Widdershins and Annotations Richard Lunn University of Wollongong

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1994 Widdershins and annotations Richard Lunn University of Wollongong

Recommended Citation Lunn, Richard, Widdershins and annotations, Doctor of Creative Arts thesis, University of Wollongong. School of Creative Arts, University of Wollongong, 1994. http://ro.uow.edu.au/theses/962

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WIDDERSHINS AND ANNOTATIONS

A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the award of the degree

DOCTOR OF CREATIVE ARTS

Please see print copy from for article

UNIVERSITY OF WOLLONGONG

RICHARD LUNN, B.A., DIP.ED.

SCHOOL OF CREATIVE ARTS

1994 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank my supervisor, Ron Pretty, for his perceptive and helpful suggestions concerning the various drafts of this thesis. I also wish to thank the University of Wollongong for its generosity in awarding me a postgraduate scholarship. WIDDERSHINS

PART ONE: FLOTSAM

In which Tuccio di Piero Landucci encounters a monster

The monster lay breathing beneath the walls of the town. It was huge and black, with a tail that could swat an armoured knight clean off his horse with the most casual of flicks. Topomagro's idlers were already jostling on the walls for a better view, though no-one had yet ventured from the parapet, through the Porta del Mare and onto the beach. The monster was far too monstrous, almost y thirty braccia in length, and looked capable, had the mood taken it, of swallowing the town's largest fishing boat at a gulp. And yet, against the vast pewter plain of the evening sea, it had a shrunken look, like any fish out of water, while its great rolling eye, the plumpness of its barnacled belly, and above all, the sardonic twist of its curious clownsmile, made it look almost comical.

From the walls they listened to the bubbling hiss that issued from the slits in its back, saw the little crabs go scuttling like sinners in the nave of its shadow, while they watched and waited, shuffled and sighed, and felt boredom growing in the depths of their wonder. Then some spoke of marvels abroad in the land, strange happenings, bad harvests, omens and auguries. And one, with bright, wild eyes and heavy limbs, carrying a sickle in his hand for no apparent reason in that blighted countryside, threw out a challenge to his fellows, cajoling and chiding, waving his sickle and goading them down from the wall to the gates. 2

Yet the monster appeared unmoved, unaware. The twittering sounds that it made - so small in the midst of its massive frame - seemed not to respond at all to the changes about it, as if governed only by obscure inner urgings. There were occasional, sudden mouse-squeaks, which the priest of San Stefano would later liken to the gibbering of infernal apes, as if the beast were spewed from some side-gate of Hell in the watery deep to the y west of Topomagro. But the seamless sheets of its teeth still held their ambiguous smile, and its shoreward eye betrayed no feeling, only movement. Yet even this - apart from the momentary avalanche of its eyelid - was the movement, not of a living eye, but of a mirror, a giant version of those convex reflectors used in merchants' shops to cast light on account books and abacus.

Reflected here, however, was the town itself, its walls transmuted into the cliffs of alien harbours, its belltowers the tips of a sunken city, and there, upon the walls, a weird horde too strange to be imagined. But now this army bellied forth, its sickles and rakes, its blades and axes, reflected in that living mirror like a host of aqueous stars.

Tuccio di Piero Landucci sat in the office at the top of his house. He liked to think of it as his library, though he wasn't reading now. Far from it. He was sitting, pen 3 in hand, the ink of his greeting already dry, trying to think out the right form of words in which to chastise

Sandro dei Fiumi. He'd had such hopes for the boy, such good reports from his fattore in Pisa. He'd rarely heard crusty old Bartolomeo wax so lyrical on any subject, except perhaps a good wine - "A natural fattore, young

Sandro; not only can he do the books without supervision, but he's got a nose for good product, and what a way with people!" - as if they'd been trying to off-load the boy. y But no, they wouldn't have dared, not once they'd realised that Tuccio himself was taking him under his wing to train him for Ibiza. Indeed, Sandro was his own mistake, though an understandable one, of course. The boy had talent and seemed old beyond his years, but once away from the steadying influence of his homeland, alone amongst slaves and sly traders, his youth had held sway. It was Ibiza that was to blame.

It grieves me, Sandro, to find how ill you are faring in the Job I entrusted to you, he wrote, growing angrier as he went. I can barely believe that you could place our cargo with Cristo Bedoya. The man is notorious. He borrows money as I breathe air, and like all such captains, borrows on the surety of his cargo, preferring to let his ship sink than pay up his debts. You can pray to Messer Domeneddio that our bales and sheepskins arrive safely in port, though I fear that even God will not see fit to mitigate such folly. 4

He stopped, suddenly hot at the thought of all that

Catalonian wool, all those bright florins - like the golden fleece itself - lying useless on the bottom of the sea. Then the story he'd recently heard of three young

Florentine fattori invaded his thoughts - of how they'd been playing zara in Venice with letters of credit drawn on their companies, losing thousands of florins and destroying their masters. He scribbled more furiously still, as if shouting with his quill, reminding Sandro of y a cargo he'd failed to insure, of yet another that had arrived in Pisa without any evidence of a bill of lading having been written. If you are hellbent on ruining the company, he concluded, let me assure you that my notaries will draw up a contract that will leave you liable, so that you will ruin only yourself. I mean what I say, and well you know it.

Yet he could not harden his heart totally toward the boy.

He himself had been the San Matteo agent for the Pecora company in his early years, and knew how lonely and lost a youth of twenty could feel in such outposts. It had been hard to keep up his spirits till God and Giulio

Pecora had seen fit to make him fattore in Barcelona, something which would never have happened had he been as imprudent as Sandro. Still, there was no point in trying to demoralise the boy.

I know it is not easy work, he added, but that is why I have chosen you, Sandro. Nor am I unaware of how alone 5 one can feel in such places. Yet remember that God in His mercy and wisdom is everywhere, and that we who turn the fleece of sheep into cloth are also His flock. He paused, hesitant, then scrawled, And let me remind you that I do not disapprove of my fattori seeking comfort from a pretty slave or two, though I would frown upon bastards being kept on company property.

Tuccio signed the letter and sealed it, suddenly tired of y the business with Sandro. In fact, he felt a bit tired of business in general. It had been a long day, and he'd go down shortly and have some wine. Writing to the boy had made him think of his youth, of San Matteo, and better still, of Barcelona. He got up, stretched, tried unsuccessfully to stamp the stiffness from his legs, and wandered over to the wide Venetian windows pushed open to the night.

Topomagro lay shadowed in the dusk, falling away to the sea where flocks of gulls went wheeling, while larger birds, buzzards perhaps, came circling out of blood-red cloudbanks. Tuccio leaned against the wooden frame and let his gaze skim smoothly over terracotta tiles, following the inclination of the hillside to the east, where the Torre del Colombo rose before the walls. And then he let his eyes glide back toward the north, settling on the belltower of the Duomo, where flights of swallows went tumbling through the turquoise air. He sighed and, for a moment, even as he watched those little 6 birds below him on the slope, seemed to see them also from the cool arcade upon the courtyard of the trading post in Barcelona. For a moment he smelt the moist leaves of mint and rosemary, the sharp Castillian wine, the heavy scent of herbs in Netta's hair, and, in that same instant, felt her smooth black arms about him, her laughter warm against his ear.

Again he sighed, swept with a sudden envy of Sandro's y youth, of his own youth, of Netta, his Moorish slave, and that other girl - the Berber - whose name he had forgotten, and the world's uncertainty, its strangeness and the sense of possibility... But how ridiculous, he thought, to be jealous of yourself. You might as well start railing at your teeth for being sharper than your brain. What he had said to Sandro was true. It had been a lost, confusing time. Yet there'd been a certain freedom, the sense that nothing mattered so long as he maintained his profits. His reputation had been a product of the mails. But now, established as he was in Topomagro, the town's greatest cloth-maker and merchant, an international trader of some repute, well-known in

Florentine and Venetian business circles, even, at times, a Prior - well, he could hardly afford to court scandal.

Nor could he afford to indulge in misplaced nostalgia.

