

Roland was surprised but welcomed her kiss. “I was not even thinking of a reward.”

The two sat on the stone bench in an awkward embrace. He felt her warm breath on his

cheek and an almost imperceptible sighing moan each time she exhaled. “Come to my

bed,” she whispered. Before he could answer she kissed him and he felt the tip of her

tongue pass over his slightly parted lips. They kissed several more times. Each kiss was

longer and deeper than the one before until she gently pushed him away and stood. She

took Roland’s hand and guided him back to the great room.

They entered. Angelo and Luis were in deep concentration over their chess game

and gave a quick nod to Rosanera. Cecilia sat under the chandelier and read from a little

book with a red cover. She looked up from the Decameron and glanced quickly between

Rosanera and Roland. Her eyes opened wide as she correctly surmised what the two were

up to. She gave Rosanera a knowing smile and a wink. Apparently Catharina went to bed.

Rosanera and Roland quietly ascended the stairs. After they entered her chambers,

she locked the door. The fire gave off a faint golden glow that left the room more in

darkness and shadows than light. Rosanera led him to the bed. She unlaced his shirt,

pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor. She took his fingers and placed them on

the tail of a ribbon that secured her over bodice. She smiled as she helped him discover

the hooks and eyes, laces and ribbon that needed to be unhooked, untied and loosened to

free her from her clothing.

Roland was not impatient the way he was with Sofia. He already knew the outcome.

He could not speak for all men or for that matter anyone but himself, but he knew this

intimacy would make him feel obligated to Rosanera. He did not know if he wanted that.

Rosanera stood there wearing only her inner skirt and her lacy, sheer chemise. She

leaned close to Roland’s face. He took that as an invitation and leaned in to kiss her.

Rosanera moved her head back in an unexpected tease. They stood by the bed. She pulled

back the covers, turned back to Roland and began to unlace his britches. When he tried to

help, she pushed his hand away.

“No, you must not. I will do Cupid’s labors for both of us.” She knelt and pulled his

britches down to his ankles, then, ever so softly and slowly ran her hands up the backs of

his legs and caressed his buttocks. Rosanera found the string to his small clothes and

pulled it. The last of his garments fell away to the floor. He stood there naked. She

pressed her open palm against his rising manhood. Her eyes narrowed and she sprung up,

roughly grabbed Roland’s arm, turned him and pushed him down into the cool silk

sheets. He laid on his back with his knees hanging over the edge of the bed. She nudged

his feet with her foot until his legs were apart and she stood between them. Rosanera fell

on top of him and attacked the left side of his neck with a quick succession of little wet

kisses and love nips that bordered on being painful. Roland tried to slip his hand under

her chemise. She turned her love bite against him.

“Ow!” Roland stopped his efforts and rubbed his ear lobe between his thumb and

forefinger.

“Now, now, you must obey your Lady Rosanera,” she said playfully. She pushed

herself up and slipped the chemise over her head and tossed it away. She straddled

Roland and impatiently pulled her skirt out of the way and rocked back and forth until

Roland was deep inside her. She leaned forward and pinned Roland’s shoulders down on

the bed, closed her eyes and began her slow, rhythmic, rocking dance.

Roland looked up at this willful woman. Rosanera threw her head back with each

rise and fall of her body against his. When she threw her head back the dim light released

her face from the shadows and he saw a small strawberry birthmark on her neck just

below her ear. Something shuddered in Roland and his participation became more and

more heightened. In that abandoned state both of them, in that last sweet, aching instance

of the act, transcended their carnality and for a fleeting instant almost connected

spiritually.

Spent, satisfied and breathless she dismounted and fell back on the bed next to him.

He put his arm around her shoulder. She rolled toward him, put her arm across his chest

and crooked her leg over his thigh. Roland pulled the silk sheet and blanket over them.

She cuddled closer. “Goodnight my love.” Rosanera pulled his face to hers and kissed

him.

“Sleep well.” Roland closed his eyes.

“Am I not your love?” she whispered nuzzling her cheek against his chest.

“Sleep well, my love.” Roland lay there for a while and listened to her breathe until

he too surrendered to sleep.

Morning’s Light

The morning sun shone through the leaded lattice window and the shadow it cast lay like

a net over Roland and Rosanera. Roland stirred first. He untwined himself from Rosanera

hoping not to awaken her. She opened her eyes and reached for his hand.

“Cara mia, what a wonderful night,” she had a dreamy look on her face. “Where are

you going my love?”

Roland lay back down. “Nowhere. I was going to open the window.”

“Stay with me here, it is so nice and warm.” Rosanera kissed Roland on the cheek

and rested her head on his shoulder.

It was nice and warm and cozy under the covers. Roland settled in. “Tell me

something. Why is it you are not someone’s queen? You are beautiful and very smart and

strong.”

Rosanera took the compliment. “Do you remember I said I was like a prisoner

here?”

“Yes, I do. Why cannot you just go back to Italy?”

“You do not understand. I have nothing, no dowry. The duke stole that from me

after my mother died. He took my maidenhead when I was barely thirteen years old. I

have nothing to offer a nobleman, no property, no money, no title, not even my virtue.

The plague took my entire family, except for Luis, and I am nothing here. If, and only if I

outlive Gunter, then by rights I will be duchess. That is if he does not marry and have an

heir.”

Although outwardly calm and relaxed, once again Rosanera found herself in that

angry and impotent place she inhabited for so many years. Any little bit of happiness and

warmth she gleaned from those around her would never be more than a mocking echo of

the love she lived so long without. Even as she lay in Roland’s arms she bitterly reflected

on that sick and sullied time she spent as Gunter’s veiled lover and cringed. She hated

herself for being that silly little fool who imagined their relationship was based on love.

At one point, she thought their weekly liaisons would last forever and that someday

Gunter would take her as a wife. Her cold and hurtful past hardened her heart and soul.

She reminded herself never to be blinded by hope or be foolish enough to put very much

trust in another’s words. And here she was, so desperate she lay with this stranger just on

his word of gold? She would not repeat the past and decided then and there Roland would

be no more than a means to an end.

“You just cannot leave?” he asked again.

“And go where, the convent? I have no one and no one to help me.” She moved

closer to Roland. “I have nowhere to go. You see, I am a prisoner in a beautiful jail

surrounded by beautiful things, surrounded by my countrymen. I want for nothing, except

hope and maybe someone like you. You will help me will you not?”

Roland kissed Rosanera’s forehead, then her lips, her left cheek and then her right

cheek. She slowly warmed to his touch and returned his kisses. Her hands found their

way to his sex and she teased him to a point of readiness. Then she stopped and pulled

her hands away.

Roland caught his breath. Rosanera had both of her arms on top of the blanket and

pushed them down at her sides, making access impossible for Roland to return the

titillating favor. He figured that was her way of playing, and he decided he liked it.

“So why does he keep you here?”

Rosanera stared up at the ceiling as she spoke. “Believe it or not he needs me. I have

an uncle and a granduncle, if they are still alive, who are both cardinals. They are very

close to Pope Leo. Through their influence, the pope supports Gunter and this unending

war. But, only to a point.”

“Which is?”

“If Gunter der Grausam loses, the pope will lose. When I am duchess, I will make

peace. The church has a much better chance to convince the northern princes under the

spell of the reformist to return to the church and have their excommunications lifted. I

know it can be done through peaceful means.”

Roland did not share the same opinion. He held her a little bit tighter. “I suppose

that is possible.”

Rosanera wiggled free and propped herself up on her elbow. She looked Roland in

the eyes. “Cara mia, understand this: those who help me now will be rewarded when I am

duchess. I will have a special reward for you.” She kissed Roland’s lips. “Your apartment

will be right next to mine,” she kissed him twice, “you will have your own servants and

horses,” she kissed him three times, “and maybe even vice chancellor.”

Roland was surprised by such a generous offer. “You would want me to live in the

castle and let me help you rule?” The responsibilities and possibilities gave him pause but

also excited him. Roland gladly accepted Rosanera’s offer.

“Yes the gold you promised would do that. “ Rosanera made little swirls on

Roland’s chest with her fingertips. “Cara mia, it is very important that you bring the gold

here as quickly as possible.“ Rosanera leaned in and kissed Roland’s chest.

“This morning you must leave so you can keep your promise.” Rosanera kissed

Roland again. “Our people are counting on you. I am counting on you.” Rosanera

punctuated her request with a lingering kiss. Roland took her kiss as an invitation. He

kissed her. She pulled back. He put his hand behind her head. She put her hand up in

front of her face. Roland stopped.

“Cara mia, such a stallion you are. There will be enough time to share in each

other’s delights. But now you must keep your promise. Yes?”

Roland panted. His body was ready. “Are you sure you want me to go right now?”

He settled for kissing the honey expanse between her chin and breasts.

“Yes my love, that is my wish.” With both hands, she pushed Roland away onto his

back and slipped out from under the covers. She stood naked next to the bed just out of

reach. Rosanera went to the armoire and found a yellow silk robe. She put it on, returned

to the bed, picked up Roland’s britches and shirt and tossed them to him. She sat at her

desk, found a leaf of paper in the drawer, dipped the quill in the silver ink pot and began

to write.

By the time Roland tied the ribbons on his shoes and stood up Rosanera had

finished her note.

“Do you remember where the stables are?”

Roland did not expect such a question. “Of course, I walked with you over there.

Remember, you went riding and I stayed behind. It was just last week.”

Rosanera frowned as she conjured up the memory. “Oh yes, I suppose we did. Give

this to the coachman. He will take you where you must go. Now hurry.”

Rosanera stood and held the note out to Roland. He approached her for a goodbye

kiss. He extended his arms, closed his eyes and leaned in. She took his head in her hands,

pulled him closer and gave him a peck on the forehead.

Roland opened his eyes. She held the note in front of his face. “Hurry for me now.”

She gave Roland the same shooing she did Clotilda the night before. “Make haste my

love.” Rosanera returned to her desk and sat.

Roland was speechless. He could not bring himself to move. Rosanera cocked her

head to one side and gave him an expectant look. “Yes, my love?”

Roland shook his head. In a flash of clarity, he realized how unimportant his bruised

ego was compared to being Rosanera’s lover and the more than ample reward that

awaited him. He banished whatever childish feeling he had an instant before and smiled.

“I will do my best.” He turned and left the room.

Rosanera picked up a hand mirror off the desk and looked into it. She arranged a

few curly strands of her dark hair and put the mirror down. She spoke in a laughing

whisper. “Dear Cicero you are so right. All is vanity, all is vanity.”

The Return

A dove pecked at the trail of bread crumbs Sofia left on the window sill. The trail of

crumbs led to a trove of more crumbs in her open palm. She breathlessly stood hidden

behind the window curtain. The dove came closer and closer to her hand. She was taken

by the beautiful iridescent aura of the creature’s tan and pink blushed feathers. Her heart

beat quickly and she bided her time when she should try to catch it. The bird cooed. Sofia

held her breath. The bird made hollow little clicks against the wood sill. Her heart raced.

The bird’s beak brushed the heel of her hand. At first gently, then as the dove came to the

pile of crumbs in the palm of her hand it pecked harder and harder. Sofia left her hand

still as long as she could. The beak broke the skin. Sofia snatched her hand back behind

the curtain. The bird flew off. Sofia looked at the drop of blood that welled up from the

tiny wound. It stung.

This was the second time the dove presented itself to be captured since Roland first

came to them a little more than two weeks ago. Sofia shrugged and turned back to what

she had started. Sofia stood before her worktable and pushed up three handfuls of flour.

She made a conical mound and dimpled the center with her thumb. She added a pinch of

salt a beaten egg yolk and poured a little water from her gill cup into the crater. Sofia

worked the ingredients together with her hands. She added more of the egg and water and

worked the dough into a firm ball. She rolled out the dough with a rolling pin and after

letting it sit for the better part of a half hour cut it into thin strips and set it aside to dry.

With her noodles made for dinner Sofia tended to the fire. Her face was smudged

with flour and strands of unruly hair stuck out from under her kerchief. She was just

about to pluck a grouse when she heard hoof beats and the unmistakable squeaks and

moans of a carriage lumbering along the lane and onto the cobblestones in front of the

house. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the front door. Sofia opened it

just a little to get a peek of what was going on. After the intrusion of Sergeant Cardetti

and his lackey Mario, Sofia kept an iron rod by the door so she could bar it quickly if she

needed to.

The coachman climbed down from his seat and opened the door. Roland stepped

out. Sofia was relieved to see him. The coachman returned to his place, made a wide turn

and headed back the way he came.

Roland stood there in his doublet, linen shirt, his new britches and shoes with tall

heels. The clothing and shoes were gifts from Rosanera. He wore a large, black cap that

fell to one side and also sported two weeks’ worth of growth on his face. Sofia felt for the

strands of hair and tried to tuck them in. As she dusted the flour off her blouse, Roland

had already mounted the steps and was on the other side of the door. He was about to

knock when Sofia opened it.

Roland stood there smiling. Sofia smiled back and took in the new clothes and

beard.

“Just look at you.” She eyed him from head to toe and grinned. She held her arms

out as an invitation to embrace.

Roland involuntarily moved back but saved the moment by taking her by the

shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. It is so good to see you.” He

felt Sofia advance. He pulled her close, kissed her on the forehead and gave her a

sideways hug. “How’s Pater?”

Sofia gently pulled away from his embrace. Her shoulders slumped, “It is good to

see you too.” Though she kept her smile there was uncertainty in her voice. She searched

his eyes for that depth she saw in them before they went to market. Right now their last

time together seemed like a lifetime ago. She had to clear her throat. “Come in, sit at the

table, there is wine.” She took his hand and led him to the table and to a chair. She took a

glass from the credenza, set it before him and poured the wine. Sofia accidentally spilled

some which made her overly upset. She took a rag from her apron pocket and attacked

the little puddle. She turned away. She felt tears wet her eyes. “I will tell Pater you are

here.”

Sofia almost ran out of the room to the tapestry. She pulled back the heavy fabric,

stepped into the alcove and stood in the dark for a few seconds. Sofia took a few deep

breaths and wiped at her eyes with the same rag she had blotted up the wine.

She stood straight and pushed the false back on its pivot, entered the landing,

opened the door and descended the stairs to her papa’s workshop.

Rene looked up from his writing. He watched his daughter cross the room. He saw

she was upset by the pained look on her face. Rene put down his pen and scooted his

chair out from under the worktable. She went to Rene and sat on his lap as if she were a

child. She put her head on his shoulder. She tried to hold back her feeling, but tears came

to her eyes.

“What is it my dear?” Rene put his hand on the side of her face and held her against

his chest.

“He is back, but everything is different.”

“Ah, Roland has returned. I heard the carriage. Tell, what is different.”

“Everything, everything is changed.”

“There, there.” He took the rag from her hand and dabbed at the tears on her cheek.

“What did he say?”

She answered in a broken voice. “He was glad to see me.”

Rene nodded “And what else?”

“He kissed me and gave me a hug, but it was a kiss and hug a brother gives a sister.”

“Are things so changed? When you last saw him how did you both feel about each

other?”

“What a fool I was. I told him we should act as friends, like brother and sister. I was

still angry because he did not respect my oath. Now I am angry with myself for spurning

him. I was so foolish.”

Rene stroked her hair. “Filia, have you told him how you feel?”

“No Pater, I have not.” There was a little girl whine to her voice. Tears appeared

again and ran down her cheeks.

“Tell him. Let him know for both of your sakes.”

“And if he does not feel the same? What then?”

Rene reached into the folds of his shirt and took out a small blue glass vial. He

uncorked it and held the vial in the track of Sofia’s tears collecting as many as he could.

When he was satisfied, he put the cork back in the bottle and set it on the table.

“Why did you do that papa?” Sofia dried the last few tears, sat up and looked at

Rene.

“Tears carry the greatest of secrets. Yours are more precious than diamonds. You

must give this vial to Roland even though you will not want to. Remember filia, darkness

begets darkness. To truly love you must be selfless.”

Sofia accepted the cryptic answer. “When the time comes, I will if I must.”

“Now be of good cheer. Roland has returned.”

Sofia stood up. She patted her hair in place. Her eyes were red and her cheeks still

blushed. Rene took his handkerchief and dabbed away at the smudges of flour on his

daughter’s face. He won her calm and confidence back with a warm smile. He kissed her

on the forehead.

They both looked up at the top of the stairs when they heard the familiar repetitive

knock on the door.

“May I enter Pater?” Roland called.

“Come, my son.” Rene called out loudly. He looked at Sofia and winked.

“Remember, no matter what, be selfless and giving.”

The door swung open and Roland quickly descended the stairs. Rene took a few

steps toward his adopted son. They fell into an embrace. Rene kissed Roland on each

cheek. He held Roland at arm’s length and looked him up and down. “Let me look at you.

It appears you find court life agreeable.”

Roland beamed and was all smiles. “Oh yes, Pater, very much. Everything at Adler

Kralle castle is so beautiful, the grounds, all of the wonderful things inside and out. Even

the people are beautiful.”

Rene led Roland to the least cluttered worktable and they sat. He invited Sofia to

join them. She was reluctant but took her father’s words to heart. She noisily dragged a

stool over to the men and sat at the end of the table.

“Was Gunter there?”

“No, he is not there. He is at war, it seems with everyone.”

“How very sad, there was a time he was known as a peacemaker. Not that long ago

he was called Gunter der Gerecht.”

Roland looked over at Sofia for a second and then back to Rene. “What does that

mean?”