Barcelona was no paradise, and he wouldn't be the feckless youth he'd been for all the French Pope's luxuries. He craned his neck a little further out the window and peered downward, his thoughts disturbed by a sudden hubbub from the street below. There were voices and the sound of bagpipes and a shrill piccolo. He saw a crowd marching up the Via del Colombo from the direction of the sea. They were shouting to each other as they went, and some were even dancing. At their head was a boy with hair the colour of greasy straw, a grin plastered on his face from ear to ear. He was moving at a great pace on a pair y of battered crutches, his withered-looking legs barely touching the ground, while his wooden ones, thrust beneath his armpits, strode along like the limbs of some lopsided wading bird. Beside him was a tall, raw-boned man in a great loose tunic that might once have been scarlet, but was now the colour of dried blood. He flung out his arm as he went, as if driving the boy on, though he may well have been pointing out the way to the

Ospedale dei Poveri di Dio, to which Tuccio assumed they were headed. If these two moved with a manic intensity, the throng behind them seemed exhausted, struggling to keep up, many walking with the stiff-legged gait of the starving, eyes dark in parchment faces, their limbs swathed in rags like so much mummy-cloth. Yet above them, the notes of the pipes unwound like the cries of a cat's carnival, the balloon-faced piper labouring over his fat cornemuse, while the piccolo player - a stout girl of no t more the ten - stabbed at the air with stiletto squeaks. And there were dancers, skeletal in the evening light, 8 whirling with wooden-doll steps, smiles stitched to the bones of their faces.

Tuccio drew back from the window. His office seemed suddenly dark. He'd get Lucia to light the lamps. But as yet he didn't move, staring out into the glaucous sky above the rooftops. He didn't like these crowds, these glowering, shadowy mobs. Over the last decade it had grown worse, the freezing winters, the bad harvests, the y slow, continuous famine driving them in from the country for the city's stored grain and the fish scraps in the markets. Yet even the fish had seemed to grow fewer, as if God were truly punishing them for their sins. And now it happened that, just yesterday, when the hake and mullet, even the sardines and anchovies, were deserting the shores of the town, the ocean sent them a monster, as the ill-informed were calling it. Tuccio leant back against his desk and smiled. His years in Spain had taught him of the great Biscayan whales, but that one should reach a beach in Tuscany - such a thing he'd never heard of. They truly were strange times. Wasn't it just last year, during the worst snows of his generation, that a fever in the earth had caused the town to shake, the bells of the Duomo and all the other churches ringing as if the Day of Judgement were at hand? Perhaps it was, and perhaps the poor would wreak God's vengeance. During winter he had seen more than one corpse hugging the warmth of a dungheap, and there was no doubt that the harvest would fail this summer. Even those seeds that the 9 weather had spared had been eaten by the peasants. There would be more processions of the poor, more corpses, more desperate anger. Do what they might with confraternities and hospices, foundations and charities, the piles of dead would grow, and they could not allow the flood of migrants to continue.

Tuccio groaned and let his hand caress the Psalter on his desk. Lord, had he worked so hard and built so much to y let it come to nothing? Then he shook his head, clicking his tongue at his cowardice. He was tired, unsteady. He needed a sip of good Carmignano. To fear those poor souls was the height of pitilessness. There was more to be feared from Montagna and His Eminence, Rollo da Parma. And these too could be overcome.

He opened the Psalter, then snapped it shut and strode to the stairs. What he had worked for and what he had built was the strength to determine the fortunes of Topomagro.

It was long after prime, with the sun already well above the hills in the east, when they were finally climbing the stairs to the parapet. Tuccio had been determined to see the creature before he did anything that day, and had instructed Luca, his steward, to ready the horses for an early excursion. But he had reckoned without his accountant, Luigi Pucci, who had arrived in his usual 10 state of agitation with some new panic about a dishonoured bill of exchange. He had silenced him at once, inviting him to come and see the whale for himself, on the proviso that he made no mention of bills of exchange. Indeed, he'd have preferred to go alone, but at least three burly servants were the minimum safeguard in days such as these, so there was little reason why Luigi shouldn't tag along too.

y The captain of the Porta del Mare had said he was keeping people away from the parapet - there'd been too great a crowd in the last two days - but naturally he'd made an exception of Signor Tuccio, and allowed Luigi to accompany him. As he climbed the stairs, Tuccio was surprised by the sense of excitement he felt at the thought of the whale. Certainly he knew of the creatures, had seen drawings in bestiaries and in the marginalia of manuscripts, but to actually see the leviathan in the flesh - it was a bit like seeing a unicorn or a minotaur, or some other creature from the fables of the ancients.

"They suggest that... well... it's quite hideous," Luigi blurted, clearly not appreciating the privilege of being allowed on the parapet. "Are you sure it's - "

"Yes, yes, Luigi, of course it's alright. The thing's hardly going to leap on the wall and gobble you up." 11

"Well..." he began, as if anything might be possible with such a beast, but one look from Tuccio made him keep his own counsel.

Indeed, Tuccio did not feel like talking. There was something about the thought of the creature that unsettled him in a way not altogether unpleasant, as if the sea's disgorging of so strange a thing were a sign that all the dull business, all the flat, intractable y surfaces of his life, might suddenly open to reveal something marvellous. He mounted the stairs two at time, with Luigi grumbling worriedly in his wake. And then they were there, on top of the wall, with the sea stretched out to the sky in quilted blue ripples, and down below them, the leviathan.

It was a mountain of bleeding meat, a pile of red bone and flensed blubber. Great strips of flesh hung from the ribs, which rose from the sand like the arches of some rough cathedral. Festoons of sinew and huge sheets of muscle still steamed in the early air, while gulls screeched in avid circles round the untouched head, where the mouth continued to give its crimped grin, as if somehow amused at the indignities rendered upon it.

Tuccio grimaced, wrenching his gaze from the butchered monster and observing the crowds now thronging about it.

They were gathered round two rusty cauldrons that looked like cloth-dyers' vats, from which clouds of greasy smoke rose into the sky, while some, astride the shoulders of 12 their fellows, pushed at the contents with long wooden poles. An army of onlookers crowded about, some with their hands raised for bits of boiled meat, others already clutching their smoky trophies, while, further along the beach, smaller groups huddled round bonfires, cooking gobbets of whale-fat over the flames on sharp, blackened sticks.

Not all were eating, however. Round one of the fires the y paupers were laughing and clapping, with the well-fed look of happy burghers on their haggard faces, though such food may have been too rich for some, since even as he looked, he saw one man turn retching into the sand.

There were also three dancers - a woman and child, and a thickset cripple who heaved his torso about on a flat wooden tray. Tuccio watched where a group of small children played chasings amid the great ribcage, while, perched above them on the tip of a tail-fluke, a crow raised its head and moaned like a sad-hearted conqueror.

He looked at the whale's dull eye, noting the thick yellow muck that had oozed from the canthus, as if the creature wept tears of candle wax. He glanced back behind him at Luca, his steward, and the two burly servants, at their well-groomed mounts and his own plump mule - the kind that bishops rode - for which he'd paid one hundred and fifty florins, shipping it all the way from Cadiz. He thought of his house, of his farm in the hills, then looked at the whale with its fat hacked away, and shivered with cold in the sharp morning air.

# * # 13

Jacopo Passero seeks his fortune

Had you boarded a Genoese galley from the mole just north of the Porta del Mare, sailing south to Civitavecchia, then on to Gaeta and Naples, through the Straits of

Messina, south-east across the Ionian Sea, past Kithira,

Crete, Khios and Lesvos, north through the Sea of Marmora, threading the needle of the Bosporus, past the smoky domes of Byzantium and over the Black Sea, it would y not be too many months before you reached Kaffa, the

Genoese trading post at the foot of the Crimean mountains. Here, with its century-old walls and its fortress, the small dome of its Armenian church and, at its heart, the proud marble of its Catholic baptistery and campanile, it funnelled the wealth of the East toward

Christendom, and kept at bay the hordes of Tartary.

Tuccio had an agent - Francesco Corsani - in the Genoese enclave, who frequently included consignents of spices, alum and brazil for Topomagro on board the galleys and cogs that plied southward. Yet the man we see standing in the alley below the Fanfani mansion is no friend, nor even acquaintance, of Tuccio di Piero Landucci. He is

Jacopo Passero, one-time shepherd, salt-scraper, jongleur, now turned burglar, and he is watching the lights go out.

He seems edgy, his eyes glinting quickly beneath the new moon. At the rear of the house, on the second of the building's four storeys, the last yellow light is 14 extinguished. It's most likely the room he wants, the master bedroom, and he makes to step from the shadows, just as bootheels ring on the stones at the end of the alley. There's the glow of an oil-lamp swinging with the stride its owner, the mutter of voices and a grunt of laughter. Jacopo hugs the darkness more closely, and the clink of steel fills the gaps in their speech as the night-watch sway by in the drunken lamplight. No good to be caught out just now, not after the trouble in Tana, with the curfew so strictly enforced. He waits till the light, their words, the blows of their boots are lost to the streets. Then he slips through the thin stream of moonlight to the foot of the mansion's wall.

He pauses a moment, no more than a lanky shadow with eyes like slivers of mercury, eyes that slant slightly upward, like the corners of his mouth, even his nose's thin tip, so that he seems to be laughing at some sly private joke.

He touches the rope at his throat, the small bag of tools on his belt and, hung at his hip, the larger pouch for his secret weapon. Throat, right hip, left - a thief's benediction. He uncoils his rope and hurls it upward, two flukes of its hook catching the roof's coping with the faintest whisper of metal. He pulls down hard, smiles as it holds, then hauls himself up. After all, it wasn't for nothing that he'd earned his keep in Savoy as a jongleur and acrobat. The perfect training for a burglar, and what better way to hone your suicidal tendencies than to hang from a tightrope, juggling oranges, while the hungry 15 crowd didn't give a damn whether you fell, just so long as you dropped the fruit. He glances up as he goes. It's not as if he doesn't have a plan. There's a reason why he isn't even trying these shutters he's climbing past, since, just before the light failed completely, he'd seen a single little window with one open shutter at the top of the house. So he climbs by the silent rooms, humming softly to himself, until, sure enough, he finds that shutter still hooked to the wall, where it's been for y some time if one is to judge by the webs and dead moths round the rusty fastenings.

The window is closed, but it's only a light oiled linen stretched tight on its frame. He tries to peer through, but all is in darkness. He presses his ear to the cloth - there's no sound to be heard. Then, aware that he's probably visible from the street, he makes a slit with the tip of his knife, slips his hand through the stiff, scratchy fabric, and unfastens the inner catch. Now is a dangerous moment, yet more dangerous still if he waits, so he eases the window open, bracing himself for the intake of breath, the sudden cry - "Thief!" - and the clatter of weapons. But there is nothing, just the scrape of the frame as he brushes against it and the hiss of the waves on the distant beach. He lifts the window as far as it goes, squeezes awkwardly through, then slithers on his belly to the rough plank floor. He glances about him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the deeper night of the room. Then the vague forms of grain sacks, of earthenware 16 jugs and bales of cloth, the trestles and planks of makeshift tables, emerge from the dark. His grin glimmers white in the fainthearted light. He sits up, brushing the grit from his hands. It's a storeroom, and the dust on the floor suggests how rarely it's entered. He stands, treads, winces at the creak of the plank beneath his feet, and steps more gently to the door. Scimmia. Now is the time for his secret weapon. He touches the pouch on his left hip, squeezes it softly, but it doesn't respond.

He sighs and shakes his head, then joggles it harder, unhooking the flap and peering inside. A splayed paw with tiny, sharp claws stretches out, a green eye glitters open, there's a yawn with needlepoint teeth. She arches and shivers herself awake, then nuzzles his hand with her small, whiskered muzzle. Scimmi, his secret weapon.

She leaps abruptly to the floor, now tense and alert, lifting her nose to the grain sacks by the wall. "Well, my fine cat," he whispers, "what's the matter with you?"

She looks up sharply, mews at him quizzically. "Scimmi, you demanding little brute," And he draws some pork jerky out of his pocket, breaking off just the tiniest bit, then holding it out to her. One claw flashes out, taking it to her teeth with a sudden suave ferocity. It's gone in an instant, and she's up on her hind legs after another. But Jacopo puts out his hand and, seeing it empty, she sits neatly back on her haunches, accepting his stroking with patient equanimity. She is small, thin and silver, as if carved out of moonlight, and lithe as a 17 monkey with her acrobat's balance and wicked green eyes - a true jongleur's cat. A soothsayer told him that she was born of an imp and a scion of Saladin's Abyssinian torn, but Jacopo never trusts soothsayers, not after being one himself for six months in Marseilles. He pats her head once more, and she purrs her squeaky purr. "Come on,

Scimmi, we've got work to do." He loves her smug look when he pats her. She'll drop a gutted rat at his feet, then look up into his eyes with all the prim virtue of a child at its first communion.

"Time to go, cat." And he picks her up, opens the door just a crack and pops her through to the room beyond. In a moment she's back, squeaking worriedly. Clearly there's a problem. Jacopo puts his eye to the crack, knife in hand. He can see a narrow, shadowy corridor, but little else. He opens the door wider - it squeaks a bit, but he perseveres. Gripping the hilt of his blade, he eases his head through the doorway. Empty shadows to the left, and to the right? Sickly moonlight that seeps through the shutters at the end of the passage, bright enough to reveal a Tartar slave asleep on a palliasse. He falters, while Scimmi weaves a knot of squeaky purrs round his legs. "A fine time for that," he mutters, glancing left and right. There's no-one to the left, but any stairs in that direction will lead him past bedrooms and through kitchens, where he's bound to find further sleeping servants. Whereas, if he goes right and risks the Tartar, his way will more likely lead through the empty, larger 18 rooms toward the front of the house. He decides to take the more immediate risk, creeping on his toes toward the right.

Scimmi shoots noiselessly ahead, disappearing at the end of the corridor. At times, Jacopo wishes he could turn himself into a cat. So little noise, so few needs. But he lumbers on more silently than most mere men, sliding down the shadowed wall, past where the Tartar sleeps with the y moon on his face, which - even as Jacopo stares - twists in a sudden frown, as if in the grip of a dream. Jacopo feels the blade on his thigh. He'll have something to frown about if he wakes up, he sighs, peering intently at the quivering face. But the slave remains in his dream, and Jacopo rolls his eyes with relief, slipping soundlessly by to the spot where his cat disappeared.

It's a narrow stairway, and he's halfway down when he hears her soft mew. Barely audible though it is, its meaning is clear, and when he reaches the room below he sees that it's empty.

In fact, there's almost no furniture, just a huge open space skirted by a handful of chairs, a large sideboard and a few narrow tables, all enclosed by high walls hung with tapestries. A reception room, only used by the family for public events. Though, from his scant knowledge of the Fanfanis, there'd be no shortage of those. Indeed, it was in another illustrious house, at one such event - to which he'd cozened himself an 19 invitation - that he'd first seen the Fanfani diamond. He'd almost spilled his wine on his foot: a beautiful stone, as cold and bright as the evening star, and clasped in a choker of wine-dark rubies. But there it was about the neck of Monna Fanfani; and what a pouchy old neck, the diamond barely visible beneath the chins and fat dewlap, those rubies glinting amongst the folds of white flesh as if some ancient hen had just had its throat cut. Sacrilege, pure and simple, and only needing y one such as he to set it right, that this jewel might adorn the neck of some Venetian or Florentine beauty. One thousand ducats at least in the shops round St Mark's.

Yes, and he knows the captain who'd buy it.

Scimmi squeaks at his feet. He follows her down a far wider staircase, one of fine stone, till he reaches the mansion's main dining room with its heavy brocades and great table. He knows where the merchant's treasures will be. A man like Fanfani would never sleep unless his wealth slept with him. But two doors lead out of the dining room. Scimmi slips through the one on the right.

He would have guessed the other, since it was on the mansion's south side that he'd seen the last light extinguished. And who, in the house of a grasping merchant, would burn the last light? Who else but the master? He darts through the left-hand door, past two small chambers, then comes to the dark master bedroom. 20

He peers in, stands listening. Oh, for the eyes of his cat! There's a chest by the wall - a painted cassone - and some sort of picture to the left. Close by the door he can make out the edge of a dresser, and a smaller chest on the other side. On the right-hand wall there's a large crucifix, while the dresser holds a number of boxes and caskets. But the one piece of furniture that commands the whole room is the huge, curtained bed almost eight braccia wide. Its curtains, of course, are drawn, but y Jacopo doesn't need to open them to know that master and mistress are sleeping within. His basso profundo croaks through the night, while her daintier snores go fluttering up like soft, plump pigeons. Yet there's something else beyond this duet, on the far side of the room, a barely audible twitter of breath that must come from a maid on a truckle bed. There, he's got it mapped out, and no Scimmi to help him.