“Gunter the Just. Now he is known as Gunter the Grausum, Gunter the Cruel,“ Sofia

added. “Such a change in a man. They say it is Rosanera’s doing.”

”How is Lady Rosanera? When she was a girl she was so cheerful until the plague

took her mother,” said Rene.

Before Roland could answer Sofia spoke out of turn, “It could be Rosanera’s fault

Gunter is so changed.”

Rene’s brow furrowed and he gave Sofia a scolding look.

“Now, what I heard from Rosanera’s lips, and as you very well know Duke Gunter

also had the plague. She said he had a high fever for a week and was in such great pain. I

think that is probably what changed him, not his little stepdaughter.”

Sofia felt rebuffed.

“We had to keep it secret.” Rene looked at Sofia and added, “Even from you.

Like Emperor Justinian who survived the plague of his day, only to be a weak and

muddled headed leader afterwards, it seems the duke follows the same confused path.

May God help us.”

They all nodded. Sofia spoke up. “I remember Rosanera. We met a few times. She

seemed so cool and uninterested at Pater’s funeral.”

“She did not seem cool or uninteresting to me. In fact, she has a very warm smile.

She told me how she missed your Pater’s company and their chats.”

“So, you spoke of us?” asked Rene.

“Only in passing, I had to say where I was staying so the coachman could bring me

back here.”

“Did you mention me?” Sofia looked at Roland.

“She asked and I did. Rosanera remembered meeting you too. I told her you were

thoughtful and kind and all grown up.”

Sofia felt ashamed for her jealousy and cattiness. She shrunk into her seat and

looked down.

“Tell us, what happened to you?”

“While Sofia and I were at the market, horsemen came riding through. You should

have seen them. They knocked over tables and they even pulled down some of the stalls

for no reason. I felt I had to do something. I should have stayed with Sofia but instead I

ran after them to see where they were going and what they were going to do next. When I

got around the corner, I saw the door of the orphanage close. I figured they went inside.

Two soldiers stood outside and held the horses. One of the soldiers put his hand on his

sword and gave me a threatening look. I stayed back. There was really nothing I could

do.”

Rene nodded, “A wise choice which may have saved your life.”

Sofia leaned in closer. “Then what happened?”

“As I stepped away from the soldiers I heard someone whisper to me, trying to get

my attention. I looked into the deep doorway of the building next to the orphanage. I

could just make out someone. I went closer and this beautiful woman came to the edge of

the shadow. She was so pretty and I could tell she was afraid by the look in her eyes. She

asked me to help hide her. The only thing I could do was stand in front of her and block

the doorway. I stood there as tall as I could with my arms folded across my chest. The

soldiers came out of the orphanage. They took the children. They mounted up and rode

off.”

“Yes, they came back through the market place. That is when I went to look for

you.” Sofia put her hand on the table very close to Roland’s. She wanted to take his, but

she dared not.

“Remember the two soldiers who came to the house and stole the candelabras off

the mantle? The one who tore your blouse was on his horse holding a little girl in front of

him. The poor girl was kicking and trying to get away. She held her arms out to me. I had

to do something. I reached out to her and when I looked up I saw it was that Mario

character. He looked down at me and laughed. He said something I did not quite hear

then hit me over the head with a club. I woke up in Rosanera’s bed two days later with a

terrible headache.”

Sofia stood. “Show me where.”

Roland gingerly parted his hair so Sofia could see the mark. She gently touched his

fingers. “We were so worried about you. I did not know if I would ever see you again.

We are so glad you are back.” She almost whispered, “I am glad you are back.”

“I am glad to back too. It is so good to be with you. Well, for now anyway.”

“For now, you are not staying?” Sofia absently put her hands over her heart.

Rene saw the disappointment and hurt in Sofia’s expression. “Daughter, would you

please get us some of your wonderful hot drink you make so well,” said Rene.

“Yes Pater, the spiced mead?” Sofia asked softly. Roland’s news made her feel

helpless and empty. Sofia turned away from the men, slowly crossed the chilly, gray

room and ascended the stairs. She felt like she would disappear when she went through

the doorway.

Rene waited until Sofia closed the door behind her. “Tell me why you have

returned. I know castle life very well. I loved the company, the libation, the excellent

meals, so many wonderful diversions and the conversations. True, it has been six years

since my untimely death, but the fond memories I have of Adler Kralle have not faded

one bit. It must have been hard for you to leave. ” His smile invited Roland to talk.

“I came back because of some of the things that happened at the orphanage. That

and how Sofia acted. The compassion she showed to a complete stranger and the way she

tended to that poor starving man really made me think. When I was recovering, I had

time to do some soul searching.”

“Sofia knows what is truly important. She has a kind heart. She is a very good

person, delicate, trusting, loving.” Rene looked into Roland’s eyes when he spoke. He

hoped his words would help Roland see what a treasure his daughter was. “Make sure

you tell her how she makes you feel, I am sure it is something she would like to hear.”

Roland agreed with a polite and subdued nod. Right now his thoughts were on the

promise he made to Rosanera. He put forth his argument. “Many of the people have lost

their families to the plague. They have lost their lands to the tax collector. They are

hungry, they are sick, they need help. Pater, I do not remember the kind of person I was

before I woke up in your barn. I have tried. I can only guess. I would like to think I was

honest and sincere. I feel I must help Lady Rosanera and I hope what I am about to do is

the right thing.”

“Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise. Your aims are commendable. We

are all one, all part of the same host. When you show compassion and care for others it

always returns to you. Filio, tell me, how are you going to help the Lady Rosanera?”

“I made Lady Rosanera a promise.”

“What was your promise? What did she ask of you?”

“She did not ask anything of me.”

“No?”

“I told her I could help her with gold so she can buy the things the people need.”

Roland’s earlier enthusiasm was subdued. He ventured a glance at Rene.

Rene sat back in his chair. He had a cool and stony look about him. “Where are you

going to get gold?” he spoke in measured words.

“That is why I came back. So you can help me change lead into gold.”

Rene could not hide his displeasure. He brought his hand down on the tabletop with

a slap. He startled Roland. “Did you mention I was alive as well?”

“Of course not, Lady Rosanera has no idea where the gold is coming from.”

Rene took a deep breath and calmed himself. “My dear boy, it was no secret in the

court I was thought to be an alchemist. In my younger days when I was vain I did not try

to dispel what people thought. I rather enjoyed the mystique of it all. Now you are staying

in my home and you have promised gold to someone with dubious motives? Where might

she think great amounts of gold might come from?”

“I did not think of that. Pater, she seems very sincere. The first time I met her she

was at the orphanage giving clothes and medicine to the children.”

Rene pinched his chin and reflected before he spoke. “There is no question she does

good deeds. The results are laudatory, but the motives are uncertain. Let me tell you this.

Shortly after the duchess went to her final reward there was a great change, I am sorry to

say, a dark change in Rosanera. She no longer smiled and she would no longer look at

Gunter or, for that matter anyone in the eyes when she spoke. She became hard and I

think so did her heart and soul.”

“In confidence she told me the terrible things Duke Gunter did to her. I will spare

you. Let us just say whatever she had to offer, the duke took away from her.”

“There were rumors. I did not want to believe them. I still refuse to believe them.

May God be merciful.” Rene bowed his head.

They sat in silence. Roland spoke. “Pater, could this be my purpose, the reason why

I am here?”

“I have no answer for that. Do you feel this is your purpose?”

“I have a chance to help people. If we use alchemy we can make gold.”

Rene smiled. “You must remember alchemy is a philosophy. It is a guide to live by.

Its use is to put order to the cosmos, and more, to put order to our souls and to understand

and accept our place in the great plan of the Creator. The miracle of our being here, now,

at this moment was put into motion by the simplest choices of our distant forefathers.

What we do, the choices we make today will echo through eternity. No matter what

choice you make, it will always be the right one.”

Roland was overwhelmed. He sat back in his seat and tried to digest what Rene was

telling him. At a loss he continued, “Pater, you have said so much. It is hard to

understand.”

“Yes, it takes a lifetime.” Rene patted Roland on the hand. “So, she wants gold.”

“That is what I need.” Roland was glad Rene was back to the subject.

“My dear son, we are all weak and blind to our motives. One can fall under the spell

of someone who is beautiful, clever and wealthy. No matter how beautiful or clever or

wealthy Lady Rosanera is, you cannot understand or fathom what truth guides her. Or for

that matter what truth guides you.”

“Truth? What do you mean?”

“The truth changes for everyone. Once my truth told me I could not live without my

Bella. But here I am, many years later and I am living. I laugh. I eat. I do my work.”

“The truth is, I think I may be in love with Rosanera. She is so beautiful and kind.

She offered me a position in the court when she becomes duchess, and an apartment next

to hers.”

Rene raised his hands over his head and gave an ironic chuckle. “Venus smiles

down on this house with a vengeance.” He sighed and let his hands fall. “Did you tell her

Ladyship how you feel?”

“No, not yet,” Roland wondered why he hadn’t.

“That, my dear boy is something I would keep to myself for now.”

“But why?”

“You will find nobles have their own agendas, and they will use anyone or anything

to achieve their own ends.”

“Rosanera is not like that.”

Rene shrugged and did not pursue that thread of thought. “Filio mea, you will not

need my help. All of the answers you need are in my workbooks. Look to the symbols

and signs on the Alchemist Cabinet. But the most help will come from Sophia, though

she does not know it yet.” He added in a cautionary tone, “I warn you, gold now will only

cause a thirst for more and more gold in the future. “

“The Alchemist Cabinet, something about that sounds familiar.”

“Does it?” Rene opened a large tome that was on the table in front of him. “To

practice alchemy you must be the good and the bad, the light and the dark, and weigh

them against one another and combine them. You must be the sun and the moon at the

same time.”

“I do not understand.”

“You are not supposed to understand. Judge your reasons well and remain selfless.”

Rene went to reading. Roland was quiet and circumspect.

Sofia descended the stairs with the hot mead. She immediately noticed the silence

and solemnity. She kept her eyes on Roland as she traversed the workshop and set the

tray on the table. Sofia poured the hot spiced mead in the cups and placed them in front

of the two men. She watched Roland drink. He looked into her eyes and saw a sad

tenderness that he had not seen before.

In the Looking Glass

Rosanera sat in her chamber in front of the mirror. It was midmorning. The sun filtered

through the clouds and cast a cold light on her. Clotilda stood behind her mistress and

brushed her hair. As careful as she tried to be Clotilda brushed into a snag and tugged on

Rosanera’s hair. Rosanera grimaced, roughly snatched the brush out of Clotilda’s hands

and blindly slapped at her over her shoulder. “Get out! Get out!”

Clotilda rubbed her hand where Rosanera hit her with the brush. “Please forgive me

your Lady.”

“Do not speak, just go.” Rosanera shook her head and continued to brush her hair

herself.

Clotilda made herself as small as possible as she scurried away. She opened the

door and Bishop DeDeo along with Chancellor Waldherz stood before her. She curtsied

and slipped between them like a frightened animal.

Rosanera looked at the reflection of the two men in her mirror. Chancellor Waldherz

was a stout man, with a bulbous nose and red watery eyes. His silver hair just peeked out

from under the brimless cap he wore. His clothing was tailored to his large frame and he

wore the gold medallion of his rank on a heavy gold chain.

She then turned her gaze to Bishop DeDeo. He was past fifty but still energetic. She

went to him when Gunter first forced himself on her. A monsignor at that time, DeDeo

aspired to become bishop. DeDeo listened passively to Rosanera. He suggested she had

an over active imagination and to remain silent and bear the cross given her. “It is in the

best interest of the church, the people and your salvation that you beg God to forgive

your confused and indecent thoughts. “

DeDeo kept Gunter’s secret. He worked hard to keep those faithful in the fold. He

secured the flow of gold from the Vatican to support the war effort as well as his own

fancies. Gunter’s early battlefield successes led DeDeo to the station of bishop. His time

was now spent defending Gunter’s failings and fabricating forgivable reasons why the

Reformist were making gains just beyond the borders of the duchy. He was a realistic and

discreet man and he kept certain correspondences and secrets to himself.

The chancellor cleared his throat and addressed the reflection in the mirror. “How is

your ladyship today?” His lips were always perched in an insipid smile.

Rosanera put the brush down, “as I am every day, and you good chancellor, your

health?”

He knit his brows and rubbed the back of his left hand with his right hand. “I have

noticed lately stiffness in my hands in the morning. My sleep seems disturbed by the

slightest noise. And...”

Rosanera cut him short. “I hope you feel better. Tell me dear bishop. Are you in

better health than our chancellor?”

DeDeo answered cheerfully. “Yes Lady Rosanera, fit as a lancer.”

Rosanera turned in her chair and faced the two men. “I received a message this

morning. Duke Gunter has been routed. The greater part of his army is gone. As of three

days ago he had less than one third of his cavalry and one half of the foot soldiers left.

Waldherz rubbed his hands together fiercely. “This is terrible news, terrible. Routed

you say?”

Rosanera sighed. “With the enemies he has made with this endless war, where can

he turn?”

Bishop DeDeo made the sign of the cross. “Dear Rosanera, this endless war, as you

call it, has to be fought to preserve the faith.”

“I for one am running out of faith. Not in our dear Savior, but in the people who are

here to serve. We need to protect Adler Kralle and without an army that is impossible.”

Both Rosanera and the chancellor looked at the bishop. Waldherz spoke up. “And

can our Holy Father aid in our battle against these Reformers?”

A grave look came over the bishop’s face. “Before I can answer that question, there

is something I must discuss with you both. Two papal legates brought me some

disturbing news, news that might cause a cessation of papal help. A Jew agent was

stopped on the Swiss frontier. This Jew had ten children, all blond and healthy. There

were six girls and four boys, in chains, in a wagon. They were bound for Sardinia to

become a Saracen’s slaves. Well, the Jew produced a forged letter of safe passage along

with forged bondage papers, one for each child.”

Rosanera figured the children were the orphans that were taken. She shuddered to

think of what they went through at the encampment before they were sent on their ways.

“Why should this cause a cessation of aid from His Holiness? We have given Pope Leo

nothing but loyalty. He has supported Gunter’s army for years.”

The bishop crossed his arms and frowned. “These children came from our

orphanage. I think you know something about that your Lady. Do you not?”

Rosanera looked down to the left. “I heard something about children being stolen

from the orphanage.”

The bishop took a step toward Rosanera. “Dear girl, you were there. You were seen,

in disguise, entering the orphanage. You were so bold you ran out without that ridiculous

military cloak over your shoulders.”

Rosanera was angry. She checked herself. She crossed her arms and looked hard

into the bishop’s eyes.

“Please do not deny it with a look. Dear girl, you would be surprised how much

information a few copper coins can buy.”

Her answer was terse and defiant. “True I was there, but to deliver those things the

children need, certainly not to conspire to take them. Fra Benito is my witness.”

“Alas, Fra Benito sleeps a sleep which no one can wake him from. He is all but dead

to us. That is neither here nor there. My papal seal and what looks to be an excellent copy

of my signature were on the papers, which makes me suspect. With Gunter losing this

last battle and you Lady Rosanera and myself being under suspicion of hatching a plan to

kidnap and sell these poor orphans into slavery, I am afraid the legates and the pope hold

us in a very bad light.”

The chancellor clasped his hands as he spoke. “What of the Jew, perhaps he can

shed some good light on who was responsible. Can he not?”

The bishop let out an ironic little snort. “The Jew? Oh, he was tortured and hung on

the spot. Anything he said would be of little or no consequence.“ With that dismissal, he

continued. “All of that aside, the legates said Pope Leo is unwilling to give any more

funds or mercenaries to support any further attempt to stave off what is the inevitable loss

of Papal territory here in Bavaria.”

“What is to become of Adler Kralle?”

“That my child is only something for Our Lord and Savior to know. I must share

just one more bit of unfortunate news. I leave for the Vatican in the morning. I must clear

my name of these terrible accusations. I will do my best for you as well Lady Rosanera.

May God keep you safe.” The bishop bowed to Rosanera and Waldherz and quickly

made his way across the room. He turned back to Rosanera and the chancellor. “Goodbye

Jon, Rosanera.” He left the room and closed the door softly behind him.

“Clotilda! Come now!” Rosanera clapped her hands.

The girl stood in the doorway with her head lowered.

“Do you need a proper invitation? Get in here!”

Clotilda approached. “Yes your lady.”

“Run and fetch General Herrmann, quickly. If he is not here in less than a minute,

you will spend the rest of your days in the scullery rendering tallow.”

Clotilda wrinkled her brow and searched her mind where she might find the general.

She began to fidget and looked left and right.

“The map room you imbecile! Run!’ boomed Rosanera.

Clotilda raced out of the room. She returned in less than a minute with General

Herrmann following her. He was a handsome and muscular man in his mid-thirties. His

face was square and his eyes were thoughtful. He wore a short, well-trimmed beard. His

posture and his carriage defined his military bearing. He was dressed in plain dark

clothing. The only decoration was a crest on his tunic over his heart. He wore a dagger on

his belt and carried a cylindrical map case. He bowed. “Your lady, how can I be of

service?”

“How can we protect Adler Kralle?” Rosanera glared at Clotilda. The girl quickly

left the room.

“That will be quite a trick. Gunter’s troops have scattered.”

“What would get them back?” asked Waldherz.

“Simple: pay them, feed them, begging your lady’s pardon, get them some whores

and drink.”

Rosanera raised her eyebrows in resignation. “So, it is gold.” She thought for a

moment. “What about the money lenders?”