The diamond should be in one of those caskets on the dresser. It's just a matter of going carefully, quietly, like a cat for a bird. His eyes dart about - no pause to the snores. He tries a small casket of carved, painted bone. Some bits of lace braiding, half-a-dozen gilt buttons. Trust him to find the sewing box. He opens a larger one - a handful of silver grossi and a lady's gold belt. He pops the coins in his pocket and tries the belt in his pouch. But it's far too awkward, so he buckles it round his greasy old smock and goes on trying the lids of the caskets. There are some ducats, some florins, a 21 gilder or two, a very small sapphire on a thin silver ring, and something that's probably a cornelian, though it's hard to tell in the gloom. But no matter where he looks, from the exquisite ivory box to the chests full of cloth, there's no diamond to be found. At last, desperate, he goes to the massive crucifix hanging on the wall, running his hands across its surface for encrusted jewels. There are none, but as his thumb brushes the nail through Christ's left palm, he feels the tiniest y movement, hears the faintest of clicks, and sees the

Lord's chest spring open. There are little hinges at the back of the ribcage, and, as he parts the sternum further, he sees - glowing with the faintest yet purest luminescence - the Fanfani diamond.

Jacopo crosses himself, mutters a quick thanksgiving and reaches for the choker with a trembling hand. Yet, just as his fingers graze the bright facets, a hideous cry rips through the night. There's a deep, rumbling snarl and a stutter of feet from the rear of the house, then a second yowl, a sound like that of a riven baby, or a demon confronting the Cross. Hand paralysed before it can close on the jewel, he swings to the door as Scimmi tears through with a squeak of relief, not pausing an instant in her rush for the pouch. She leaps with perfect trajectory, and lands in a shiver of jewellery and coins; but Jacopo has no time to react, since there's already something there at the door, something snarling, rabid and black - a great dog, perhaps a fanged horse. Now the 22 maid's head pops up by the bed, then the curtains fly wide and Fanfani gapes out - with a cry of "Shut up you stupid animal!" - quite naked except for his nightcap, while the capped, white nakedness of his wife is already drawing the covers back up, whimpering softly as she peers at Jacopo. But Fanfani's too busy mastering the dog, which growls low in its throat, every muscle aquiver, since it's seen the intruder. Then Scimmi, peeping over the edge of the pouch, starts to splutter and hiss like a demented kettle. The dog leaps, roaring -

Fanfani bristling, transfixed - as Jacopo springs for the window, flings out the shutters, squats on the sill, then jumps for the rope's thin shadow asway on the wall. He grips in a welter of slobber and shouts, slithering down with smoking hands, winded an instant there on the stones, then scrambling away up the alley.

He turns back once and sees at the window, not the merchant, but the belling hound like some monstrous householder, champing and slavering in the mild, dewy air. Then he sprints north-east as fast as he can, keeping to shadows under the walls, making no attempt to steady the pouch that bounces on his hip. Serve her right to get a bumpy ride, nearly bringing him undone, and he grins to himself as she squirms amid trinkets and ducats.

He pauses at last beneath the wall of a shuttered bakery.

She pokes her head out of the bag, mewing reproachfully. 23

"You should talk," he mutters, "after giving us away like that. How do you think you'd like it in prison?"

She watches him with her bright green eyes and utters a sharp miaow.

"Plenty of rats? Well, that's a comforting thought."

He chuckles, then gives her a pat, and her face takes on its look of prim virtue as she nuzzles his hand.

Then they're hurrying on, past San Giovanni, the silk merchants' offices, the consul's palazzo, coming at last to streets where there's movement, a thin trickle of pilgrims being led to hospices, inns, the porticoes of churches in the Santa Croce quarter - anywhere that might mean shelter in the present troubles. Here, he realises, the presence of so many others means he's in less danger of being questioned. Nevertheless, he keeps to the shadows, hurrying on till he sees the gate. He stops briefly to watch the line of refugees, carts buckling beneath the weight of their goods as they're processed by the guards. The reports of the killings in Tana are bad.

There's even talk that the Tartars are raising an army.

They've long resented the Genoese. And the Greeks won't help their fellow Christians, not after the slaughter at

Romanais. For a moment, Jacopo's chest feels tight with anxiety, then he looks at the column of refugees, their 24 belongings almost falling from their carts for the taking. He pats his cat, smiling.

"Rich pickings, eh, Scimmi?"

* * * 25

Tuccio goes hawking

They rode their great horses in the green morning, and each young man had a hawk at his wrist. Tuccio, however, rode his black mule and had no hawk. He couldn't stand the sport, with its feudal trappings and its birds that bit at your glove and looked like fierce little knights in their leather hoods. "At least ride one of the horses," his wife had sighed. "You'll be like a cripple at a dance on that mule of yours. They'll be galloping all over the countryside, with you stumbling along trying to keep up." Needless to say, she hadn't come. Beatrice disliked the sport as much as he, but she was jealous of his dignity. Nevertheless, he'd informed her that falconry - as if it were his favourite pastime - was not like hunting a fox or a boar. One didn't go hurtling up hill and down dale. It was a noble sport - the hawks did all the work, while you simply trotted along behind and gathered up the quarry. Besides, his Spanish mule was his pride and joy, worth more than one of Baldassare's chargers any day. So here he was, once again bringing up the rear on his gentle mule while the others sat waiting.

"You'll have to bleed him, Tuccio," Baldassare chuckled,

"your grooms have fed him too much."

"He's a wise beast," Tuccio replied, scratching the mule between its ears. "He sees little reason to go chasing after prey fit only for knights and falcons." 26

It was an old chafing-post, Baldassare's love of his bird and Tuccio's pride in his mule.

"Wise?" Baldassare smiled, reining in his impatient mount. "He's lazy from all those honeyed figs." And the others chuckled knowingly, since these were Tuccio's favourite snack.

y "Wise indeed," he insisted, "and the palate of a gourmet."

Baldassare laughed, the falcon calm on his hand as he cantered off through the grass, the others close at his heels. Tuccio watched them go, and ambled along behind.

They were a handsome group, no doubt about it, all merchants or the sons of merchants, better off than they'd ever been, and playing at the game of country lords. Baldassare himself was noble, both in blood and bearing, and Tuccio held an almost fatherly affection for him. He watched him on his black horse, his blond hair, cut longer than the fashion, flying out behind him. Like the others, he simply wore a doublet with his tight linen hose, and Tuccio shook his head ruefully to think that, even when he was young, he would have felt uneasy to be so scantily clad; but now the young were different, more readily given to immodesty, though he couldn't agree with

Friar Tommaso that this was a sign of the coming 27

Apocalypse. Surely God would require more than tight hose to trigger the end of time.

No, on such a beautiful day it was hard to imagine that this ending would ever happen. He leaned back in his saddle and enjoyed the sun, the darting of finches and wrens in the air, the clink and bright brass of the harness. It was perfect June weather, with everything held in a blue-green depth - the long grass on the hillside, the woods toward which they were riding - and down in the valley the shouts of the mowers wielding their scythes, or a woman singing as she raked in the stalks, or the banter of those who were pitching the load on a high-piled wagon. To the east were the Wheat fields, still not quite ready for reaping, while the west glittered blue with the sea and hid Topomagro behind the low hills. On such a morning it was hard to believe that food was so scarce; but one look at the size of the unripe crop was enough to tell him how much of the seed had been eaten that winter. The beauty of the scene belied its danger. At present the thought of the harvest and the threshed, heaped grain made the farmers more hopeful. Yet the surplus in the city's bins was now closely guarded. He glanced at the village on a ridge to the north, and guessed that some of its number were boiling up grass for their dinner. The harvest would not feed them all. 28

He felt hot and - compared with the others - a little stuffy in his long grey cloak and gonnella. If not for the heat of the sun and the motion of the mule, he might almost have been sitting on a hobby horse in his study to have his portrait painted. He snorted contemptuously at the thought, and fixed the small, dark berretta more firmly on his head. Beatrice was always at him to have another portrait done, to commission a Nativity - with them cast as shepherds - for the chapel in Santa Maria y dei Poveri. In fact, he didn't like portraits. With his sharp chin, scant hair and pinched, narrow nose he looked like some satirist's vision of Parsimony. He glanced at his daughters just ahead of him - probably hanging back so that he wouldn't be left too far behind - and thought how lovely they were. God knew, they didn't get their looks from him. Then again, nor did they get them from their mother, who was a wonderful woman in her way, blessed with an unusual degree of wit, but as plain as a

Lent larder.

Gaia, the elder of the pair, looked spendid upon her white horse with its harness of scarlet and brass. She was a tall, pale, dark-haired beauty with anthracite eyes and a degree of pride that was doubtless a sin, but which was, perhaps, the thing about her that Tuccio most loved.

It seemed so unassailable, an inner redoubt from which she repelled every mockery, shock or indignity that he'd ever seen hc-r confront. Though, as she was Tuccio's daughter, these were far from frequent. And by eighteen 29 her pride had already stood in the way of more than one marriage offer. This, Tuccio knew, was his weakness. He could rule the town's wool industry with an iron fist, command the movement of ships from Cathay to Catalonia, keep his factors in stammering trepidation, but to control his daughters? In this he had less capacity than many a peasant on the brink of ruin. Other fathers organised everything - brokers, betrothal, wedding - and the girls simply had to accept it. But here, as in no other aspect of his life, he allowed his will to desert him. For this he received muttered disapprobation, though very softly muttered indeed. He loved Gaia for her pride, had let her have her way in all things, and simply couldn't try to break her. It would have been like trying to break himself.

And Marina, twelve-year-old Marina? Well, just look at her there in tunic and hose astride her bay pony. She wanted to ride like a man, not side-saddle like Gaia, and so she must dress like a boy. It frankly embarrassed him, but again he wouldn't say no. He was just too weak, despite his wife's protestations. For he couldn't resist the girl - she had more life than all his apprentices added together, as brown as a nut, with squirrel-bright eyes and as skinny and quick as a whippet. How could he stop Marina? Yes, these daughters of his. Gaia, surmounting her horse like her pedestal, while Marina rode hers like a jockey - they were his pride and his source of humility. 30

Tuccio breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the shade of the woods. Tall holm oaks tented the narrow track, their dark, prickly leaves rustling stiffly overhead. Baldassare's farm was more woods than meadows, one hundred staiora of land, certainly no more, at four florins a staioro. And a rough shack under the shade of a big chestnut tree, with a few vines, some olive trees and a dovecote. Gaia was why they were here, not the urge to y launch hawks at small birds. It had been obvious to him for some time that Baldassare was attracted to her. In fact, he was anxious for him on this account, since his daughter seemed unusually cold to him, even by her cool standards. And much as he liked Baldassare, Tuccio wasn't convinced that he was the best match for Gaia. Certainly, he was a delightful fellow, adventurous, clever, good- hearted and honourable. He'd have been proud had he been his own son. But the lad's father, unfortunately, had been a far less prudent man, a noble, in fact, exiled from Topomagro and too proud, or obtuse, to succeed as a merchant. He'd simply frittered away what remained of his wealth in his exile in Venice. There was no doubt that

Baldassare had cut his old ties and tried hard to make good - he'd even been Tuccio's Balkan agent for a while, dealing in furs, iron and wax from Roumania. Yet, though his trading ventures often made money, he seemed to lose far too much. Tuccio feared that he wasn't a natural businessman. He'd seen many like this. And what a liability to their families such men could be. No, even 31 had he felt able, he doubted that he would have pushed Gaia into marriage, no matter how much he liked

Baldassare. As a man he was charming; as a business proposition he was a bad risk.

In the deep green leaf-light of a small glade he caught

up with the company. The dogs and beaters had been waiting there for them, along with a flask of red wine

and some olives. No-one dismounted but Marina, who ran y over to pat a big liver-coloured hound that was

brandishing its tail in the brush and waving the pink rag

of its tongue at her. Tuccio finished his cup of red

wine, and then sighed. He glanced at the trim young

falconers on their powerful horses, the birds on their wrists like little blind bishops in their bright leather mitres, and felt a surge of impatience with this

fruitless parading about. As if reading his thoughts,

Baldassare gave a sign to the beaters, who immediately went striding off down the path, belabouring the scrub.

They rode in a loose column, Tuccio forced to increase his pace, since he found himself somehow between two

falconers who were obviously keen to see the first flush.

He watched Baldassare and his friend from Livorno, Aldo del Palagio, who rode together at the head of the group.

He knew there was a friendly rivalry between them concerning their birds, yet noticed that neither Aldo's big gyrfalcon nor Fiera - Baldassare's smaller purebred peregrine - had been unhooded. Instead, a brown goshawk with a long, hooked beak was now glaring about it with amber eyes, bating impatiently with its short, stout wings on its handler's gloved fist. And he suddenly saw that, though the others held their birds by jesses in the conventional way, Baldassare kept no such check on his peregrine. But for her hood, Fiera was free to move about as she would, yet maintained her motionless stance on her master's hand. Then, before he could give it any more thought, there were wings all about him as the dogs y ° flushed a brace of woodpigeons, which went beating away in every direction like so many feathery Roman candles. The goshawk's owner gave a soft, shrill whistle, and simultaneously the bird catapulted from his wrist, pushing him back in his saddle, already weaving like a drunken brown fury between the trees in pursuit of its prey. In a matter of moments, one of the pigeons, which had seemed to move so fast through the air, was only inches away from the hawk's sickle beak. And then it was caught in the talons' curved hooks, while the creature embraced it - the cruellest of lovers - piercing its flesh to the very heart.

The dogs went belling through the tangles of holly, and the beaters came after, and the hunters all smiling on their horses. The goshawk's owner whistled, loud and insistent, and his bird was soon settled back on his wrist, its beak still bloody beneath the plumed hood.

When they got to the pigeon they found it half plucked, head holed like an egg by the goshawk's beak. "She's a 33 bit eager," smiled Aldo, though his friend just shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing. Tuccio looked appraisingly at the corpse. Perhaps it had been an untidy kill, but it was a lovely plump bird, and he found himself already thinking of dinner.

It wasn't long before they emerged from the woods into sheets of bright sunlight, where a steep meadow, quite silvery in the sudden glare, rustled its grasses round their horses' gaskins. At the top of the hill, surrounded by chestnuts, was Baldassare's old farmhouse, while, some way below, the fields fell away to a thin, bright ribbon, a tributary of the Ombronetto. Tuccio lazed dreamily in the saddle, gazing ahead to where Baldassare was now riding with Marina and Gaia. At present he seemed to be talking to the younger of the two girls, but even from where he was, Tuccio could see how his glance strayed constantly toward Gaia. Perhaps, after all, he would make a good son-in-law, even an excellent one. He was smooth, a good talker, quite shrewd at times. With Tuccio's guidance he could be a fine merchant, though this didn't seem to be enough for Gaia, who rode with that characteristic air of assurance that both charmed and frustrated her father, her eyes fixed levelly ahead, a faint smile on her face, as if accepting the sun's due obeisance. Even had she liked Baldassare, she would not be easy on him. 34

Indeed, were Tuccio to allow himself any anxiety for the man, it would not really be on account of Gaia. He had genuine enemies, much the same as his own, yet for

Baldassare their enmity seemed more bitter, even though twenty years had passed since the exile of all those old nobles. The very fact that he too had been one of the victims was what made their resentment so great.

Frederico dalla Montagna, Moltogalante, the Gentili, and all the other clans of their faction, saw Baldassare as a y traitor to his family traditions, to his caste, and - though he'd only been ten at the time of his exile - to his Ghibelline past. They simply couldn't stomach the fact that a noble should turn his back on his faction and go with the Guelphs, insulting his father who'd been banished for fighting that very party. It enraged them that a man of his blood had been a wool merchant's agent, that a noble could aspire to the condition of a bourgeois, and not a very successful one at that. Yes,

Baldassare had to watch his back in the streets, especially now that bad harvests and growing disorder had made Montagna more cocky. The town had not felt so tense since the time of the exile. Montagna was even said to be plotting with a faction in Florence.

He watched Baldassare, and wondered if the reason he liked him was that they shared so much in common. They were both despised by the nobles, had both spent their youth in foreign trading posts, and both their fathers were exiles; though Tuccio's father had, in fact, been a voluntary exile from his native Pisa, becoming a partner in a rundown tavern in the Borgo Santa Maria. Still, this meant that neither man - unlike most other merchants - had a network of relatives in the town; so that each was more dependent than most on the friends he could find.

Yes, they had much in common. So why not Gaia? But his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden agitation amongst falcons and falconers.

y A great flock of pigeons was wheeling in circles over the hills, approaching the party like a piecemeal cloud, turning in slow, solid arcs, their wings to the sun, then seeming to disappear as they changed their direction.