The chancellor pursed his lips and shook his head no. “I am afraid not. The good

duke has neglected to pay on what he already owes. They will lend no more money.

Anyway, they have been put to wandering. Their homes and possession have already

been confiscated, and little good that did. No, I am afraid the Jews can be of no more

help.”

General Herrmann affirmed Rosanera’s assumption. “Yes, gold. Lady Rosanera and

good chancellor we have more immediate concerns. General Von Eyke’s army is ten days

march from Adler Kralle. If we do not open the gates to him, he will put us under siege.

With our meager supplies, we might last a month, two at the most.”

“How long to call up enough troops to secure Adler Kralle?”

“Lady Rosanera, there are nothing left but young boys and old men from our

peasants. We cannot even count on them. The Swiss mercenaries are the most likely to

reform ranks and fight. They like a good scrap. Of course, our routed troops need a good

leader and of course food. To the point: two thousand infantry and three hundred cavalry,

or as many as we can get.”

“Cost?” asked Rosanera.

“Six, maybe seven thousand gold pieces, enough to pay back wages with some left

over to use as incentives.”

“And how long to get the troops organized?”

“Not too long. They are probably wandering in large bands. Pay a few and they will

go back to their brothers and tell them. Then you will not have to seek them out. They

will come to us. If we start today and God looks down on us favorably, we could amass

that many men in four of five days.”

Chancellor Waldherz wiped the perspiration from his face with a hanky. “Is this

wise? I wish the duke was here to make these decisions.” He directed his words to

Herrmann.

Waldherz’s words angered Rosanera. Her heart raced and she stood up. ”The duke

is not here, and God willing, may he never return. I will make the decisions from now on.

Your loyalty extends not only to this noble house and to the subjects who make up Adler

Lager and this castle, but to especially me, your duchess.”

The chancellor was taken aback. General Herrmann winked at Rosanera and gave

her the most subtle of grins.

“I have your loyalty, do I not?”

Chancellor Waldherz bowed and spoke. “It is your wish and also mine.”

Rosanera sat down at her vanity and crossed her arms. Herrmann and Waldherz

came up close to her.

“Chancellor, go to the exchequer to somehow find three hundred gold pieces.”

Rosanera gave the general a questioning look. He tallied and thought for a few seconds

and gave Rosanera a nod of approval. “Send the sergeant at arms out with a few

trustworthy men to bring back some troops and pay them. I want receipts for every gold

piece spent and the names of the men who received them. As an incentive, tell those

soldiers who receive gold there will be a silver piece for every ten men they bring back.”

Chancellor Waldherz bowed. “Yes Lady...I mean Duchess Rosanera.” Waldherz

nodded to Herrmann and left the room.

Rosanera relaxed with Waldherz gone. “Tell me, what kind of man is this General

Von Eyke? Can he be bribed not to put us under siege?”

The general smiled. “Duchess? My oh my, well played.”

Rosanera took Herrmann’s hands and held them in hers. “Hans what else can I do?

Waldherz is an ineffectual idiot. I could not leave the fate of Adler Kralle in his hands.”

“You are right. To answer your question, Van Eyke is a good man, but predictable.

You will not be able to bribe him. He has the Seven Northern Princes and all of Germany

behind him who all want to be rid of this last Papal stronghold. But as I said, he is

predictable. He will send most of his soldiers home. I do not imagine he would keep more

than a thousand men and perhaps three hundred cavalry; enough of an army for a siege.

Time is of the essence.”

“You must do what you can to put together a new army. The longer it takes Van

Eyke to arrive at our gates, the better chance we have of keeping Adler Kralle safe.” She

pulled the general down until he knelt before her. She took his head in her hands and

looked into his eyes. “Hans I have always respected and admired you, ever since I was a

little girl.” She leaned close to his face and kissed him on the lips. “When all of this is

over you will be my right hand. You will have your apartment right next to mine. I will

make you chancellor. Would you not like that?”

“Yes my dear duchess, very much so.” He lingered with his face close to hers. He

ventured another kiss which Rosanera allowed.

“Now, you have much to do dear Hans, God’s speed to you.” She stood. Hans also

got to his feet.

“Yes I do.” General Herrmann bowed to Rosanera and headed for the door.

“Hans send Clotilda in.”

Clotilda entered the room. She stood by the doorway with her head lowered.

Rosanera looked at her and shook her head. “Come over here. What do you think? I will

strike you?”

Clotilda edged closer to her mistress and watched Rosanera write a note.

“Take this to the coachman. Do it quickly.”

Clotilda curtsied, with the note in hand she hurried away to attend to her task.

Rosanera took a few deep breaths, closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her

fingers. She picked up her hair brush and continued brushing her hair. She looked at

herself in the mirror. “So, now you are duchess. Long live the duchess.”

Echos of Echos

Rosanera took over Gunter’s den. The room seemed smaller to her than it was when she

was a girl. She had the heavy curtains taken away from the windows and the light poured

in and washed over the desk. Rosanera ran her hand over the spot where she and Gunter

conducted their secret love ritual. It took her more than a year to heal in body and mind

after he was through with her. She tried to bury that young girl and her naïve notions

under the minutes and days and months and years that passed.

Rosanera called a meeting with Waldherz, Herrmann, the exchequer Audo

Langfinger, and Monsignor Ciecorbo. The chancellor and the exchequer were already

there waiting on General Herrmann and the monsignor.

Exchequer Langfinger was a thin man with a sharp nose and a fine beard and

moustache. His shiny bald head sat on a set of narrow stooped shoulders. His eyes were

small and constantly moving. Langfinger held the castle ledgers in his boney red hands

against his chest.

Rosanera was occupied with writing a note and did not look up when she heard the

two men talking.

“Audo, I hope everything is in order.” He nodded his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, dear chancellor, everything is in perfect order.” The exchequer smiled at

Rosanera. She did not look up and so his smile was for naught.

Waldherz stood with his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his

heels. “What is keeping the general and monsignor? Do they have no concept of time?”

“They will be along,” said Rosanera. She sprinkled some pounce on the ink to help

it dry faster. “Clotilda, come.”

The hand maid entered and presented herself to her mistress. She kept her head

bowed and did not look at Rosanera until the duchess spoke.

“Take this and give it to any of my court. Make haste.”

The girl took the note, bowed and left the room.

As Clotilda left, Hermann and Ciecorbo came in together.

Monsignor Dario Ciecorbo was next in line to ascend to the position of bishop. He

was tied to Duke Gunter’s success. Ciecorbo was neither a patient nor pious man. His

future was beyond being at risk as the church lost territory and followers. He carried his

disappointment poorly and was generous with blame.

“Lady Rosanera.” The general bowed and clicked his heels.

The monsignor waited for Rosanera to speak first. She said nothing only nodded.

“Gentlemen, you all know why you are here.”

“If I may Lady Rosanera,” the exchequer bowed to her but directed his question to

General Herrmann. “Is there any way we can avoid a siege and the pillaging that

follows?”

The general gave Langfinger a cool and hard look. “Van Eyke will not be bribed if

that is what you mean. Oh, maybe some of his captains, but we cannot count on that.

Other than for the contents of the castle and the alter pieces at the chapel and the church,

there is not really anything left to take. We may have enough time though. Some troops

have come back on their own… a small garrisons worth, but not near enough.

“If we just had more gold we could get the Swiss back and enough of our own men

and arms to stop Van Eyke before he gets close enough to start a siege. Remember, he

dismissed more than half his army. With luck and surprise we could defeat him before he

can regroup his men. Better to meet the enemy in the field than at the castle gates.”

“Gold,” echoed Rosanera. She looked at Langfinger.

“The coffers are all but empty; less than four hundred gold pieces.” He put the

ledger down on the desk and untied a pouch from his waist. “Here are the three hundred

gold Florins you asked for.” He put the pouch in front of Rosanera. She opened it and

poured the gleaming coins out. “Certainly enough to buy our passage to Italy,”

Langfinger said with a hesitant grin. His jest fell short. He looked from face to face and

gave a nervous laugh.

Rosanera never liked Langfinger. “Let us not entertain such thoughts, even if they

were made as sport.”

Waldherz watched his associate wilt. He thought to change the subject. “I have

lately noticed the people I have seen walk about like ghosts.” He looked at General

Herrmann. ”Maybe it is all these years of war.” He looked over at the monsignor. “Then

God has sent us the plague and the famine.” He looked at Langfinger, “And these endless

taxes.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at Rosanera, “I believe it is the duke’s

doing, he should be here to govern instead of being absent from the beginning of spring

to the first days of winter every year for the last six years. I have never noticed before,

but the people seem tired and hopeless. I am afraid they might welcome anyone who

comes through our gates with the promise of peace or more likely a piece of bread.”

Monsignor Ciecorbo stood silent with his arms crossed. He cleared his throat until

everyone looked at him. “God is punishing us for our weakness and transgressions.”

The men nodded. Rosanera sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “We are

punishing ourselves with our own stupidity. Pope Leo has abandoned us, all of us. We

must look to ourselves to save Adler Kralle. I have lived here well over half my life. My

mother is buried here. I have lost so much and so many things have been taken from me

that I demand my right to be duchess.”

The men looked at Rosanera and remained silent. Herrmann made a quick survey of

the situation. “A very noble sentiment, we do need a leader, but you are not the duchess,

we owe our fealty to Gunter.”

Herrmann’s statement shocked Rosanera. She could barely hide her surprise and

anger. “Fealty to Gunter? He has led us to this, to this disaster.”

“Our battle for Adler Kralle and Adler Lager is not lost, it has not even begun.

There is still time.”

“If we just had the means,” Langfinger sighed.

“Yes the means. Maybe we should ask the honest exchequer where all of those taxes

and levies have gone. Where are all of those gold coins sent by the pope?” said the

general.

Langfinger picked up the ledger and held it in front of him like a shield. “State your

meaning Hans.”

Waldherz made a calming motion with his hands. “Now, now, there is no need for

such discord.”

Langfinger continued. His words were sharp. “There is an accounting of every half

penny spent. And general, you must know that the duke and your soldiers have taken the

lions share and most of the lambs share.” He took a step toward the general and all but

shoved him with the treasury books. “Would you care to go over the ledgers? I can call

for my scribe and you and he can spend the next day and night going over them if you

like.”

Rosanera stood. “That is enough! Enough! Van Eyke is six days away, six days. He

will need no army to defeat us. The general does not trust the exchequer, the exchequer

plays us as fools with his intimation we take what little gold that is left and flee to Italy.

Our astute Chancellor Waldherz is just now becoming aware that our people are suffering

and are beyond desperation and are all but lost to us. And let us not forget the monsignor.

According to his logic, God is punishing us for our sins, but also rewarding the Reformist

with one victory after another.”

Monsignor Ciecorbo entered the discussion. “Our Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Rosanera went on, “Does He? How? By striking down a kind and gentle man like

Fra Benito for doing the Lord’s work here on earth?”

“Dear girl, you cannot fathom this great mystery.”

“Nor can you. There is nothing for you here. I do not doubt you will follow your

bishop back to the open arms of the Vatican where you both can settle in safe and sound.”

Herrmann, Langfinger and Waldherz were aghast. They stood speechless and to a

man turned toward he monsignor.

After a few false starts, Ciecorbo addressed Rosanera. “I forgive you, you are young

and of the weaker sex. At this moment, you risk saying things that you may later regret.”

“Dear monsignor, these are dangerous times. I am sure our Lady Rosanera is sorry

and will weigh well her words before she speaks again. We are all upset and anxious,”

said Chancellor Waldherz.

Rosanera relaxed her shoulders and uncrossed her arms. She looked down and made

the sign of the cross. She spoke softly but with defiance in her tone. “Yes chancellor, you

are quite right. I hope I deserve your forgiveness monsignor.”

After a few long seconds of reflection General Herrmann took command of the

situation. “We must speak to the point. We need gold, it is that simple.”

“Roland Hughes has promised me gold. I do not know exactly how much. He told

me he can raise a goodly amount. I have sent for him. It is in our best interest that he

believes all of the gold we receive from him will be used to feed the peasants and care for

the sick.” Rosanera shrugged and a faint smile crossed her lips, “It is true, some of the

gold will go for that.”

Ciecorbo spoke. “A sin of omission such as this is easily forgiven.” All nodded in

agreement.

There was a sharp knock. Sergeant Cardetti opened the door and entered. Cardetti

bowed to his superiors. He approached Rosanera. “Your lady, Roland Hughes has been

brought here. He waits in the great hall below. He is in the company of your lady in

waiting Signora Cecilia.” Cardetti’s eyes were fixed on the pile of gold coins in front of

Rosanera all the time he spoke.

“Very good sergeant. Tell me Cardetti, would you like to regain your rank of

captain and have your pension restored?”

Cardetti was floored by the proposal, “Very much so Lady Rosanera, very much

so.” He could not control the smile that crossed his face.

“You will be able to redeem yourself Cardetti, as any real man given the choice

would,” added Herrmann.

“How can I serve you?” Cardetti threw his shoulders back and stuck out his chest.

“We need you to collect as many troops as you can. Gunter’s, or I should say our men are

out there. Many good men will turn to brigandry. They will destroy the countryside.

Many will wind up at the end of a rope at some crossroads. None of us want to see that

happen, do we?”

“No sir. That is not a worthy fate for any soldier.”

“We all agree, do we not?” General Herrmann looked around the room. Everyone

nodded and gave Cardetti reassuring smiles.

Cardetti gladly accepted the task. “Sir, may I ask how? How am I to raise an army?”

His glow of confidence wore off quickly as he realized the monumental task at hand.

“You know the men. Many have ridden with you over the years. You see that pile of

gold on the table in front of you? That is the first installment on the back pay owed. Of

course, we do not expect you to lure back an entire army out of the field yourself. Give

out a gold piece to a few trusted men. Tell them to show it to his brethren; that will speak

louder than anything else. Gold awaits any man who returns to his post. As an incentive,

a silver Florin for every ten men a soldier convinces to return. “

“Yes general.”

“There are enough men who have returned already. Take five, ten, whatever you

need. Take the most trustworthy. You do this sergeant, and you do it well you will be

restored to captain and your full pension and maybe even a bonus.”

“I am to take this gold here?” Cardetti pointed at the pile of coins. Langfinger

winced at the thought.

“Yes, this is the gold you will take,” said Rosanera. She had been making stacks of

ten coins each while the general was explaining the plan to Sergeant Cardetti. This was

the first time she had access to so much gold. She loved the way the coins felt in her

hand. She loved the dull tinkling sound they made when she raked her fingers through

them. As the coins disappeared into the stacks, the tally came up short fifteen florins.

“Explain yourself Langfinger. There are only two hundred and eighty-five florins.”

Langfinger approached the desk and looked at the piles of coins. “Impossible,

impossible, are the stacks equal in amount?”

“Count them for yourself,” suggested Rosanera.

All eyes were on the exchequer. He extended his hand to one of the stacks and

slowly withdrew it. “There must be some mistake, my scribe must have miscounted. I am

at a loss for words.”

On General Herrmann’s nod, both he and Cardetti flanked Langfinger and took him

by the arms and held him.

“What is the meaning of this?” the exchequer protested. He tried to wrench his

shoulders free.

The monsignor and Waldherz backed away from the two soldiers and their captive.

Herrmann pulled the dagger from his belt and put it under Langfinger’s chin. “This

is my meaning. Our days are numbered here. We need every resource, every weapon, and

every piece of gold at our disposal to survive.” He jerked Langfinger’s arm and pressed

the tip of the dagger into the squirming man’s neck right above the Adam’s apple.

“There has been a mistake.” Langfinger was shaking. He frantically looked to

Rosanera and to Monsignor Ciecorbo.

Rosanera held a coin between her thumb and index finger and tapped it on the desk.

“Yes there has been a mistake. Where are the florins?” Rosanera looked at the sergeant

and Herrmann and nodded.

The general pressed the dagger until he broke the skin. Langfinger felt a warm

trickle of blood run down his neck and disappear into the folds of his clothes.

“Hans, please,” said Waldherz. “This is insane, let Audo go. I am sure there is an

explanation for this. Must we shed blood?”

Herrmann spoke through clenched jaws. “Give up the gold or give up your life.”

Langfinger pulled his head back as far as he could to try to ease the pressure from

the dagger. He spoke in a raspy whisper. “It is here, I remember now, the pouch on my

belt. Yes that is where it is.”

Cardetti looked down at a small leather pouch that hung from Langfinger’s belt and

tore it off. The pouch ripped open and gold coins spilled out on the floor.

Herrmann took the dagger away. They released Langfinger. “Pick them up. For your

sake pray they are all there,” said the general.

Audo Langfinger knelt before Rosanera. He held one hand over the minor wound on

his neck and swept the coins into a pile and set them on the desk one and two at time.

When he finished, he peered up over the edge of the desk with his dark little eyes at

Rosanera. She was busy making the remaining stacks. He watched her eyebrows raise

and a tiny grin subtly turn up the corners of her mouth. “My, it appears you have made a

mistake. I count twenty-one more florins, thank you Audo. General, have the sergeant

escort this man away.”

As the exchequer was occupied getting to his feet, Rosanera nodded to Herrmann.

The general in turn nodded to Cardetti and drew his index finger across his Adam’s

apple.

“I am so sorry for the oversight Lady Rosanera. Can you ever forgive me?”

Langfinger asked as he got to his feet.

“Monsignor, would it not be better if our lord forgave this thief. It was the thief

Gestes I believe, who shared the last minutes of his life at the left hand of Our Savior.

Was he not?”