Aldo drew the hood from the head of his bird, which bated and stirred on his wrist. Fiera, Baldassare's peregrine, remained motionless when her hood was removed, only blinking a little in the dazzle of light. Slate-blue against her master's scarlet doublet, her stillness made her look like a small, fierce statue, and though the gyrfalcon looked far bigger, Tuccio was impressed by the length of her wings, the notched beak, the sharp, alert eyes with the black bars beneath them. As the wings of the flock came and went in the sun, her face was a mask of watchful ferocity.

Aldo released the jesses and the gyrfalcon flew, springing from his arm with a powerful leap, its talons ripping free of the glove, like some part of the falconer '"V had torn itself loose. It climbed through the air with C-- 36 great beats of its wings, until it was a mere shadow between the sun and the flock, which now drifted over the valley floor. Then Fiera too soared, but so swiftly, so soundlessly, that Tuccio felt like he'd hardly drawn breath before she was a speck at the sky's blue summit.

He watched the still birds and, for a moment, wondered what they saw so far from the ground. They would see him and his fellows as the merest of insects, no more than ants; and away to the east - the far hills and Perugia.

Would they see Venice, perhaps? and further still, to the lands of the heathens, or those recounted by Marco Polo?

To the west - Topomagro, then Spain, the far islands, and beyond? over the sea? Would such birds see the edge of the world, then the great singing spheres? Or did they just think of the kill? He smiled, bemused, but was interrupted from his revery by a shout from the horsemen.

Suddenly, in a burst of bright song, a pair of skylarks soared over the valley, their flight a bit higher than that of the pigeons. Tuccio forgot all about his musings and thought of those skylarks, their sweet, juicy flesh quite packed with white truffles. Oh, a food for the gods and rich gluttons. Both falconers whistled shrilly. But their birds were already stooping, dropping so fast through the air that Tuccio could barely see them. It seemed impossible that they should hear their masters' signals. Fiera, though she'd stooped second, was already beneath the gyrfalcon when her flight seemed to falter, to warp in the air like a bad arrow, veering hopelessly short of her target. And sure enough the gyrfalcon hit 37 first, taking a pigeon mid-flight in its talons. The bird, broken, was already fluttering to the ground. Yet a second cry made him turn to Fiera, since, at that very moment, at the end of a fast, arcing fall that might almost have torn her wings from their roots, she had caught one quick skylark a blow with her claws, pursuing it down as it plummeted.

The dogs and the beaters were already descending the hill as the gyrfalcon, like an angry white ghost, came swooping back up toward Aldo's fist. But Baldassare didn't move. Instead, he gave a curious, trilling whistle. Then Tuccio heard an intake of breath. "I don't believe it," someone was saying. "What peregrine ever does that?" For there was Fiera, sweeping toward them, the dead skylark clasped in her claws. But her master just smiled - rather smugly, Tuccio thought - and took some raw cuts of meat from the pouch at his belt, holding them out to the fluttering falcon.

* * * 38

TAe Tartars come to Kaffa

Jacopo Passero lived near the east wall of Kaffa, in one of the rooms of a large but ramshackle house on the edge of the Armenian quarter. Indeed, it might be more true to say that he slept in that room, since he spent most of his time either in the kitchen, talking with his landlady, Monna Simona, nibbling at the tasty bits she was chopping, or on the big rear balcony, hoping for a y soft southern breeze while he gossiped with Lapo Tromba, his landlord. In truth, you didn't actually talk with

Lapo - you listened to his endless soliloquies on the slyness of the Venetians, the stupidity of the Turks, the clannishness of the Armenians, the lechery of the Genoese, indeed, on any subject guaranteed to raise him to a slow and satisfying rancour, while his voice grew slurred with his homemade grappa. "The Tartars," he might snarl, since this was a subject that preoccupied the town at that period. "Don't talk to me about Tartars. A race of degenerates, drunk all the time when they're not raping virgins. Bloody Tartars." And he'd mumble his way to apoplexy, while Jacopo nodded, watching his fleshy, vermicular nose grow bright with conviction as he drained his full cup.

It's not here, however, that we find Jacopo Passero on this fine spring morning, but at the door of the long

Tromba larder in the foundations of the house. It's cool here, half underground, though this is not why Jacopo's picking the lock. He likes food, and so does his cat, small though she is. But Lapo insists that the larder's best delicacies be kept for his family. It's a small failing, the sin of gluttony, and Jacopo could do worse than relieve his landlord of the need to confess it. He slips the door open carefully, peers into the dimness, while Scimmi darts through like a little grey phantom.

"No," he hisses, as she crouches to spring beneath the hung ducks, which have charged the cool air with a sharp, y gamy smell. "Have some of this, you greedy thing." And he carves a thin slice from a long leg of ham. "No-one'11 notice it." He throws it down and she pounces hungrily, shaking her head as if killing a mouse. There's no point in stealing a banquet if you wind up in prison, or even if it means you can steal nothing more. He likes to leave the larder looking just as it did, so that he can return for judicious snacks whenever he pleases. "No, Scimmi," he whispers - as she props once more beneath the ducks - and cuts her a second thin slice of ham. He looks about him, carefully wiping his blade, takes off the bag slung over his shoulder, and carves out a piece of marzolini cheese, a few slices from a hacked mortadella - two of which he tosses to Scimmi - then fills a small flask from one of the barrels of homemade red wine, takes a handful of olives from a pottery jar, some imported figs, some goose-liver pate, a bit of pork jelly, a pair of oranges, and - though he hesitates here - a small capon that has somehow slipped from its hook and lies on the stones.

Then he stuffs it all in his bag, gathers up Scimmi and hurries outside, locking the door while she stretches her neck for the buried capon.

Passing through the kitchen on his way to the street, he finds Lapo groaning at the table, wiping his great nose with the back of his hand, eyes streaming as he joylessly munches at chillies and garlic.

"He's unwell," says his wife, and once again Jacopo finds y himself looking at the small, fair Monna Simona and wondering how she could have ended up with an ogre like

Lapo. "There's a surfeit of sluggish humours. Maestro

Tomassi says he needs dry, hot food."

"Worms," moans her husband, then coughs wetly. "My body's a city of worms."

"Worms?" repeats Jacopo, feeling the bag at his back to see that it's properly closed.

"Yes, may they roast in Hell with the Tartars." And, cradling his stomach, he groans once again, then adds quickly, "Not that I mean it, Jacopo. They're alright - the worms, I mean, not the Tartars - so long as they're kept contented, well-fed, not jostled about or attacked with poisonous medicines... just resting there happily in the guts with nothing to disturb them. Between the mouth and the arsehole it's their own little fortress, and God help you if you try to lay seige to it." 41

"Then what are you doing with all those chillies? They're a weapon against worms, aren't they?" And indeed, Monna

Simona's approaching with reinforcements, a glass of fiery grappa.

"No, no," replies Lapo, breathing in the sharp fumes.

"Oh, they like that," he chuckles, and tosses back a mouthful. "It's them, my guests, who need all this heat.

It's their humours, not mine, that are out of balance. We have to cure our vermin to cure ourselves. Woe betide the man whose worms grow sick or start to die, spewing their poisons into his blood. My own have grown melancholic with phlegm, and so the blood becomes thick and the heart grows sluggish."

Scimmi has jumped on the table, where she sniffs at the chillies and springs back, blinking. Jacopo removes her before his landlord can give her a clout with the back of his hand.

"I could get you a potion to expel them," he says, "down at the apothecary's on Via Malocello. I've heard of a woman at Tana who produced over three hundred worms, which she kept in a bottle like grey vermicelli."

"The devil you will! Just the mention of it makes the beasts writhe within me. The surest sign of a dying man is if his worms leave him. No, nothing like that. But if 42 you're going out, could you get me a few of those hot ginger sweets? I think they'd like those."

Jacopo agrees readily, taking his leave and strolling to the door. On the street he heads north along the east wall, toward the north-eastern gate. But it's soon obvious that something is wrong. The town militia is manning the parapet, soldiers are running through the streets toward the gate, and everyone's face holds a look y of confused or knowing urgency. Jacopo grasps a knowing one by the sleeve and asks him what's happening. "You're a bit behind," the man grunts. "It's the Tartar army, one of their forced marches. They've advanced more quickly than anyone thought possible." Then he pulls away, rushing off to wherever he's going. Jacopo opens Scimmi's pouch, and she peers up at him, yawning. "Well, my girl, it looks like we're in for it." She stares solemnly up, then yawns once again. "No," he grins, "you never were a political animal," then closes the flap and hurries on to the north-eastern gate.

Now the church bells are ringing all over the town -

Santa Croce, San Pietro, Santa Maria - as if proclaiming the Lord's second coming instead of the descent of the

Golden Horde. The gates, of course, are locked tighter than Heaven to an army of sinners, and soldiers are guarding the stairs to the wall like armoured St Peters.

Some paradise, he sniggers, with burglars included.

"Would I...aah," he begins, "...be able to go up and have 43 a quick look." But the corporal just glares and waves him off with his spear. So, what's he to do? He wants to see for himself, and not out of morbid curiosity, but because he feels blind behind these walls. If only he could see - no matter how big the army - he wouldn't be feeling so helpless. And then the great pealing announcing the seige makes him think of Santa Croce. The belltower. He goes rushing off, retracing his path till he gets to the church with its tall campanile. No priest, no people, only the sacristan ringing the bells. He ducks through the doorway and runs up the stairs, one flight, two, three, panting and weak-kneed near the end of his climb, engulfed in the thick waves of sound that roll through the air. And when he gets to the top - his fingers in his ears, the very stones about him seeming to ring, and

Scimmi, suddenly awake, peering out of the pouch with panic in her eyes - he first sees the Tartars.

They're coming down through the mountains on the road from the north, a seemingly endless column of horsemen, more horses than men, each rider clad in a leather cuirass, or in mail with a breastplate of oxhide and iron, all bristling with javelins, bone bows, fletched arrows, hefting maces, hooked lances, an axe or a scimitar curved like their drooping moustaches; and above the blank discs of their shields - as if their emblem were nothingness itself - are the flat masks of their faces. The column stretches back to the top of the foothills, where a signal fire burns, answered by one in the valley beyond, and beyond that another, till they're lost in the haze from which the army emerges - warriors, horses, great carts bearing mangonels, trebuchets, rocking beneath the weight of tall seige-towers. There are camels loaded with bamboo ladders, the willow poles of tents, fat-bellied kettledrums to beat out the rhythms of battle; oxen dragging fodder, provisions, equipment, and most of all, the long history of slaughter - Bukhara with its thiry-thousand corpses, Zhongdu, its imperial palace turned to a mountain of bones, or the three mystic pyramids of Nishapur, one for men, one for women, one for children, all of skulls. The record of conquest trails through the mountains to Kaffa, where even now the leaders of that army are just beyond arrowshot of the northern walls, their squat horses solid beneath the scales of their armour, their standard-bearer waving their banner - no longer yak-tailed, but of fine corsac brushes - and four riders behind them, each with a long wooden lance, one spiked with the head of a Franciscan friar, one with a merchant, one with his wife, and one with the head, still trailing torn veins, of the Genoese consul in Tana.

Jacopo doesn't want to see any more. Nor does he feel like the food he has stolen. Yes, he knows that they use the tactic of terror, and as far as he's concerned it works very well. He walks numbly down from the tower and heads back toward home, feeding Scimmi the slices of mortadella as he goes. "The trouble with you, my girl," 45 he mutters, watching her bolting the sausage, "is that

you're insensitive." But she pays him no mind, and he

can't be bothered continuing. This apathy prevails to the Tromba kitchen.

"The Tartars are here," he says flatly, as if announcing

the arrival of some expected dinner guests. "I saw them from Santa Croce's tower."

y All three of the family stare at him. Lapo, already in

his cups, gazes as if trying to get him into focus. Monna

Simona looks alarmed, and her little daughter, Caterina, at first looks blank, then starts to respond to her mother's anxiety.

"What...what did they -" begins the mother, but Lapo

bursts out, "Oh Christ, here come the heathens, sew up

your daughters' slits." His voice is heavy with grappa,

not fear. "Sic all the old sex-crazed nuns from Santa

Dolorosa onto them. Exhaust the poor bastards, whittle

their savages' cocks, give 'em the -"

"Would you stop!" cries Simona. "You're ... frightening your daughter."

And, indeed, Caterina is looking upset, though more from her mother's urgency, Jacopo suspects, than from Lapo's obscenity. 46

"Trina...here," he says, holding out one of the oranges. "I got you a present."

"Oh," says the little girl, taking the fruit in both hands. In fact, being a man more interested in thieving than eating, it's not the first time that he's raided their larder only to return the food as a gift.

"Oh, Jacopo, you shouldn't have," says her mother, y pleased to be able to change the subject.

"And...well, here are a few other things I got for the pantry." So saying, he takes out the olives, the figs, the other orange and the capon, leaving the pate and jelly, since they might well recognise them.

"Any, urn, wine there, Jacopo?" mutters the landlord, and, for an instant, he almost takes out the flask, then thinks better of it.

"This is too much," says Simona, smiling. "You're really too kind." Then she turns to her husband. "We've never had a lodger like Jacopo, have we, dear?"

Her husband obediently shakes his head, while Jacopo smiles benignly. "But it simply shows how hard the times have become," she continues. "I mean, no matter how many of these little presents you give us, the larder just never seems to grow full." *

It was not long before the Tartar army had established its camp before the city, extending across the plain to the east and to the foot of the northern hills. They swarmed beneath the walls, locust-like in their lacquered carapaces, erecting tents, catapults, seige-towers, while the heads of the consul, the friar, the merchant and his wife stared at the city from the tips of their pikes with melancholy eyes. They had some banker from Tana, one

Giuseppe Tantabella, deliver a speech beneath the eastern gate, saying that the Genoese should open their city to the conquerors, that they would be treated well if they did, though should they resist, history showed the destruction that awaited them. But, having been asked to heed the lessons of history, the townspeople answered his appeals with silence. It was only late in the night that some thought they heard cries, and at dawn an object was lobbed over the walls, landing in the Piazza San Piero.

It was the uncured, bloody skin of Giuseppe Tantabella, and, when the guards looked into the trench below the ramparts, they saw the body of the banker huddled in the dirt like some pink and violet pupa torn from the chrysalis.

This heralded a rain of missiles, the mangonels firing massive darts across the walls, the trebuchets lobbing rocks onto rooftops, streets and squares, while volleys 48 of arrows pierced wood and flesh alike as they fell in random showers. Jacopo scurried into an arcade on the

Piazza San Piero, stepping gingerly out when the arrows ceased clattering onto the tiles, but was quick to duck back when a set of large stones came crashing about him.

One rolled quite near his feet as he huddled behind his pillar. He looked at it, and it looked back. He looked still harder, but it didn't blink. This stone had eyes, a nose, a mouth and well-trimmed beard. Despite the y possibility of further arrows - and, God knew, further heads - Jacopo went scuttling for home.

In the following days there was a rain of human limbs, the putrid carcases of oxen - and Simona recounted a rumour of a dozen limbless babies that had fallen over the Borgo San Antonio. In the Armenian quarter there was a torrent of skulls, landing on the pavement like huge, fragile hailstones, exploding as they fell. It was as if the sky were one great charnel house pouring its contents down on the earth. But such excesses dwindled as the town showed its resolve and, presumably, as the army exhausted the most ghoulish of its missiles. Thus, their first campaign of terror over, the Tartars resorted to more conventional tactics, launching massed attacks against the walls with their ladders and towers, pounding at the gates with iron-shod tree trunks, while their bows streamed with arrows and the mangonels flung fiery darts.

But the town militia was alert and well armed, chopping off the hands of their agile attackers, raining arrow- 49 storms down on their heads, pouring hot pitch, boiling oil, molten lead through the walls' machicolations till the Tartars, in the tight iron scales of their armour, were fried like shoals of metal fish. So it wasn't long before their generals were admitting that the seige would take longer than they'd initially hoped, and that - though they'd eventually take the town in one great offensive - they might have to let hunger smooth their path. y

Hunger, however, was something the Genoese would not have to face for some time to come. They had long known the

Tartars' intentions, and were well prepared with granaries full to the brim and richly stocked warehouses.

They'd sent a fast galley off to the west, though the Turks and the Saracens were unwilling to help, while the

Greeks would doubtless feel well rid of them. Yes, help would be slow in arriving, if it arrived at all. Yet they had food for the interim, and so they held out, glancing back over the southern wall toward the Black Sea, with their swords held north and east. And as the Tartars resigned themselves to a longer siege, life resumed something like its normal rhythms for the townsfolk.