“You are correct.” Ciecorbo looked from Rosanera to Langfinger. “If you are truly

sorry my son our Lord has already forgiven you.” The monsignor gave his blessing.

Cardetti took Langfinger by the arm and pulled him along. The exchequer looked

into the chancellor’s eyes. Waldherz gave a slight nod, stepped back and let the two men

pass. When the door closed behind them, those left in the room heard a sound something

like the muted yelp of a dog. They heard Cardetti call out, then more shuffling footsteps

and the voices of three or four men echo in the hallway. They heard Cardetti clearly say,

“get rid of him.”

After a moment, Cardetti re-entered the room. He was pale and had a vacant look in

his eyes. Everyone was quiet. He looked from face to curious face. “He is on his way,”

was all he said. The blade of the dagger was veined with blood. He ran it through his

forefinger and thumb, wiped his fingers on his pants leg and put the dagger back into its

sheath.

“Come now sergeant, be of good cheer, you dispatched a traitor. I do not believe he

was the kind of man to languish in a dungeon waiting for the axe. You did him a favor.”

Herrmann patted Cardetti on the shoulder.

“You have committed no sin, my son.” The monsignor reassured the sergeant.

“Thank you Cardetti, we all have known for years he was a cheat and a thief. I

commend you.” Waldherz added his congratulations, as well.

“I want you to go to his home, give it a good search. Take a few men and take

anything of value, knowing him he probably has sacks of coins hidden away.”

“Clotilda! Come.” Rosanera clapped her hands.

Clotilda entered the room. She was wide eyed at seeing the exchequer get his throat

slit. She held her hands together to stop them from trembling.

“Collect Roland Hughes. He is in the great hall. Be quick about it.”

The girl was frozen in her spot. There were tears in her eyes.

“Go you little fool.” Rosanera picked up the empty pouch, threw it at her hitting her

in the face. Clotilda burst into tears.

The monsignor looked at Rosanera. “Lady Rosanera, please, the girl has had a

shock.” He picked the pouch up and put it back on the desk.

“What of it? There was no one there for me when I was her age. Was there? No

priest or monsignor or bishop to give me succor.”

Monsignor Ciecorbo furrowed his brow. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

He turned his attention from Rosanera, approached Clotilda, put his hand on her shoulder

and guided her to the door. “There my child, go in peace and do what your mistress bids.”

He quietly closed the door behind her.

No one spoke. Waldherz broke the heavy silence that followed, “quite a morning so

far.”

“Quite,” said Rosanera. “Now, Sergeant Cardetti you are to take this gold, a half a

dozen armed, trustworthy, good men and use it to bring back enough soldiers and cavalry

to meet Van Eyke.”

“Keep a sharp eye for that detachment of Swiss mercenaries. I’d like them back,”

General Herrmann added. “Do not forget to search Langfinger’s house first. Send what

you find back to us. Do what you have to.”

“Do not squander any coins. Understood?”

“Yes Lady Rosanera, I will be judicious.”

Rosanera put the three hundred florins back in the leather pouch and kept the six

extra back. “Here, I hope to be calling you captain by tomorrow at this time.”

“You will find most of the men to the west. God’s speed to you.”

“Our prayers are with you,” said Waldherz.

“May the lord be with you.”

Cardetti bowed and left the room. He stepped in a sticky patch of Langfinger’s

blood that was just outside the door. The sack was heavy. Once down the stairs he

crossed the great hall. Roland was sitting there talking with Cecilia. He approached and

waited for them to conclude their conversation.

“Roland Hughes, did the little hand maid come to you?”

“Clotilda? No, I just saw her run crying into the scullery.”

Cecilia nodded her affirmation.

“Lady Rosanera will see you now. She is in the duke’s den, it is the second door on

the right beyond the landing.” He turned and the pouch hit the table edge. The sound of

coins being jostled was unmistakable. “Good day to you.” Roland and Cecilia exchanged

quizzical looks.

Roland found his way to the duke’s den. He entered. Everyone looked over at him.

Roland wanted to go to Rosanera and give her a kiss. He checked his smile when he saw

the dark and serious looks on their faces.

“Roland, finally,” Rosanera stood and went to him. She gave him a very loose hug

and the non-touching kiss on each cheek.

Waldherz bowed and followed Rosanera’s lead. The monsignor gave a smug smile

and the general held Roland by the shoulders, looked him over and gave him a cool nod.

“Blessed are those who offer themselves to good works in the name of Our Lord,”

said Ciecorbo.

“Lady Rosanera tells us you are here to help,” Waldherz said with a smile.

“Because of you we can feed and care for our people.”

“And protect them as well,” added Herrmann.

“Let us bow your heads and thank Our Dear Savior for sending Roland Hughes to

aid us in our time of need. Our Lord works in mysterious and wonderful ways does He

not, Lady Rosanera?” The monsignor blessed Roland. He looked at Rosanera, the general

and Waldherz, smiled and nodded. The church bells tolled for nones. “So late, I must

return to my duties and our people. Bless you, bless you all.” The monsignor reached the

door and looked over at Rosanera. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Yes, we all have duties to our unfortunate brothers and sisters. I have opened my

home to those in need of food and shelter. Of course, I can only offer these things

temporarily.”

Roland faced Waldherz when he spoke and was unable to see the incredulous looks

Herrmann and Rosanera could not hide at the preposterous lie.

“That is very kind and selfless of you,” said Roland.

“It is so difficult to decide where to spend what little funds that are left after the

duke and the troops take what they need.” As an afterthought Waldherz added, “To

protect us of course.”

“And that protection will be paramount.” Herrmann said thoughtlessly.

Roland was facing away from Rosanera and did not see her gesture to Herrmann by

shaking her head no and frantically putting her raised index finger to her lips.

“Roland and I have much to discuss,” said Rosanera. “Is there anything more you

would like to say Chancellor Waldherz?”

“With your permission, I too must return to my duties.” Waldherz bowed and left

the room. General Herrmann stood between Roland and Rosanera.

“Are you finished with me too?” Herrmann did not like the relaxed and familiar

posture Roland had. He did not like the inviting look Rosanera gave this interloper.

“Roland, be a dear and wait on the balcony, close the door. The general and I have

things to discuss.”

Roland headed for the double doors that led out to the balcony. He stopped at a

bookshelf and took down a leather bound volume of maps. He looked over to Rosanera

and smiled, she smiled back. Roland stepped out onto the balcony and closed the doors

behind him. Birds were chirping and the air was spicy with the scent of pine. He leaned

against a column and leafed through the pages.

When Rosanera was close enough, Hans took her by the arm and pulled her to him.

“I should have known.” Herrmann’s tone was sharp.

Rosanera looked across the room at the double doors and was satisfied Roland was

occupied and put her hand on the general’s cheek. “You should have known what, cara

mia?”

“The way you two look at each other.”

“Hans do not be a goose, you are my right hand. He is nothing. He is a means to an

end, our end.” Rosanera put her hands on his chest. “I thought they would never leave.”

She kissed him on his lips and dropped her hands to his hips and pulled him close. “You

were magnificent last night.” She moved her hips back and forth against his and kissed

his lips again. “Make sure Cardetti gets the men back here.”

“Do not worry, any man he selects is loyal to me.”

“When the duke returns, he is not to enter Adler Kralle. Understood?”

“Understood, shall I come tonight?”

“No, come to me after matins tomorrow. Until then my love,” she kissed him once

more and gently ran her hand down his chest and caressed his manhood.

The small pouch of coins caught his eye. He shrugged his shoulders and left the

room. “Yes, tomorrow.”

Rosanera fell into Gunter’s chair and sat at his desk. She poured his brandy and

drank from the duke’s etched tumbler. She idly opened the pouch and emptied the six

gold florins out. When she touched them, she felt a shiver. She could see Langfinger’s

frightened dark eyes imploring her for forgiveness. Now he was dead at her bidding, and

over what, a handful of gold? She did not share the expedient rationale of the men over

Langfinger’s demise. Rosanera steeled herself against the wave of guilt. When it receded,

it left her a little colder and less sure of who she thought she was. She took several deep

breaths before she felt ready to face Roland.

Rosanera stood and quickly crossed the room. She stood by the glass panel doors

and watched the late afternoon breeze muss Roland’s hair. She watched how intently he

looked at the maps. Rosanera tapped on the glass.

Roland turned and smiled. He opened the door. The breeze blew in behind him. He

set the book down on a book stand and went to Rosanera’s open arms.

“Amore, hurry to me. I have missed you so much.”

He held her in a tight embrace, picked her up and swung her a half turn and set her

down gently. “I have missed being here so much.”

Rosanera was grateful for the different feelings Roland brought to her. She kissed

his mouth several times, lay her head on his chest and put her arms around him and just

stood there with her eyes closed. For a fleeting instant, she was a little girl hugging her

mama.

Roland patted Rosanera on the back. She looked into his eyes and returned to the

present. She dropped her embrace, stepped back and took his hand. As they headed for

the door,she stopped by the desk and plucked the pouch of gold up and slipped it in her

bosom.

True to her duty Clotilda stood outside the room leaning against the wall. Clotilda

fixated on the spot where she saw Langfinger meet his end. Even though the spot was

cleaned the marble had a different sheen to it.

“Clotilda, be a dear and tell Helga to prepare food and drink and have it brought to

my chamber. Quickly now, sweetheart.”

The girl gave her mistress an uncertain smile and was on her way.

And the Veil Shall Be Lifted

“How did you come to be here?”

Rosanera settled into the settee, snuggled against Roland and looked out the

window. “My mother married Gunter when I was five. My father was Conte Emilio

d’Benevita. We lived in a beautiful villa in Italy.” She looked up to Roland and kissed his

cheek. “It was such a beautiful place. My grandpapa and grandmamma were the masters

of Casa Bella.” She sighed, “It seems so long ago.”

“What happened to your father?”

“No one knows for sure. I just barely remember him. I was just a small child of

maybe two or three. Mama told me he went to visit his friend Valentino Carpone a very

learned man. Papa never came back. Mama told me she and papa loved each other very

much. She told me he loved me too. Mama did not understand why he would leave and

never come home. She mourned for a year.”

“Why did your mother marry Gunter?”

“Mama told me the bishop arranged it. I did not understand at the time. It was sad

we had to leave grandpapa and grandmamma. They loved me very much. We had to

leave. Even though they are both gone it seems like it was just yesterday I sat on nana’s

lap.”

They sat quietly, Rosanera nestled against his chest. Roland mused about his lack of

yesterdays, his lack of memories. It was getting on to dusk by the time Clotilda returned

with the tray of food. Rosanera had her close the shutters, draw the drapes and start a fire.

She sent her on her way and told her she would not need her until tomorrow morning.

They dined on truffles and capers in a buttery broth, honeyed roast duck, and bread

flavored with anise seed. They ate grapes and pears and drank a goodly amount of white

wine until they were sated and sleepy.

There were more smiles than conversation during dinner. At times, Roland felt a

little awkward. He did not know why. Rosanera pulled a grape off the bunch and brought

it to Roland’s lips. “We sit here, fed, warm, safe. I must ask my dearest, are you closer to

getting the gold? Our people need so many things.” She stretched and snuggled back into

the crook of Roland’s arm.

“Things go well, but slowly.” Roland sucked the grape into his mouth and bit it in

half.

Rosanera put her hand on his thigh. “Tell me, where does the treasure come from?

Arabia?” She moved her hand closer to his lap.

“Is it really that important?”

Rosanera kissed Roland on his lips. She pressed harder with her hand. Her fingertips

explored. She started at his knee again, drew her hand up his thigh and encircled his

belly. She gave him an open mouth kiss and moistened his lips with her tongue then

kissed him again.

Roland’s heart beat fast. He could feel his face warm and the blood surged to every

part of his body. She nibbled on his lower lip. He pulled his head away.

In an airy voice Rosanera asked, “Will you need any help bringing the gold to me?”

Winded, Roland answered. ”No, I do not think so.” He had to take a deep breath.

“Careful with those hands,” he said with a slight laugh to his voice.

“With you I do not have to be careful, when I am in your arms I feel safe.”

Rosanera leaned in close to Roland and invited a kiss with an arch of her eyebrow.

She put her hand on the back of his head. Roland closed his eyes and when his lips met

hers, Sofia’s radiant face filled the landscape of his mind. Startled, he opened his eyes.

When he did, he saw that Rosanera’s eyes were half open and dull.

Rosanera sighed. “What a wonderful kiss. Tell me one more thing about your

promise. Will the gold be coin or ingots?”

Roland shook his head and sat up straight. He took his arm from around Rosanera.

“You ask such an odd question at a time like this.” Roland held her hand, not out of

affection but to stop her relentless teasing.

Rosanera made a little kiss in the air and blew it to Roland. “Not so odd my love.

Minted gold spends quicker than bullion.”

He tried to hide the impatience in his voice, “You seem more interested in the gold

than me.”

The sleepy look left Rosanera’s eyes. Her soft and lazy tone was replaced with

words that were crisp and clear. “Understand dear Roland, time is not on our side. So

much is at stake. I ask these questions because I must be sure of you if we are to share

power. You still want that? Or would you rather live in that dreary little house that mouse

Sofia and her father’s old books?”

Roland disliked the question and the insinuating way she asked it. Rosanera passed

off Roland’s silence as a childish pout.

She returned to her sleepy persona. “Do not be angry with me, my love. Please?”

“No, I am not angry,” his voice tailed off.

“That strange old Hermes was rumored to practice alchemy.” Rosanera freed her

hand from Roland’s and traced her fingertip over his lips. “Did you find the secret of

alchemy in those dusty old books full of spells and chants he used in the black arts?”

“There are no black arts here, nothing bad. What difference does it make if I study

his works and with Sofia’s help use that knowledge for good? Use that knowledge to help

starving people and you to claim your title?”

That was the kernel that Rosanera searched for. “Cara mia, do not be upset. I am

just so tired and frightened right now. Let us forget about the little house and your Sofia.

We are here now. Hold me, make me feel safe, love me.”

Rosanera gave him a warm smile and kissed Roland on the neck and lips. He let

himself be conquered by the simple desires of a young man and closed his eyes to the

transparent cunning of a driven woman for the sake of the moment. Rosanera stood and

led him to her bed. She playfully pushed Roland down on his back, gave a throaty giggle

and fell on top of him.

Candle under the Sun

Roland awoke in an empty bed. The sky was black. Rosanera sat at her desk writing.

She heard him stir. “I am glad you are awake. You must arise and dress. Make

haste.”

Roland yawned. “It is so early.” He looked out at the inky sky. “Come back to bed.”

Rosanera arched her eyebrows at the request. ”I think not, my love. Very soon you

will be leaving. The sergeant at arms will take you back to the Hermes farmhouse. All

must be ready in two days’ time.”

Roland sat up in bed and Rosanera turned toward him. The shadow from the faint

candle glow distorted her features and made her eyes appear hollow. “Make haste my

love our people are starving. The orphans are so much in need.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come.”

“Lady Rosanera, it is I, Sergeant Lutz.” The sergeant stood in the doorway at

attention.

“Return Master Hughes to the Hermes farmhouse. The cart is loaded, yes?”

“Yes Lady Rosanera, as you instructed.”

While the two spoke, Roland dressed. He approached Rosanera. Lutz stepped

outside after Rosanera brushed her hand toward him. “Come my love, there is a cart

waiting on you. Follow Sergeant Lutz, he will return your work so you can keep your

promise. Now come here, give me a kiss.” Rosanera gave Roland a lingering kiss, her

hand found its way to his crotch. She left it there and continued. “You must have the gold

for me in two days.”

He felt uneasy when she fondled him. It seemed forced, even gratuitous.

“I will do my best.”

“Sergeant, escort Master Hughes.”

Inescapable

Dawn was breaking. Roland shared the seat with Sergeant Lutz as the cart jogged along

the country road. The lantern that was mounted to a mast swung to and fro feebly

illuminating the way.

Roland found out the contents of the cart was all of the loose and scrap lead in Adler

Kralle castle and the town of Adler Lager. Bars and rods and other sundry pieces stuck

out from under a canvas tarpaulin. A single horse was tethered to the rear of the cart and

two mounted soldiers followed behind.

The horses’ hooves echoed on the packed clay road and the only sound was the

lulling song of the wheels. An owl swooped low in front of the cart and screeched

startling the horses and the men. In the flash of light from the sergeant lighting his pipe

Lutz glanced at Roland’s concerned face, then back to the road.

The sun broke through the steel gray dawn and poured over the hills and into the

misty hollows. Roland was heartened when he saw the silhouette of the farm house.

Sofia too was awake. She was unable to sleep. Her mind was occupied with Roland

and her father. Rene had one of his breathing attacks and he was in his hidden bedroom.

He had to sit up in his bed so he could breathe without wheezing.

At the moment, Sofia was in the kitchen. She had a candle lit and was thinking

about breakfast. The lamp attached to the mast on the cart caught her eye. She

immediately blew the candle out and hurried to the front door. She slipped outside onto

the front steps, stood behind the leafy trellis and watched the cart and the soldiers ride in.

Sofia saw Roland and the sergeant talking. Though she could not hear them she could tell

something was not right by Roland’s hand gestures. Roland pointed and the cart was

steered out of sight to the side of the house. She stayed hidden and prayed while she

waited.

Roland jumped down from the cart. The sergeant followed and the soldiers

dismounted and joined them. The cellar had a shuttered opening a little above ground

level. The sergeant pointed and the soldier closest kicked the wooden shutter splintering

it. The others started to unload the lead, and tossed it through to the cellar floor.

“It has been weighed to the feather. You have two days Hughes. We will be back.

For your sake and for those who might care about you, I hope you are successful.” The

sergeant turned to the other men. “Unhitch the team and let us return. Every man is

needed.” The soldiers executed his order and were gone in moments.

Roland walked around to the front of the house. He sat down on the top step and

cradled his chin in his palms. Sofia stepped out from behind the trellis and sat down next

to him.

“It is so good to be here, so good to see you.”

“Yes, to be with you too,” whispered Sofia. She gently leaned against him.

Roland closed his eyes and put his head against hers.

“Did they feed you at the castle?”

“I ate but it did not sit very well.”

“I will make you something good. Come.” She stood and offered Roland her hand.

He followed her through the dawn lit front room into the kitchen and sat on a stool at her

work table. Sofia lit a few candles and poured some hot cider. She put bread on a plate; a

bowl of fresh picked raspberries and set out a pitcher of wild flower honey. She pulled up

the other three legged stool and sat next to him.

“Thank you dear Lord for our food and returning Roland our house. Amen.” They

ate.

“I do not know what to think,” he finally said.

“About?”

“Lady Rosanera, she seems different from when I first met her. She seems nice and

all, but all she talks about is the gold.”

“Really?” Sofia asked dryly. “Is that what the soldier meant by you only have two

days? What was in the cart?”

Roland drank a few swallows of cider. “You overheard? Yes, I have two days to get

Lady Rosanera the gold I promised. And the cart, that is all the lead they could find at

Adler Kralle and Adler Lager. It was as if Lady Rosanera knew it was alchemy.

Apparently she had the cart ready before I even got there.”

Roland’s musing put Sofia on edge. “Yes, I am sure she did. How do you think she

figured it out?” She did not wait for an answer. “You did not mention Pater, did you?”

“No, no, no, only his books, that is all. I do not even know how alchemy came up,

but somehow it did. I have got to figure this out.”

Sofia digested what he said. “Please see Pater, he is not well lately. He is always so

tired. More than not he calls me Bella. I am worried about him.” Sofia lowered her head

and summoned her courage. “I am worried about you too.” She quickly glanced up to see

Roland’s reaction.

Her eyes were met with a smile. “I thought of you yesterday. Once when I closed

my eyes I saw you. It was like you were there with me.”

His words made her feel warm from head to toe. “You did? When was that?”

“Oh, when I k...” Roland stopped in mid breath, in an instant he continued,”...was

getting ready for bed.”

The red rooster with the green tail crowed.

“Is Pater awake?”

“Always at first light.”

Roland followed Sofia into Rene’s small chamber. Embers glowed in the fireplace

and a few candles flickered giving off a pale yellow light. Rene sat up in his bed with his

eyes closed. They could hear his labored breathing.

Rene opened his eyes. “Filio meo, you have returned to us.” He held up his arms.

Roland went to Rene, bent down and hugged him. “Of course I returned. You are

not well?”

“This will pass. Not to worry. It is you who have a great deal to do. I am afraid I

cannot be of too much help.” He patted Roland’s arm and smiled. “You are clever

enough. If you are true of heart, you will succeed. Everything you need is before you.”

He glanced at Sofia and then back to Roland.

Sofia came to Roland’s side and adjusted Rene’s blanket. “You should rest Pater. Is

there anything I can do for you?”

“No child. Now, your place is at Roland’s side. As we discussed, you must give him

all the help you can. Be selfless in your actions and that will bring you both happiness.

Now you must work.”

Sofia and Roland kissed Rene on the forehead and left the room.

II

Roland followed Sofia down the stairs into the workshop. She arranged the work

benches into one long table. She set out all of the jars and containers of minerals and

powders, several mortars and pestles and three small but heavy iron crucibles.

She went to the fire pit and stirred the embers.

Roland stood wide-eyed. “You did all of this?”

Sofia placed a log in the fire, looked up and smiled at Roland. “Yes, I did.”

Roland went to her, picked her up and gave her a long rocking hug. He set her

down, took both her hands and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, thank you. I could kiss

you right now.”

“Do not wait too long.”

Roland kissed her on the lips several times. It was Sofia who broke away from

Roland’s attentions. “Sir, we have work to do.”

Roland nodded and hefted a heavy crucible onto an iron hook and swung it over the

fire. He went to the pile of lead scraps under the kicked in window, picked up a few

pieces, returned to the crucible and tossed them in.

Roland returned to the end of the worktable and began looking over Rene’s notes.

He was unable to make any sense of a passage. “Hey, Sofia, help me out here.”

She looked up from the yellow sulphur crystals she measured into a glass cup. “Yes

Roland.” In a moment, she was at his side looking over his shoulder at the text.

He pointed at the page and underlined the passage with his finger. “This part here

and here and here they make sense.” He shook his head. “I am finding my Latin is

terrible. These lines here I have no idea even what the words are. Look.”

Sofia leaned in and smiled when she saw the passage. She opened the drawer at the

front of the work table and pulled out a hand mirror. She held the mirror to the passage.

“Pater sometimes would write the words in reverse. The words are: truth is a transitory

perception guided by self-delusion.”

“How is knowing that going to help me turn lead into gold?”

“You must understand that what you think is true may not be as it seems.”

Roland let out an exasperated sigh. “Is there not some kind of formula to follow?

You know, mixing things together with the molten lead to make it gold?”

“One must know these things to discover the process, the order of the steps. Are

there any other words you need help with?”

Sophia looked at the line Roland was pointing to. She was surprised he needed help,

but she read them out loud. “Love creates itself from itself each day anew.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. “I must be missing

something. How does knowing these things help?”

“Pater says love is a mystery we can only experience, not understand.”

Roland crossed his arms then cupped one hand in front of his mouth while he

pondered what Sofia just said. “So, truth really does not exist and love is a mystery.” He

scratched his head and rubbed his cheeks with his palms. “Pater said something about the

Alchemist Cabinet. He said I would find the answers there.”

“The cabinet,” she whispered. Sofia glanced at the faded tapestry that hung on the

wall and then back to Roland. She left his side and pulled the tapestry back. It had been

there all the time hidden not more than a step away in a deep alcove.

When Roland looked at the piece of furniture, his mind swarmed with fractured

images of his childhood, his asocial father, his disabling mother, the passive and needy

Liz. He also relived his disastrous night with Lila. In that split second of clarity his

memories scattered without the slightest trace of his distant life. Roland felt a profound

peace and confidence.

“I think I remembered something from before, but it came and went so quickly, like

it was only a dream, and now the memories are already gone,” Roland said with a

bewildered grin.

Sofia took his hand. Roland could not take his eyes off of the Alchemist Cabinet.

“Something seems so familiar about this cabinet. I think it was mine at one time. In

fact I know I owned it,” he said with a laugh in his voice. Roland guided his hands over

the cabinet’s smooth feminine contours. He traced the round cartouche and the bronze

sunburst with his fingertip and noticed the odd shaped dent that marred its beauty was

absent.

Sofia’s smile faded. “Roland, it could not be this cabinet. It has always been here

ever since I was a little girl. In fact Pater says he found me inside of it. When it came to

him, so did I.”

“You did?”

“Yes, but that is a story I will tell you another time. As I said, the cabinet has always

been here.”

Roland’s excitement waned. He was confused. “That is the only thing from the past

I am sure of.” He looked the cabinet over again and softly said, “ I am sure it was this

one.”

“No, it has always been here.” Sofia gently reassured him and patted Roland’s hand.

“What else did you remember?”

Roland took a breath, he was about to speak but was unable. He was at a loss.

“Now, I can only remember the cabinet and of course waking up and meeting you.” He

held on to her hand a little tighter.

“When I was a girl I used to close my eyes and put my finger tips on the little

bronze scales. The people and the suns and the moons on the scales would tell me picture

stories.” Sofia knelt in front of the cabinet. She looked at the field of shield shaped scales.

Each had a different sign or symbol.

Roland knelt next to her. Their shoulders touched.

Sofia held her fingertips over one of the scales embossed with a moon. She closed

her eyes. When she touched the scale, she was engulfed by a warm breeze that blew

through her hair and made the gossamer dress she wore cling and flutter against her legs

and torso. A full moon illuminated the cobalt sky above and the verdant earth below.

Hundreds of firefly specks swirled around her feet, lifted her into the night sky and

whisked her to the highest peak of a golden mountain. Sofia stood there on that mountain

top and put her head back. She framed the moon in the open arc of her raised arms. A

shaft of silver moonlight poured down on her. Everywhere she looked she saw the light.

It was above, below and to her every side. Sofia became the sky and the moon. She was

the warm breeze. She was the fluttering dress. She was the golden mountain. She became

one with the light. Every heart that ever beat now beat with hers, she knew every joy and

every sorrow that ever were or ever would be.

Roland saw the blissful look on Sofia’s radiant face. He found a sunburst on one of

the scales, closed his eyes and gently touched it. In an instant Roland was racing across

that same living sky. He wore golden armor and rode on the back of a winged war horse

also clad in shining, golden armor.

In the nearing distance, a swirling sun sent forth a fiery bolt that tore the sky in two.

Light poured from that trembling tear and caressed the pale silver moon in its white halo.

And the moon took that gift of light and sent it in an ever narrowing stream down through

the clouds to the mountains of the earth. Though the earth looked no larger than his

closed fist, Roland could see Sofia standing on the golden mountain top with her hands

raised to the sky.

His willful Pegasus carried him to that place, to that mountain top. Roland found it

useless to pull the reins left or right, the horse would not obey. Unable to change his

course Roland had to surrender. He let go the reins and opened his arms wide. As he

came closer and closer his golden armor fell away, his Pegasus faded into sparkling dust

that trailed behind him. Roland plunged into the never ending river of light and into

Sofia’s waiting arms.

They drank in the nectar of that embrace until a clap of thunder and the hissing rush

of a rain shower brought them back to the moment.

Sofia fell back on her heels. She still had her eyes closed, but the vision was gone.

Roland fell forward and caught himself on the cabinet. They both were giddy. After what

seemed like an eternity they opened their eyes and with unsteady, almost drunken

movements got to their feet.

Sofia had to speak, “You too?”

Roland took a deep breath. “Oh yes, me too.”

They staggered back to the work table.

“How could we be in the same dream?” she asked.

“I do not know. But we were. It happened.”

“This is something that cannot be explained,” said Sofia.

“This could only be experienced,” Roland added with a slight grin. He held out his

arms and Sofia came to him. She held him close and put her cheek next to his. They stood

there unwilling to move. He felt at peace and secure in what he was doing and whatever

he would do. Sofia felt the earth beneath her feet. She knew this is where she belonged.

Finally, Sofia was the one to pull away. She petted Roland’s hair and ran her closed

hand down his cheek onto his scruffy beard.

“We have much work to do.”

“Yes, we do.”

Enter the Pawn

The rain darkened the afternoon sky over Adler Kralle Castle. Clotilda had just finished

lighting all of the candles and she put another log on the fire. She curtsied and took her

position just outside Gunter’s den. Rosanera sat at the desk, General Herrmann stood next

to her. They looked down on a map

“If Van Eyke is here, we have maybe three days before he and his men are at our

gates.”

“What then, Hans?”

Before General Herrmann could answer, he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come.”

Clotilda entered the room and curtsied. “There is a messenger from Duke Gunter.”

“Send him in.”

The messenger entered the room. He stood before Lady Rosanera and General

Herrmann and bowed. The boy was muddy and his hair and clothing were wet. He looked

between his two superiors and chose to address the general.

“The lines broke, we were routed.”

Hans cast a sober glance at Rosanera.

“That is not new to us. We have known of the route for two days. Is Duke Gunter

alive?” asked Rosanera.

“Thanks be to Our Lord and Savior he is alive and well. He rides with those of us

who are still loyal to him and the pope.”

“Very good,” said the general, “in what numbers?”

“Thirty two men at last count.”

“Tell me of Van Eyke, what are his whereabouts?”

“He is to the north, maybe four days away. Duke Gunter is only a few hours from

the castle.”

“And he intends to come here?” Rosanera asked.

“Why yes, Lady Rosanera. He instructed me to tell you to have fresh horses, food

and all the men from the garrison ready to ride with him by mid-night.”

Hans put his hand on Rosanera’s shoulder. “So, you say less than forty men.”

The messenger gave a sheepish smile, “counting me, thirty-three.”

Rosanera left the general’s side and sat at her desk. She wrote a quick note and

folded it over several times.

The messenger noticed the note. “Is there a message for the duke?” He leaned

toward the desk.

“Soldier, tell Duke Gunter we will be ready.” Rosanera called out, “Clotilda, come.”

The handmaid entered the room and stood before her mistress. “Deliver this note

and this brave young soldier to the sergeant at arms, that is Sergeant Lutz.”

Both bowed to Lady Rosanera and Clotilda led the young man from the room.

General Herrmann gave an ironic snort. “This will be much easier than I thought

with only thirty-three desperate and hungry men to face.”

“Thirty-two, Gunter’s lackey will be spending the night under lock and key,”

Rosanera said with a smile.

“We have two hours to prepare for Gunter’s welcome.”

“Assemble our best archers,” Rosanera said cooly.

“Archers? Are they necessary? The gates will stop him. He is at large. It is just a

matter of time before he is captured by Van Eyke. The peasants will give him no quarter.

Anyone of them would turn him over for a few copper coins.”

“You are right about that. No, they will not give him shelter, nor will we. Gunter is

worthless to us and to Van Eyke. You see my dear Hans, if he is captured, no one will

pay his ransom, not Pope Leo and of course not us. If he is imprisoned, he is still the duke

which keeps me or rather us in limbo until his death.”

Herrmann had to think over Rosanera’s proposal. He spoke with some trepidation.

“To kill a nobleman, well in battle is one thing, but to just shoot him down. There is no

honor in that.”

“Honor? You talk to me about honor? He is past his time. He should have died of

the plague, but he did not. So he dies now, either by your hand or mine. I trust your skills

in this business. You must do this for me... for us.” She took the general’s hand and

kissed it.

“Then it will be so. Pray for a swift and true shot from my men. I must prepare.”

“You do this for us cara mia. Send in the girl, please.”

General Herrmann bowed and left the room. Clotilda slipped in and waited.

“Clotilda, tell Catharina, Luis, Angelo and Cecilia to meet in my chambers. And be

quick.”

“Yes, Lady Rosanera, right away.”

Love’s Labor

Sofia lit the last three candles. The rain was still coming down and water ran down the

wall under the shutter-less cellar window. She joined Roland who knelt before the

Alchemist Cabinet. Roland had one of Rene’s workbooks open and was looking at the

symbols on the page and finding the co-responding symbols on the bronze scales.

“What do you think Pater meant by ‘look to the cabinet’ for the answers?”

“It is hard to say. The book tells us all of which we need, but it does not tell us the

amount or order that we should mix them. I want to try something. Find bismuth on the

scales.”

Roland searched until he saw the figure eight with the small break in the arc at the

top of upper loop. “Ah, there it is, right there.”

“I think I may know what Pater meant. How many scales away is the bismuth from

the codpiece?”

“The what?”

At the center of the bronze scales, just below the drawer was a larger scale that

stood out. It had the Tree of Life embossed on it. Sofia pointed at it. Roland counted the

scales that were between the bismuth scale and the codpiece. “Seven.”

“What else is on the scale?”

“It looks like a tree with six little bells, or maybe flowers or blossoms.”

“It may be six parts bismuth added in the seventh, or seven parts bismuth added in

sixth. I have watched and helped Pater in the past. I saw him count the scales, but I did

not know why. Now I think I do.”

When Roland found the symbol on a bronze scale, Sofia would write it down

according to its position to the codpiece. The work was tedious because some of the

symbols were repeated.

The rain stopped. The sun broke through the clouds and streamed through the

window and onto Roland and Sofia. The warmth felt good. They both looked up when

they heard chickadees chirping. Without a word they stood, stretched, and climbed the

staircase. They sat next to each other on a step level with the broken out window and

watched the two birds sing and bathe in a glassy puddle.

“They have a pretty song together, do they not?” The sun illuminated Sofia’s face.

“So simple and innocent, as if their hearts are singing,” she looked at Roland, “do you

think it is a love song?”

“Yes, it could very well be.” Roland put his arm around Sofia’s shoulder. They sat

there until a bank of dark clouds drifted in. The birds flew away and the rain started to

fall again.

“We must return to our work.”

“In a few more minutes,” he said.

The Farewell

Rosanera held the small pouch. She put three of the remaining gold florins in it and kept

the last seventy or so from the coffers for herself and Hans. Catharina, Cecilia, Luis and

Angelo sat on Rosanera’s bed. There were no smiles or joking. Rosanera had a map

spread out on her desk.

“Dear cousins, Catharina, Cecilia things are changing quickly. You all must return

to Verona. You must take leave tonight. Adler Kralle may be taken in a few days or at the

very least be under siege.”

“Not totally unexpected, but still, so soon?” said Angelo.

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

Catharina spoke up, “But what of you? Are you not coming too?”

Luis added, “Dear cousin, we will not leave you here with these...for a better

word...barbarians.”

“Please, not to worry, any of you. I will be under the protection of General

Herrmann. I may follow in a day or two. There is some unfinished business.”

Rosanera’s news made everyone pensive and quiet. Luis took the map off the desk

and returned to his place on the bed. Angelo and the ladies looked on.

Cecilia clapped her hands and gave a good laugh. “I for one am happy to leave this

place. We should all be happy to be returning to our glorious republic. Ah yes, back to

the warm Italian sun and our beautiful city.”

“Yes, yes, that is the spirit I hope you all share in. We will be going home. Think of

it, home. I do have some very fond memories from my childhood, many more fond

memories than from my life here.”

“We will make all new memories,” said Cecilia enthusiastically.

Rosanera tossed the pouch on the bed. It landed next to Catharina.

“Dear Catharina, there is enough gold in this pouch for you all to have a

comfortable journey. “

Catharina reached out at the same time Luis did. She got a better hold of the pouch.

“Why give the money to Catharina? When it comes to gold coin, her grip is like

iron.”

Catharina pulled the pouch away and held it close to her heart.

“Gold coins turn to butterflies in your hands, and they just fly away.” Cecilia could

not help herself. Everyone chuckled except Catharina who became more serious with her

new responsibility. She tucked the pouch in her bosom.”

It was Angelo’s turn. “Ah, now Luis will never touch the gold as long as it bears a

woman’s scent.”

Again they all laughed.

“Please hurry my loves. You must be gone from here tonight. Say your good-byes

now. I will see you soon.”

They all stood and gave Rosanera kisses and hugs. The four noisily headed to their

chambers to pack their belongings. ”Make haste, time is our enemy.” Rosanera called

after them.

When her retinue was gone, Rosanera sat in silence and realized the finality of her

actions. Her musing was interrupted when Clotilda entered the room and stood before

her.

“Speak.”

“Lady Rosanera, the general waits for a meeting.”

“Send him in and help with the packing.”

“Yes, Lady Rosanera.” Clotilda left the room and in less than a minute Hans

Herrmann entered. He wore a metal breast plate and carried his helmet under his arm.

“The rain has stopped and Gunter is very close to the gate.”

“Then, we shall welcome him,” said Rosanera. “All is ready is it not? You talked to

Sergeant Lutz?”

“Yes at length, he knows what to do.”

END GAME

They left her chambers and made their way through the gray stone rooms and hallways

that led to an out of the way balcony overlooking the parapet. They looked down on the

archers who were crouched behind the wall, and beyond to the road that led to the front

gates. Herrmann and Rosanera saw the line of dark figures as they approached in the

gloaming.

Duke Gunter rode at the head of the column. He was glad to see Adler Kralle. He

and his men were cold, tired and hungry. His servant, Dieter, a lad of sixteen and

Clotilda’s brother, rode just behind the duke. He carried Gunter’s shield and sword. The

men behind him were glad to see the castle, as well.

“Where is the greeting? No torches are lit. Do they not know we are returning?”

Gunter addressed his boy.

“I am sure my cousin got your message to Lady Rosanera.”

“Yes, I am sure he did. He is a loyal soldier.”

The group of men stopped before the gates. Their horses were uneasy and pawed the

ground with their hooves.

Gunter leaned back and shouted up at a shadowy figure on the parapet.

“Open the gates. Open up, let us in.”

Sergeant Lutz stepped away from a battlement and came into view.

“Duke Gunter, I cannot open the gates. Lady Rosanera will not allow it. She says to

take your mighty army and return to your damnable war. “

“What! Open this gate immediately or I will have you broken on the wheel. Now

Lutz, now.” Gunter was livid.

Sergeant Lutz spoke apologetically. “I am sorry sire, I cannot.” Lutz looked up at

Herrmann. The general stood a little bit behind Rosanera. He nodded and tapped the side

of his nose with his index finger. Lutz nodded back. He gave the signal. The dozen plus

archers stood and pulled their bow strings back and leveled their sights on the column of

men. Gunter’s servant Dieter rushed to the duke’s side and handed him his shield and

sword. Gunter took the shield and in disgust threw it on the ground.

“What is the meaning of this? I am your duke and lord of Adler Kralle castle. Open

the gates man.” The men in the column looked at one another.

“Please sir, leave here now.”

“What is that idiot doing? Why have the arrows not found their marks?”

Lady Rosanera and General Herrmann stepped out of the shadows.

The general spoke in a loud voice. “Archers, discharge your arrows at will.”

As per the plan the general and the sergeant decided for the archers to subtly re-aim

their bows. The salvo of arrows that rained down on the duke’s men were all wide of

their marks.

The men toward the rear of the column bolted and headed in different directions.

The duke wheeled his horse around and ordered a retreat. He turned back and jabbed the

air with his sword to punctuate his words. “I curse all of you, especially you

Rosanera...you witch...you devil’s consort. I curse you all. And you Hans, you are a

disloyal, honorless pawn, to hell with you all.” The duke joined his men in retreat. They

crossed a field and disappeared into the darkening woods.

“It is done,” he said flatly to Rosanera. “Men, stand down, return to your quarters.”

The archers left the parapet. Sergeant Lutz looked up at the general and bowed. He too

quit the parapet.

Rosanera was seething. “Done? Those are our best archers? Clotilda could do as

well.”

The general held back his impatience and spoke calmly and deliberately, the way

one might speak to a petulant child. “He will not be back. He has nowhere to go.”

“He is alive, where does that leave me?”

“Do you not mean us, my dear?” The general’s subtle sarcasm was lost to

Rosanera’s momentary irrationality.

“Of course I meant us.” After a few reflective seconds Rosanera collected herself,

“You are sure he will be captured?”

The general ventured his arm around Rosanera’s shoulder. “Oh yes, do not worry, it

is just a matter of time. When, whoever captures him learns no one will pay a ransom

they will make short work of our dear Gunter.”

Rosanera ducked out of Hans’s arm and took his hand. They left the balcony and

retraced their steps back into the hallways of the castle. “Is an army still possible?”

Hans shook his head. “I am afraid not, there just is not enough time. Even if ten ox

carts full of gold appeared at the gates, there just is not enough time or men or supplies to

stop Van Eyke. We must accept what will happen. We should draw up our surrender

agreement to present Van Eyke. “

“What of Cardetti and our three hundred pieces of gold. He might bring back

enough men to meet Van Eyke before he has Adler Kralle in sight.”

Hans felt a jolt. “I do not think the good sergeant will be of much help to us. I hoped

to spare you this, but he was found hanging by his feet from a tree a little ways in from

the western road. He was stripped naked and was pierced by at least ten arrows. His ten

men escort and the gold are gone.”

“Gone? I thought you said any man he chose was loyal to you.”

“I was wrong. Loyalty seems to be a fickle thing.”

“If we stay?”

“If we stay we are at the mercy of a conquering army. Van Eyke is fair and

equitable, but he too is controlled by powerful men who have tried to rid Germany of the

papacy. Those men may install you to govern. They do not blame you so much as Gunter

and the pope.”

“And they may not recognize me as duchess at all.”

“It is hard to say.”

“And to think all I did for the orphans and the poor goes for naught. What a foolish

waste of time, trying to win over this ignorant and dirty rabble.”

By now they stood in front of Rosanera’s door.

“We must talk with the chancellor.”

“Hans, I sent for him earlier. Clotilda went to his chambers and then to his house.

He was nowhere to be found. Even the servants and his dogs were gone.”

“I am not at all surprised.” He shook his head and gave an involuntary chuckle, “not

surprised at all. We should plan for ourselves now. I must take my leave, do be ready by

sunrise. I will return then.”

Transmutation

Roland threw a few more small logs into the fire. Sofia worked the bellows. The logs

caught and were quickly consumed. The bluish smoke drifted up, swirled above them and

made its way out of the broken out window. The entire laboratory had a mellow amber

glow from the fire. Even though it rained most of the day and the chill of evening was

upon them the room was quite warm.

Sofia wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her kerchief. Roland rolled up his

sleeves. They returned to the work table. Sofia sat and studied her father’s notes.

“Cadmium is the next symbol.”

Roland knelt before the Alchemist Cabinet and found the symbol for cadmium and

counted off the number of scales that were between it and the codpiece. He sat back

down.

Sofia dragged the stool she was sitting on over to a tall storage case and stood on it

to reach a stoneware crock from the very top shelf. She returned to the table and handed it

to Roland. He carefully measured out ten tiny scoops and added it to a mortar that already

had six parts sulfur and four parts arsenic in it. He mixed the ingredients together.

“What does this make the tenth time we tried it?”

Sofia looked at her notes. “No, this is the eleventh. There are twenty steps.”

“So many,” mused Roland.

Sofia went to the long work table to the glass distiller she so carefully set up and

poured the distillation through a small glass funnel into a flask. She brought the flask

back to the table and put it next to the mortar. Meanwhile, Roland filled an ingot mold

with molten lead from the crucible that hung over the fire. He carefully set the mold on a

little board and carried it to the table and set it down.

He sprinkled the gritty mixture from the mortar onto the still fluid lead. Instruction

stated the mixture must be added in three steps, first in a clockwise circle, then in a

counter clock wise circle and then in the sign of the cross representing the four cardinal

points and also the four elements, all the while Roland needed to recite an incantation

they found in the workbook.

As he followed the steps, Sofia was to pour four drops from the flask into the lead.

The lead absorbed the mixture and the four drops from the flask hissed into steam, but the

lead did not change.

Roland tossed the book onto the table. His impatience got the better of him.

“What are we missing? We have tried every combination. We have to get this done.

There are the people who need help and I did make an oath to Rosanera.”

Sofia winced when Roland said Rosanera’s name. But, with what happened earlier

that day in front of Alchemist Cabinet, she plucked up her courage and followed her

father’s advice. “There is one more thing that we may need to add.” She reached into her

apron pocket and pulled out the small blue glass bottle that Rene used to collect her tears

she cried the day before. The lead had not yet solidified. Sofia poured one drop from the

bottle onto the lead. When that one drop touched the lead a vapor hovered over the mold

then slowly settled into the metal. The lead was now gold.

“Look, look, we did it, we did it.” Roland picked up Sofia and gave her a hug.

Sofia was a little less celebratory. “Yes, it is done.”

Roland could not stop smiling. There was a dangerous light that danced in his eyes.

He put Sofia back down and sat on the stool. He invited her to sit on his knee. She

declined. He was still so excited he did not bother to question her reluctance to share in

the moment. He could not take his eyes off the ingot. Finally, he looked up at Sofia. “Tell

me, what was in the bottle?”

“Something Pater has collected over his lifetime.”

“Well, what is it?”

“The tears of nineteen virgins who have lost their hearts to someone who does not

return their love,” she held her clasped hands together in front of her as she spoke.

Roland’s jubilation waned when he finally noticed Sofia’s uneasy look. “Do you

know any of these girls?”

“One, I know quite well.”

“I see. Come to me Sofia.” He stood and waited.

She entered his open arms. The embrace was gentle and warm; beyond anything

either one of them had ever experienced before. They stood there quietly with their eyes

closed. They listened to the coals crackle in the open hearth and to each other breathe.

They felt each other’s heartbeat.

“Sofia,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

“Are you ready to continue?”

“Do we have to?”

“I am not going anywhere.” He put his cheek against hers for a moment and

dropped the embrace.

They both felt refreshed and at peace. The transmuting continued until midnight.

The pile of scrap lead was turned into twenty six solid gold ingots. They stopped when

the flask was empty. Roland and Sofia held hands and leaned against the wall and

surveyed the fortune on the table before them. They slid down the wall and collapsed into

each other’s arms and fell asleep.”

Transcendence

In the gray morning drizzle, Hans Hermann and Lady Rosanera rode side by side. Mario

with his bad complexion and attitude rode behind along with an equally unsavory soldier

named Ebert who smelled of swine. These men were the only two soldiers the general

could readily find to accompany them to the Hermes farmhouse.

Hans and Rosanera were dressed in the rags of lepers: the oversized hat, the full

dark cloak, the mask on the face, the begging bowl and the gloves. The soldiers were

dressed in their uniforms. Out of consideration Hans sent them to knock on the front

door. Mario gladly used his weighted club. He beat on the door and purposely made

several ugly dents in it.

Below in the work shop Sofia and Roland were awakened by a loud banging. They

were still in their crumpled embrace. Roland awoke first. He looked at Sofia who was

just beginning to stir and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She opened her eyes. The sun had

not yet come up and the only light in the workshop came from the embers that glowed in

the hearth.

“She must be here,” he said. Both had a hard time getting to their feet. Roland

stretched and rubbed the small of his back. They were stiff and sore.

“I will go to them.”

Sofia nodded and yawned. She rubbed her eyes and when she was sufficiently

awake and aware, collected all of the notes and workbooks and hid them in drawers and

on shelves in all parts of the workshop. Roland wiped his finger over his teeth and raked

his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers. He straightened his clothing and

wiped the sleep out of the corners of his eyes.

“Will you return to Adler Kralle with her?” Sofia asked.

“I do not know yet.”

She found his noncommittal answer confusing.

Roland quickly made his way up the stairs, through the back of the alcove and into

the main room. He lit a candle and opened the door. Ebert followed Mario’s lead as he

pushed Roland aside. They entered the room in a bluster. General Herrmann and Lady

Rosanera emerged from the darkness. Roland held up the candle and was unsure what to

do.

“Roland, it is me.” Rosanera took off the floppy hat and the mask.

The general did the same. They entered before Roland could extend an invitation.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Is everything ready for us?” Rosanera countered him with her own question.

“Follow me.” Holding the candle up high Roland led them across the room to the

alcove and threw back the tapestry. Roland, using his foot, pushed and the false wall

pivoted open onto the landing and to the stairs to Rene’s workshop.

The five descended the stairs. Rosanera raced ahead of the others and stopped

before the gleaming pyramid of ingots that were stacked at the end of the long work

table. She picked one up and was surprised at how heavy it was. The ingots were still a

warm to the touch.

Roland stood out of the way next to Sofia.

“They did it, Hans they really did it.” Rosanera’s eyes were aglow. The usually

serious general could not hold back a smile. He picked up one of the ingots and turned it

over in his hands.

Rosanera went to Roland. “You did it.” She pulled him close. She found it difficult

not to throw her arms around Roland. When she saw the concerned look on Sofia’s face,

Rosanera gave Roland a long but passionless kiss on the lips.

Roland stood passive. When Rosanera was finished, he stepped back. “I could not

have done it without Sofia.” He tugged Sofia to his side.

Rosanera looked at Sofia and a smug smile came to her lips. “To think...what silly

notions I had when we first met.”

“Notions? What do you mean?” Roland looked to Sofia and then back to Rosanera.

“Nothing of any importance,” she put her hands on her hips and looked at the pile of

gold. “This is all of it?”

“Yes, every last piece of lead has been transmuted.”

General Herrmann cleared his throat. He addressed the two soldiers.

“Hitch one of your horses to the cart and load it with those ingots, and be quick

about it.” Mario and Ebert followed the orders.

When the two were out of the room, the general turned to Roland.

“So, I can only imagine you two worked through the night. No chance you left the

house?” His manner was genial, almost friendly.

“No sir, I think we worked into the early morning before we finished.”

“No visitors or neighbors?”

“Not a soul. With the rain, why would anyone come out?” added Sofia.

Roland looked at Rosanera. “Lady Rosanera, we must figure a way to get the food

and medicine to the people.”

Rosanera barely heard Roland. Her immediate interest lay in the stack of gold

ingots. At the moment, she was stroking one of the ingots as one might show affection to

a pet cat or dog. “Oh yes, the poor people, of course, of course, yes, you can organize

....anything you want.”

“Should I talk with the chancellor or maybe the exchequer? He handles the monies,

does he not?”

The mention of the exchequer pricked Rosanera’s soul. “No, both men are unable to

help.”

“Oh, how about using the soldiers, General Herrmann? They could gather the

people together in the square. We can tell them the good news.”

Rosanera did not try to hide the incredulous smile she gave General Herrmann.

”Hans, do you think that would be wise? “

“Seriously? No, I do not think that would be wise.”

Roland tried once more. ”What about the servants at the castle? We could use them

to spread the word.“ When Lady Rosanera did not answer, Roland pressed her. “I will get

ready and return to Adler Kralle with you.”

Rosanera waited until Mario and Ebert were back up the stairs and out of ear shot.

“Why would you be returning with us?”

“You told me if I did this for you I would be vice chancellor and have chambers

adjoining yours. You said you had feelings for me. Are we not doing this to help the

people?” Roland already guessed the answer but took a step toward Rosanera with his

arms open.

General Herrmann stepped in between them and stopped Roland by putting his hand

on his chest and giving him a cold stare.

“Roland, we spoke of so many things. Feelings? Of course, I have feelings toward

you. Though, I am sure they are not the deep feelings you have for me. After all, you

have no title, no gold, nor do you have land.”

“You told me I was your right hand.”

The general raised his eyebrows and gave Lady Rosanera a surprised look.

Rosanera shrugged, “I may have said something like that.”

“What about love?” Roland asked the question for Sofia’s sake. He was not

prepared for Rosanera’s vehemence.

“What about love? Poor, poor Roland, how could I possible love you? You are

someone who has his hands in the black arts, an alchemist. You are someone who

conjures up the darkness, a sacrificer of children and birds and toads. You are a pagan, an

antichrist with such conceits, trying to undo God’s mysteries. Your kind is always lost.

You search for something that does not exist in this world. You must take what you want

when you can, before someone else takes it away from you.” Rosanera had to take a

breath. She gave a mocking little laugh and held her hand out toward the stack of ingots.

“Do not despair, I will always remember you.”

Roland nodded and remained silent. He eased next to Sofia and gently took her

hand.

The last ingot, about one quarter the size of the others was left on the table. Mario

and Ebert, each slightly out of breath, returned and looked at the general for final

instructions.

“Everything is ready? The gold is secured in the cart and covered?”

“Yes sir,” said Mario. “What do you want me to do with these two?” He ogled Sofia

and glared at Roland.

Rosanera spoke, “you will do nothing to them. Heretic or not, he did keep his

promise.”

General Herrmann nodded in agreement. ”You heard Lady Rosanera, there is

nothing more to do here.” He took his purse from his belt, opened it and took out two

gold coins. He flipped one to each man. “Good work men. Return to Adler Kralle and

wait for us there. Speak of this to no one.” He pointed to Mario. “In the name of Duke

Gunter the Cruel I make you a sergeant,” he looked over to Ebert, “and you a corporal.

There are more rewards to come. But if I hear one word of this from anyone else, it is the

wheel.”

Both bowed. “Thank you sir, thank you.” Corporal Ebert squeezed the gold coin

until his hand hurt. He bowed several more times and before he started toward the stairs

he looked at Mario. “Are you coming?”

“I will be along.”

All the time Roland and Sofia stood quietly and watched as Rosanera and General

Herrmann took a quick survey of the workshop. They were intrigued by the equipment

and the many containers of different minerals and powders and the like. Rosanera held

her palms over the open fire pit to warm them. Hans looked into the crucible that hung on

the tripod.

When Mario was satisfied the general and Lady Rosanera were occupied, he went

straight to Roland and pushed his shoulder once and then again. Roland held his footing

and stood in front of Sofia. Mario put his hand on the handle of his dagger.

“No,” hissed Roland. Before Mario could get the dagger out of its sheath Roland

backhanded his attacker across the cheek. Mario staggered back. The dagger came out

and he slashed at Roland’s face. Sofia looked to her left and right. She took a bronze

mortar off the shelf next to her and threw it at Mario, hitting him in the forehead. Mario

went down. Blood ran down his face. Roland took Sofia’s hand and guided her away

behind a storage case. He turned around just in time to duck when he saw the bronze

mortar fly toward his head. The mortar hit the Alchemist Cabinet and left an ugly dent

just above the door.

General Herrmann heard and saw the row and quickly stepped up to Mario and

grabbed him by the hair. “What is the meaning of this? I told you to leave. Now, return to

Adler Kralle before I have you flogged for disobeying an order.”

Mario rubbed the knot on his forehead and wiped away the trickle of blood with the

back of his hand. “Yes sir, sorry sir.” He put his dagger back into its sheath and bowed

several times. He avoided eye contact with Roland and Sofia, mounted the stairs and was

gone.

Roland and Sofia sat at the work bench. The early morning excitement gave them a

burst of energy that was quickly fading. When Hans returned to Rosanera’s side, she

whispered into his ear. “Hans, as soon as your heroic sergeant is out of sight we must

leave. Your men will meet us on the south road?”

“It is all arranged my dear. They will be there. It seems God has smiled down on us.

I have two brothers among my soldiers who came from a family of goldsmiths. They

need only a fire and a forge and they can mint our gold into coin.” He smiled and patted

the pouch he wore at his side. “I borrowed Gunter’s molds and die to stamp the coins. He

may be of no value when it comes to ransom, but his seal and Papal crest on the coins

give them the backing of the Holy See. The brothers assure me they can do the work in

less than a day. Our ingots will become shiny gold coins, and then we will be away to

your home at Casa Bella.”

“Very good my love, let us attend to those two now.”

They approached Sofia and Roland. Rosanera spoke, “I do not want to seem

ungracious, so I leave you this scrap of an ingot for your reward.”

General Herrmann stepped up and held his hand out toward the partial ingot, “So

much?”

“Cara Mia, we have enough to buy or build our own kingdom. Let us away.”

Lady Rosanera and the general ascended the stairs and were gone. In a moment,

Roland and Sofia heard the horse neigh. The shadow of the cart played on the wall

behind them and then all was quiet.

After a moment, Sofia took Roland’s hand. She kept her gaze on the floor. “Were

you really going to go with her?”

A wisp of a smile crossed his lips. He put his other hand on top of Sofia’s. “No...

she is not the person I first thought she was. The last time we were together, there was

something that was so different. I could feel the emptiness in what she did and what she

said. All she could talk about was the gold.” Roland brought Sofia’s hand to his lips and

kissed it.

“Why did you go through with everything if you knew her reasons were selfish?”

He pressed the back of her hand on his cheek. “Something I learned from you. I

gave her my oath. I could not break it. Besides, I did not know what she would do if I

failed. I had to see this through for the both of us... for all of us.”

Sofia rested her head on Roland’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

Roland continued, “I never told you this but when I first met your father he asked

for my oath to protect you. From that moment, we met in the barn I could feel there was

something deep between us. So of course I agreed without really thinking about what it

meant. Then with everything that happened, it became clear to me what I really had to do.

There was too much at stake. I did not want to lose you.”

Sofia blushed.

“Then after our experience in front of the Alchemist Cabinet, the way we shared in

each other’s dreams, I knew you were the most important thing in my life.”

Sofia looked up at Roland, took his hand and pressed his palm to her heart.

To the Victor Go the Rewards

Newly appointed Sergeant Mario Rubino rode his horse along the country road away

from the Hermes farmhouse back to Adler Kralle castle. The morning was clearing and

he could see some blue sky between the clouds. He rubbed the bump on his forehead

where he was struck by the bronze mortar Sofia threw at him. He cursed both of them,

Roland for standing up to him and Sofia for being unattainable. But the promotion to

sergeant and the gold piece in his purse lessened his anger and he was thinking of ways to

use his new position to add more gold to his budding fortune.

Further down the country road, a gathering of peasants, farmers and townsfolk were

headed toward the Hermes farmhouse and to all other outlying farms and homes with the

news. In the very front of the line was a burly peasant by the name of Gunner who was

flanked by his two barefoot children, both little boys. Gunner carried an effigy of a small

gallows and a hanged man. The effigy had a placard around its neck that read: “Gunter

the Cruel, dead at last!” Every fourth or fifth step he would lift the effigy a little higher

and shake it up and down causing the figure to swing back and forth to the delight and

laughter of the people behind him.

Some of the revelers held gourds and tapped them with sticks. One man had a flute

and a woman grabbed her skillet and wooden spoon and set the cadence. There was much

laughter and enthusiastic chatter. Some of the girls picked the early spring flowers and

wove them into garlands and wore them in their hair. Two girls twirled ribbons tied to the

ends of wooden wands. Little boys held sticks up like swords and marched in an

exaggerated parody of soldiers.

Sergeant Mario Rubino quickened his pace when he saw the group of people

coming toward him. He did not know who they were or understand why they were there.

He was going to find out.

The burly leader Gunner raised his arm and the collection of citizens came to a halt.

When the sergeant was less than five paces away, he yelled out. “Make way. Move

out of the way, in the name of Duke Gunter.”

Gunner looked over his shoulder. “Hold fast now, we need not be afraid anymore.”

The crowd did not move and Mario had to rein his horse. He quickly looked at the

crowd. “Move aside, I am a sergeant of Duke Gunter.”

The group slowly surrounded Mario’s horse. He held up his riding crop. “Let me by

or you will feel the sting of my whip.” Mario looked from left to right and then behind

him. He saw no way out.

Gunner grabbed the bridle and held it firm.

“You’d better let me by.” Mario’s voice cracked.

“It is him, he is the one. He is the one who took our little Helga to the woods. He

did terrible things to her,” cried an angry mother. Her daughter of eleven, Helga, buried

her face in her mother’s bosom unable to look at her attacker.

A farmer named Jacob spoke out in an excited and defiant voice. “He has stolen

from my farm more times than I can say.”

The orphan Hans pointed and yelled, “He took the girls and boys from the

orphanage to sell to the Saracens. He is the devil.”

A rock hit Mario on his shoulder plate. Another rock hit him in the helmet and

knocked it off. A sea of hands reached up to him on all sides and grabbed at his legs and

around his waist. He raised his riding whip and struck at the tugging hands. Someone

took the whip and jerked it away. They grabbed his arms and pulled him backwards over

the horse’s rump and onto the ground.

Everyone had a hand at stripping Mario naked. He cried and begged. They dragged

him to a nearby tree. He tried to pull away. He screamed, he repeated he was a sergeant

of Duke Gunter’s. They laughed and mocked him.

Someone produced a piece of rope and they bound his arms to his sides. They tied

his kicking feet together and hung him upside down from the branch of an oak tree. He

was made sport of. He begged for mercy. He cried. He even called out for his mother.

Helga’s father took his pig knife from his waistband and with the blessing and

encouragement of the crowd and the help of Gunner to hold their captive still, castrated

the screaming Mario. Blood pumped from the wound and ran down his stomach onto his

chest. The father knelt and to the applause of the others rubbed the severed testicles in

Mario’s face, then threw the bloody handful into the brush. Men, women and even the

little boys and girls imitated their elders and snapped branches off of trees or picked up

sticks off the ground and to a person they beat Sergeant Mario Rubino to death to the

jeers of those who suffered under him and Gunter’s thugs and bullies.

They all beat him, even the little boys and girls of four and five years old. They beat

him for almost fifteen minutes before he was dead. They left his battered and bloodied

body hanging from a tree branch. Already a few ravens were calling to each other

announcing the find. The crowd tossed their sticks and branches onto the ground and

returned to the country road. They walked along silently at first. The woman with the

skillet and wooden spoon started up the lively rhythm and before long the flautist joined

in and the girls twirled their ribbons and the little boys marched like real soldiers now and

the chatter and laughter returned. It was a new day.

The Feel of Gold

Hans found an abandoned barn and collected the two brothers who were goldsmiths,

from his escort who were bivouacked a few miles away. The brothers would render the

gold ingots into coins. While Hans looked on and made sure the two men remained

honest, Rosanera occupied herself with a walk in the adjoining fields and considered

what the future would be like.

She had not been at Casa Bella in over fifteen years. In her grandfather’s will her

mother’s cousin, Benedetta, was made caretaker after their deaths. By all rights, through

her mother’s inheritance, Casa Bella would be hers and hers alone. Her thoughts went to

that time when she was a little girl living there. It seemed so long ago. She remembered

being happy and she wanted to feel that again. Rosanera decided then and there she

would use her gold to bring that happiness back. Her salon would be made of smart and

witty and pretty people. Her formal garden would be a rival to none. She would have the

best of the best to add to the beautiful things she remembered that that graced Casa Bella.

Apollo’s journey across of vault of heaven was almost complete when the last of the

gold was struck, counted, put into the thirteen heavy canvas sacks and the draw strings

were sealed with bees wax. When the sacks were stowed in the cart, Hans covered them

with a layer of straw and manure for good measure. The two brothers waited to receive

their rewards.

From the beginning, Hans Herrmann considered slitting both of their throats.

Working with them all day and listening to their teasing banter and their glowing talk of

home and family made him think twice. He liked them. And there was so much gold. He

did not discuss his thoughts with Rosanera and she had no idea how the day would end.

Franz and Karl Adenaur stood before General Herrmann and Lady Rosanera. Their

faces were black with soot and their arms and shoulders glistened with sweat.

“Now men remember your oath to me and Lady Rosanera, not a word of this to

anyone. Not one word.” General Herrmann handed each of the men a pouch containing

five gold pieces that were left from Adler Kralle’s coffers. “If anyone asks you how you

came about your coins, tell them you found them when you were digging a latrine.”

Everyone smiled. “From this moment on you are dismissed from my service. Go where

the four winds take you. May you fare well and may we never see each other again.”

Both men bowed and thanked the general and Lady Rosanera several times before

they left the barn and headed into the twilight.

“Two fine young men.”

Rosanera looked at Hans. “Can they be trusted to keep their mouths shut?”

“I believe so.”

“You felt you could trust Cardetti and the men he chose to lure back the troops with

the last of our gold.” Rosanera’s lips were tight and there was a hard look in her eyes.”

“Would you have me slit their throats?”

Her soul flinched at the mention of the act. Rosanera was haunted by the frightened

look in the exchequer’s eyes right before Cardetti led him away.

Hans saw her inner darkness take over her countenance. “I am a soldier. You are

Lady Rosanera d’Benevita-Testaoro. We do what we must to survive.”

“We do what we must to survive,” Rosanera assured herself.

“Now let us put on the rags of the unclean and follow the setting sun.”

11

Rosanera and Hans arrived at Casa Bella two weeks after they left Adler Kralle

castle. The castle and Adler Lager were gently liberated by General Van Eyke. The

fighting was finally over. Van Eyke’s scouts returned with such a dismal report as to the

condition of the inhabitants, an outbreak of cholera and dysentery and the lack of any

valuables to sack that his victory turned into a mission of mercy. He sent in his surgeons

and food stuffs. The grateful citizens were not molested and for the time being, those who

remained faithful to the Catholic Church were allowed to worship as they always did.

Rosanera talked with Hans about the fond memories of her childhood home. When

they turned at the crossroads, she became concerned. The road to Casa Bella was in

terrible disrepair. All the land that was drained turned back into a green, scummy marsh

again and the mosquitoes swarmed to the point both Hans and Rosanera donned the black

leper’s rags, masks and gloves again for protection. They passed crumbling outbuildings

and the beautiful orchards had gone wild and had not been tended to in years.

The beautifully trimmed shrubbery that bordered the drive was long dead and

brown. The sentinel poplars that surrounded the main house fared a little better. More

than half had been cut for firewood. Most of the windows were boarded up. The fountain

was broken and toppled.

Cosimo Testaoro’s illicit empire built on piracy, bribery and strong arm loans

quickly dissolved with his passing. As per the will with Ursula Testaoro’s death,

Rosalba’s second cousin Benedetta was made caretaker. It was a poor choice but the

family Lawyer could not talk the dying woman out of it.

Hans slapped the reins and the horse quickened its pace to the main gate that opened

on the courtyard. He turned in and stopped at the steps of the main entrance.

“From what we have seen so far are you sure this is what you want?”

Rosanera said very little since they turned off the main country road and down the

private lane to Casa Bella. “I must see the inside of the house. Everything we passed can

be restored. It may take a few years, but it can be done.”

The two left the cart and stood before the massive door. Hans worked the heavy,

lion head knocker. He did so five times until they heard scurrying and a woman’s voice.

An elderly, white haired woman slowly opened the door.

“Bishop DiMars, is that you?” The old lady saw the black clothing, smiled and

curtsied.

“No, I am not Bishop DiMars,” Hans said. He gave Rosanera a quizzical look.

Hans and Rosanera took off their large floppy hats and let their black cloaks fall to

the floor. “Benedetta?” asked Rosanera.

“Rosalba, you have come home.” Benedetta’s eyes widened and she embraced

Rosanera.

It became immediately obvious to Hans and Rosanera that Benedetta was demented.

“May we come in?” Rosanera asked.

“Your mother and father are away right now. They have not returned for such a long

time. Yes, yes, come in we can wait for them.” Benedetta looked at Hans. “Who are you?

You are not Conte Emilio.”

“No madam, I am General Hans Herrmann.” Hans clicked his heels together and

bowed his head.

Benedetta giggled and held out her hand for Hans to kiss. After he did so, they were

admitted to the great hall. Rosanera was pained when she looked around the empty room.

The walls were dingy and bare.

“Benedetta, where are the paintings and tapestries and furniture?”

“The nice men came to took them away. They told me they were going to keep

everything safe for when Uncle Cosimo and Aunt Ursula return.” Benedetta stood a little

straighter, smiled and nodded.

“I see. Where are the people who take care of the orchards, and the staff?”

“I sent them all away.” A confused look came over her face. “I think I sent them

away.”

“What of Il Signore’s papers and records?” Hans asked.

“In the library, but Uncle Cosimo does not let anyone in the library. If we go in he

will be angry.”

Their footfalls echoed on the marble floor as they crossed the empty room to the

double doors of the library.

“Better not,” called Benedetta.

Rosanera pushed the unlocked doors open. The room was a dusty mess. Every book

had been pulled from the shelves and tossed to the floor.

“Well, there is a fortune in books anyway.” Hans bent down and picked one up. He

inspected the cover and binding, “Beautifully made.” He opened the book and found the

pages were blank. He let out a groan. Hans picked up another and found same. He opened

several more books to be sure as Rosanera looked on. “The old rascal, the library was a

sham. I suppose not so much a fortune in books as I thought.” He tossed the book down

onto the floor with the others. “Shall we look at the rest of the place?”

The house was sound and Rosanera decided to use her gold to restore Casa Bella.

She wanted people to envy her beautiful gardens. She wanted people to see her lovely

paintings and furniture and tapestries. She was going to have the best and brightest and

the most beautiful men and women in her salon.

For the next year, she called on craftsmen, and gardeners and other skilled people to

do the work. She only hired those who would take their pay after all the work was

completed. She figured that would give them an incentive to work quickly.

Most workers settled on a place to live and food to eat as partial payment until they

received their final payment in gold. Early on she called all of the workmen and women

together. She broke the wax seal on one of the bags of gold coins and bid each one of

them to file by and look at what awaited them when they finished. Her plan was a

success.

On May 22nd, Feast day of Saint Rita of Cascia less than a year after Rosanera’s

return, forty-six faithful workmen and women waited in the great hall and looked on as

the last piece of furniture, an exquisite upholstered chair, was brought in and placed in

front of the fire place. As instructed, the craftsmen and women had their bills ready to

present. Rosanera sat at a beautiful walnut desk. The sack of gold coins was next to her

ledger and the quill was in the inkwell.

Tinto Arberghetti, a corpulent man with a red face pushed his way to the front of the

line. He paid a crew of four men out of his own purse to repair cracks in the plaster and

paint the interior of the house. He finished three months ago and his patience and credit

were all but used up. Tinto added another ten percent for his troubles onto the already

inflated bill.

Hans stood next to Rosanera. He moved his sheath and dagger from his side to the

front of his sash and left his hand on the dagger’s handle.

She looked up at Hans and smiled. “Finally we will use this beautiful gold to pay for

our wants great and small.”

Tinto bowed and presented his bill for six gold pieces. Rosanera found his name on

the list and wrote paid in full next to it. She handed the quill to Tinto so he could make

his mark beside his name. Though he was illiterate, he was proud that he could scribble

his name.

Rosanera reached into the sack and pulled out a handful of coins. Touching the gold

gave her a thrill. Just for the smallest part of a second she thought of Langfinger but time

allowed her to reconcile her action as something that had to be done.

Tinto bowed and held out his hand. A smiling Rosanera laid the coins in his waiting

palm. As soon as the gold touched Tinto’s hand the coins turned to lead. Tinto’s mouth

dropped open. He held his hand a little closer to make sure he saw what he saw. He

showed the lead coins to Rosanera and Hans.

“What is this?” He whispered. He dropped the coins on the table and wiped his

hands together.

Rosanera took six more coins out of the sack and handed them to Tinto. Again the

gold coins turned to lead.

“What is the meaning of this? What black craft is at work here?” He held the leaden

coins up so the other could see. “Look, her gold is lead.”

The others crowded around the desk. Hans moved in closer to Rosanera.

Tinto dropped the coins on the desk and made the sign of the cross.

When Rosanera held her hand over the lead coins to pick them up, they turned back

to gold.

Confusion followed. Some of the crowd ran out of the hall. Rosanera left her seat

and stood behind Hans who was shocked and sickened. Others crowded up to the table

and poured the coins out onto the desk to see for themselves. Anyone who picked up a

gold coin watched it instantly turn to lead.

“They are demons,” shouted the furniture maker.

“She is the devil and he is her consort!”

Later that morning a cadre of soldiers from Terra Sanctus arrived and took a bound

Rosanera and Hans Herrmann before the bishop. There was no lack of witnesses.

Rosanera stood before her nemesis Bishop DeDeo. He was given the very recently

vacant position when the doddering Bishop DiMars died in his sleep.

“Our Lord works in mysterious and wonderful ways, does He not duchess, oh I

mean, Rosanera?” DeDeo did not try to hide the smug smile on his face.

Their trial and torture lasted three weeks and was the talk of the region. Hans was

declared a wizard and Rosanera a witch. The execution was on a beautiful June morning.

The piazza was packed as it was twenty four years earlier when Rosanera’s mother

presided over the ill-fated witch burning turned miracle.

Two chopping blocks facing each other were set on the straw strewn execution

platform. As a final insult both were stripped naked and paraded on all four sides of the

platform to the cheers of the excited and impatient crowd.

Monsignor Eduardo Silva gravely asked both of them if they renounced Satan and

accepted Our Lord Jesus as their savior. They both nodded and tearfully looked into each

other’s eyes. The executioners led the condemned to the center of the platform, made

them kneel and guided their necks to rest on the blood blackened wooden blocks. The last

thing either of them heard was the ringing cheers of the crowd.

Four Years Later

Hermes Ancestral Home

It was the sixth of May and spring was felt and seen everywhere. Roland had little Rene

on his shoulders and Sofia held Bella’s tiny hand in hers. They stood overlooking an

emerald meadow that shimmered with the heat. The meadow was dotted with grazing

cattle. The trees were in bloom with fragrant pink blossoms. Birds sang with joyous

abandon in concert with the tiny clicks and hums made by a myriad of beetles, cicadas

and other insects.

The sun was high and the family headed back to the house for the midday meal.

Roland put Rene down on unsteady feet. The little boy took his sister’s hand and the two

toddled ahead of their parents down the iris and tulip lined path. Roland and Sofia

stopped at the short fence around the family plot.

“Just over two years since he has been gone.” Roland looked down on Rene’s

gravestone.

“I do miss him.”

“So do I, but he did get to hold his grandson and granddaughter. “ Both smiled as

they reminisced.

“I am so glad we gave that ingot to the orphanage and the hospital. They had so

little and we have so much.”

Roland nodded in agreement. “Yes we do.”

Sofia took Roland’s hand. “Do you ever wonder?”

“About?”

“What ever happened to them, Rosanera, the general and everyone, all of those

people?”

“It is hard to say,” he said casually. Roland’s thoughts were on repairing the gate on

the lower corral.

“I wonder what would have happened if you did go with her?”

“Well, I did not go with her did I?” he said with a smile. “As clever as I thought I

was I did figure out she just wanted the gold and not me.” Roland put his arm around his

wife. “I knew the first time I saw you that day in the barn you were the one. But if I did

not choose to help Rosanera, who knows where life would have taken us?” Roland kissed

Sofia. They held their faces up to the sunny sky and enjoyed the warmth.

EPILOGUE

It was a little after eight o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, two days after the breakup.

Liz went through her apartment three times and collected Roland’s things and put them in

a black plastic garbage bag. On the drive over she thought of what she was going to say

to him. Liz parked her Ford Focus in the alley behind Roland’s granny flat. His car was

there. He had not answered the phone or her texts. She was more perturbed than worried.

She grabbed the black plastic bag and squeezed past his car and to the back door.

She ceremoniously took his key off of her key ring and put it in the lock. The door was

open. An uncustomary disagreeable smell assailed her senses when she entered.

“Roland, Roland are you here? I have your things.” Liz left the bag next to the

kitchen table. All the cupboard doors were wide open and there was a jar of peanut butter

left out on the counter. She shook her head, put the lid back on the jar and put it away.

There was an empty cereal box on its side on the table. The refrigerator hummed loudly.

The door was ajar and condensation had formed along its bottom and dripped onto the

floor.

“Roland. Your car’s out there. You’ve got to be here. I had breakfast at the

Edelweiss and I know you weren’t there. Get up, I’ve got your things.“

She walked into the living room and saw a whirlwind mess on the floor and the

Alchemist Cabinet with its doors wide open. “Wow, where did you get that?” She walked

over the papers and scrolls on the floor, careful not to step on them and ran her hand

down the curved side of the piece.

Liz heard a noise come from the bedroom. She looked in and saw the bed covers

move. It was someone curled up in the fetal position with the sheet wrapped tightly

around them. Whoever it was, he or she was too small to be Roland.

Liz sat on the bed and gently touched the shaking shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay,”

she whispered. Liz pulled the sheets away and they were pulled right back in place even

tighter. “Come on now, don’t be afraid.” She gently tugged the sheet away and uncovered

a boy. He was eleven or twelve. He was thin and he had dark hair and skin and beautiful,

large brown eyes. He looked at Liz and hugged her tight.

“It’s okay little guy.” Liz put her arm around the boy and held him. They stayed that

way for a good long time. Every few seconds the boy would look up at Liz and then grab

on to her a little tighter. Liz finally broke the embrace. She stood and looked the boy

over. He had on a T shirt and sweat pants. Liz remembered Roland wearing them when

he got out of bed the day they were supposed to go to the Adams Avenue Street Fair.

“Do you know Roland?”

The boy tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s your name sweetheart?” Again she was met with a plaintive stare. Liz

tapped her chest, “Liz, my name is Liz.” She tapped the boy on his chest and crooked her

eyebrows in a quizzical way.

“Stefano, Stefano.” The boy finally smiled.

“You must be Mexican. Habla Engles?” No reply. “Mamma, Papa?”

“No, no mamma, no papa.”

Liz thought for a moment. She took her cell phone out of her pocket to call Child

Protective Services. It rang twice and she slowly closed the cover on her phone. She

looked at the lost little boy and smiled. Liz put her hand on Stefano’s shoulder. “Mi casa

es su casa.” By his smile and appreciative look she was sure he understood.

They both were startled when they heard a loud rustling noise like a strong wind

blowing throughout the little house. A bright flash, brighter than the sunlight, illuminated

the bedroom and hallway for an instant. Liz and Stefano shared a frightened look. Liz put

her arm around Stefano and they peeked around the corner into the living room. The

Alchemist Cabinet and all of the papers and scrolls that were scattered about were gone.

“Oh my God,” Liz whispered. She summoned all of her strength and courage, held

onto Stefano’s hand tight, and lowered her head. They ran through the living room and

the kitchen and out the back door.

Once outside Liz let go her grip on Stefano’s hand. The boy quickly looked all

around him and clung on to Liz’s waist. She walked him around to the other side of the

car, opened the door and he got in and sat wide-eyed in the passenger seat. He watched

her every move as she got in and buckled his and then her seatbelt. Liz looked toward the

granny flat and shook her head. “Whatever happened and wherever you are, I do hope

you’re okay,” Liz whispered, knowing at that moment she would probably never see him

again.

Liz started the car. She looked over to Stefano, patted him on the knee and smiled.

“Come on sweetheart. Let’s get out of here. I’m going to get you some nice new clothes

and something good to eat. Then we’ll go home.”

Appendix

About the Author, Mark Giglio

Alchemist Gift Family Trees

Hughes and Parker Family Trees

Hermes and Testauro Family Trees

Fiore and D’Benevita Family Trees

Book Club Questions

Excerpt from “Courious Journey”

Second Book in the Alchemist Series.

Alchemist Gift Art Furniture

About the Author, Mark Giglio

Mark started his adult life with an honorable discharge from the Air Force followed by a

degree in English. Along came a wife and a baby boy. Circumstances lead him to follow

his own bent and not the one he studied. He feels he has tasted enough of the bitter and

sweet of life to share his notion of life’s essence in his writing. He’s always been

interested in the connections people have with each other and the world around them.

History, humanities, art, philosophy, anthropology, world religions and the natural world

have been a fascination for him and a fountain head for inspiration.

He comes from a background of craftsmen and artists.

He had to set his degree aside and take the path of a furniture and cabinet maker. He still

pursued his academic interest and wrote a poem here and a short story there for his own

amusement, to keep his hand in, so to speak. For many years the real outlet for his

creativity was his ability to create beautiful and unique furniture that is inspired by

Alchemy and the European Renaissance.

This study lead to the Alchemist Series

On a suggestion by his dear friend and mentor he wrote a screenplay called Alchemist

Cabinet and featured a piece of his art furniture for the main prop. Writing the screenplay

was a fun challenge but a bigger story begged to be told. This led him back to the various

ways people connect with each other and ultimately how they are all connected and, how

truly tenuous our existence is. Consider a turn in the path not taken, a missed opportunity

to mate, an arrow or rock that missed or hit its mark, all this happening countless

millennia ago, and our presence in the here and now was dependant on those long

forgotten people, our ancestors, and if it wasn’t for those specific choices they made at

that second in time, you may not have ever been born.

“We Are All One”

The idea that we are all one does not just apply to today or tomorrow. As it has been from

the beginning, it will be so until the end.

I have three grown sons. I live in Southern California with my friend and mentor Mary

Ellen Cavanaugh. My other interests include: painting, sculpture, piano improvisation,

interior decorating and old sports cars. You may see some of my art furniture at

www.alchemistgift.com/art-furniture.

Alchemist Gift Family Trees

Book Club Discussion Topics

1. Of Alchemy Rene says, “You must remember alchemy is a philosophy. It is a guide

to live by. Its use is to put order to the cosmos, and more, to put order to our souls

and to understand and accept our place in the great plan of the Creator.” Most think

of Alchemy as making lead into gold. Why do people take religions and philosophies

literally or spiritually?

2. What do the chapter titles mean?

3. Are persons and events mirrored in both the Renaissance and in Modern Day? And

why?

4. What do you think is the importance of the characters’ names in relationship to the

era in which they live?

5. Does the non-linier treatment of time add to or detract from the flow of the book?

6. What is the symbolism of the birds, trees and natural phenomenon?

7. Has the attitude toward women changed in the time between the present and the

renaissance?

8. Is Rosanera a victim of circumstance or does she cause her own problems?

9. What does the statement under the title mean? How does that apply to the story?

10. How has Roland grown by the end of the novel?

Excerpt from the Next Novel

Curious Journey

Due to release summer of 2015

Emilio thought for a few seconds, then looked at his friend and nodded in agreement.

Rene jumped into the grave and re-arranged the shroud over Senta’s face. Emilio handed

down the coffin lid. Rene put the lid in place and with a rock tried to hammer the nails

back into the coffin. He felt the first nail go into its socket and started to tap the second

one in. The men heard a scream and the lid on the coffin shuddered.

Rene quickly tried to drive another nail. His heart beat out of control as he pushed

against the lid and felt his efforts being challenged from within.

Emilio stood wide-eyed and his mouth agape.

“What should I do?” asked Rene.

The pounding from inside the coffin became louder and the scream turned into a

sobbing wail. Emilio held out his hand for Rene to grab and helped him up out of the

grave. Both men were in a panic. They backed away into the protection of the Magick

Circle. The coffin lid fell forward and made an incline from the base of the standing

coffin to the edge of the grave. The girl clawed at the shroud until she got it off as best as

she could. She blindly pushed the bundles of rosemary away and in the darkness

stumbled onto the coffin lid, fell to her knees and crawled out.

“We did it, we did it,” whispered an ecstatic Emilio.

Rene made the sign of the cross. “May God forgive us.”

Alchemist Gift Art Furniture

Purchase any of these pieces online at http://www.alchemistgift.com/art-furniture or

discuss something uniquely for you, contact me at 760 215 0029 or email

mark@theartofgiglio.com.

Alchemist Cabinet. photo by Mark Gaggia

The Alchemist Cabinet was the first in the collection. It features two shelves in its large

interior. It has one large drawer. The drawer is fitted with full extension self “soft”

closing slides. This piece has been on exhibition. www.theartofgiglio.com The piece is

approx 72″hx15″dx35″w.$12,500. Shipping includes building a freight box, insurance,

and varies according to destination. $500 minimum for shipping.

Pendragon’s Dressing Chest – the Alchemist series. photo by Mark Gaggia

Pendragon’s Dressing Chest took 1st Place in the Fine Arts 3 Dimensional Category at

the San Diego County Fair. This piece was a challenge and a lot of fun to make. It

features a large bottom drawer and two smaller upper drawers. All the drawers in this

series have full extension, self “soft” closing slides. I have displayed this piece in our

foyer, its sun burst greets everyone who comes into our home. Approx size

46″hx36″wx20″d. $12,500. Shipping includes building a freight box, insurance, and

varies according to destination. $500 minimum for shipping.

Sunburst Sideboard – Alchemist Series. photo by Mark Gaggia

Sunburst Sideboard is my most ambitious piece. It stands on six sturdy legs generously

covered with copper scales front and back. This piece is appointed with two doors, a shelf

behind each and a stack of three graduated drawers at its center . Drawers ride on full

extension, self “soft” closing drawer slides. All of the pieces in this collection are

inspired by classical lines in combination with my own sensibilities. $18,000. Shipping

includes building a freight box, insurance, and varies according to destination. $500

minimum for shipping.

Pulpitum Exaro Desk – Alchemist Series. photo by Mark Gaggia

Pulpitum Exaro (Duke Gunter’s Writing Desk) was a true exercise in art. This writing

desk took six months of thought about design and construction techniques before I held

the first piece of wood in my hands. There are 405 (but who’s counting?) round-headed

tacks that divide the 275+ copper scales from the white maple. The piece is appointed

with two utility drawers and a pencil drawer center. Like the other pieces, the drawers are

fitted with full extension, self “soft” closing slides. Pulpitum Exaro won first prize at the

Escondido Partnership for the Arts and is 29″hx67″wx25″d. $14,500. Shipping includes

building a freight box, insurance, and varies according to destination. $500 minimum for

shipping.

Pulpitum Exaro Desk Front – Alchemist Series. photo by Mark Gaggia

To purchase online go to www.alchemistgift.com/art-furniture or discuss

something uniquely for you, contact me at 760 215 0029 or email

mark@theartofgiglio.com. Shipping includes building a freight box, insurance, and varies

according to destination. $500 minimum for shipping.

The Solium Cum Cauda. photo by Mark Gagggia

The Solium Cum Cauda (chair with a tail) goes quite nicely with the writing desk or

standing alone makes its own droll statement. This chair is very comfortable with its

gently curved back and soft supportive seat upholstered with hair-on cow hide. Yes it

does have a tail. Solium Cum Cauda is 34″hx20″wx16″d. $3,000. Shipping includes

building a freight box, insurance, and varies according to destination. $500 minimum for

shipping.

Leiropa’s (The Blue Fairy, mother of Narcissus) Looking Glass. photo by Mark Gaggia

Leiropa’s (The Blue Fairy, mother of Narcissus) Looking Glass was inspired by the

Victorian hall tree. It’s large sensually shaped mirror is framed in solid maple. Its

comfortable seat is upholstered with a deep chestnut colored hair-on cow hide. The piece

can be displayed in the round as the back is as beautifully finished as the front. It makes a

beautiful entry piece. $8,000. Shipping includes building a freight box, insurance, and

varies according to destination. $500 minimum for shipping.

Furniture Tidbits

Upholstery is hair-on cow hide that is processed in Brazil and dyed a beautiful, deep

chestnut color. The copper “scales” go through a seven step process before they are

attached. Each hoof is hand carved and finished with gilding and aged with various

dressings. Drawers are on full extension slides and are self “soft” closing. I finish these

pieces with many coats of clear lacquer and a hand rubbed finish. All pieces are finished

front and back so they may be enjoyed no matter how they are displayed.