People returned, as much as was possible, to their daily routines, never free of the feeling that they were playing a part, doing their bit to ensure that the mask of order and calm was kept firmly in place, while all the time knowing that it might be shattered at any moment by the fall of a stone, or the flames of an arrow kindling their roof, or the sudden breaching of the wall by ten thousand soldiers.

One morning, for instance, Jacopo is walking down the street, doing just what he seems to have always done - keeping an eye out for a likely purse to snip from its belt. He's looking quite jaunty, since the times have been kindly to burglars, what with the seige distracting people's attention and so many property-holders given y commissions. The only problem is people's fear for their houses. With those bamboo-tube rockets fired like arrows, and those big flaming darts, everyone thinks their house will burn down. They no longer leave their valuables at home, at least those that are portable. And where do they put them? Why, on their belts, of course. So this is why

Jacopo's sauntering along, seeking the right purse to cut. And here it is now, fat with the clink of gold florins, and dangling from the belt of a dapper bourgeois, oblivious to the siege, it would seem, from his air of complacency. Well, if the Tartars can't ruffle his smugness, let Jacopo see if he can. Sidle up through the crowd in the square, slip out the knife, take care lest the bustlers nudge you against him. Now step alongside, feel the weight of that purse, heavy with florins and big as a bull's testicle. Then reach with the blade, draw down the cord, and thonk! he's been hit on the head by some whopping great boulder that's come through the air, crushing his skull like an empty eggshell, while everyone's looking and your hand's on hi purse.

It's now that Jacopo holds onto the fellow, beginning to cry, "Oh, my friend, my poor friend," cradling his head while slipping the blade into his own loose sleeve.

"Quick!" he cries to one of the starers. "Those bastards have done if! Can't you see that he's hurt?"

y The man obeys Jacopo's gestures, putting his arm round the victim's shoulders. But hurt? His head looks like a plate of spaghetti. Yet nobody makes the slightest objection when Jacopo says he'll go find a doctor, perhaps because he runs off so smartly, wiping his brow and sighing with relief, barely realising that, in the chaos, he didn't think to take the purse.

* * * 52

In which Gaia receives a fright

Tuccio stood at the window of his study. It was a balmy summer night, with vespers' pink clouds and the high jinks of the swallows long past. Yet he felt furtive, and not a little guilty, in the gloomy light cast by the one small oil-lamp on his desk. He was dodging Father Matteo, allowing the entertainment of that niggardly priest to fall to his wife, who by now had presumably exhausted the prayers for compline from the Hours of the Virgin, and would be once more defending the ornate beauty of her

French prayer book against his customary diatribe. It was ridiculous that he, Tuccio di Piero Landucci, should have to hide in his own house like some fox in its lair. But the only alternative was Father Matteo, and the last thing he felt like was sitting there losing his patience, while the priest's cheeks grew ruddy on his best vernaccia, and his voice of a tired old wether bleated on into one of his well-worn sermons. Why was it that age entrenched people's thoughts along pathways increasingly narrow, like a cart whose wheels wear a groove in a lane till it can find no other way? It was as if they passed a few brief years learning new things in their youth, and spent the rest of their life attempting to fortify them.

He glanced out across the town's skyline. It was jagged with towers old and new. Fortification: it seemed a universal obsession. Perhaps he should show more charity toward Father Matteo. Age was no crime, and if the man 53

was dug into a rut, at least it did no harm other than to bore those members of his flock he chose to call on. He wished he could say as much for those noble gentlemen who wanted to impose their own well-worn notions, not with sermons, but with swords. No matter how threadbare their ideas, Montagna and the Gentili were growing more and more dangerous as the food shortage lasted. Their gangs of retainers now rode brazenly through the streets, looking for trouble, even defying the will of the Priors at times. And it could no longer be doubted that there was a campaign to stir up the vagrants, who'd been coming into the city in still greater numbers ever since it had become obvious that the harvest was going to be worse this year. It was a dangerous game, and could well backfire on them all.

Letting his eyes roam over the moonlit town, he nodded as if to confirm his gloomy prognosis. For Topomagro bristled with towers like a porcupine of brick and mortar. Vying with the Duomo's campanile were the ancient constructions of the Montagne, the Gentili, the

Moltogalanti, the Miniati, and numerous others. But it was the more recent towers that Tuccio knew to be a sign of the present danger. That of Agnolo del Leone, looking pale and naked in the moonlight, where it rose beyond the

Palazzo dei Dieci, or the lower, heavier structure built by Bartolomeo Chiaudano almost beside the Palazzo

Gentili, or that of Marco Martello - all these were signs of the unruly times, of how much these merchants feared 54 attack. Even he himself - he had to admit to his anxiety

- had begun constructing a modest tower on top of his warehouse at the rear of the courtyard. True, there was an element of fashion about it all, but there was no denying the reality that underlay such ant-like industry

-the town was on the verge of chaos.

But at this point his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Enter," he said, hoping to God that it was not the priest come to hunt him out. Surely the imperative of paperwork was still a good enough excuse for a merchant such as he. But it was Lucia, his Moorish slave. "Signor Tuccio," she said, and he was struck for a moment by her appearance there before him, like a figure carved from anthracite, eyes white as cuttlebone in the shadow of the doorway. "Monna Beatrice said to tell you that Signor Baldassare is here."

"Oh," he nodded, suddenly relieved to get away from the gloomy study. "Tell them I'll be down in a moment."

Tuccio joined the others on the rear loggia above the courtyard, where a low moon was slanting pallid light on the violets, the dovecote and the tall cooling tower with its labyrinth of chambers, which he'd had his builders construct to the specifications of some Spanish Arab.

Here, he found the night's brightness augmented by only 55 two candles. Yet he could still see the glow suffusing the cheeks and nose of Father Matteo - sure proof that he'd been sampling his barrel of vernaccia - where he sat with Beatrice at the small table. He could also make out the smiles on the faces of Marina and Gaia a little further from the light, where their sewing must have been straining their eyes. In fact, the only face he could not make out was Baldassare's, since the moon was almost directly behind where he stood at the balustrade, casting his features into shadow. What he could see, however, was the hooked head and folded wings of the bird on his arm, framed in silhouette by the moon's silver disc.

"Tuccio," said Baldassare's shadow, and though the older man could not see it, he could hear the smile in his voice. "I thought I'd come and rescue you from the prison of your papers."

"You're too kind, my friend," he replied, nodding briefly at the priest, who was perhaps a little miffed that the merchant, having failed to materialise for him, was now here for Baldassare. "And I see you've brought a companion."

"Yes, she gets restless in the mews," he explained, stroking her with a finger on the side of her neck.

"She's a sociable creature." Well, I hope she doesn't choose to socialise with the doves in my columbarium. I prefer them with heads."

"Oh, no. Fiera likes moving targets." He drew his face slowly down till it was level with her own, careful not to loom over her. For the first time, Tuccio realised that she wasn't wearing a rufter, since he could see the little glittering bead of her eye watching him from the shadow which hid her face. "Besides, you're too well y trained for that, aren't you, Fiera?"

"Surely you can't turn the ferocity of a bird like that on and off at will."

"She's an intelligent bird." And he took a small piece o meat from a pouch at his belt, holding it out so that she'd take it from his fingers, "Intelligence is what disciplines ferocity. People are the fiercest beasts I know. Yet, unlike mere brutes devoid of intelligence, they can keep their wildness in check."

"Well," said Gaia softly, "I'm not sure that it's a good idea to have hawks in the house. It's neither clean nor very kind. She must feel uneasy amongst huge creatures like us . "

He laughed and fed her another bit of meat. "But she's the calmest of birds, my lady." Gaia bridled at the courtly affectation of the phrase with its grinning hint 57 of mockery. "Like all the best breeds," he added, "she can be fierce or calm, according to her need. Here, would you like to try her on your wrist?"

It was a taunt, she was sure of it. So, wary of the bird though she was, with its hooked beak and hooked talons and its hard, bright eye, she said, "Yes, alright," nervously holding out her arm, while trying to hide her nerves with a laugh. y

"Are you sure, Gaia?" said Tuccio, as Baldassare offered up the bird.

"Yes, of course I am." Was it a conspiracy of men to make her look like a coward? She stretched her arm forward, felt it tremble a little with the effort. Why should she be frightened? People wore these creatures on their fist all the time. Of course, she didn't have a glove, yet

Baldassare seemed confident enough. No, she would do it to spite him.

"Just keep as still as you can," he said softly, easing

Fiera slowly across, moving his arm up and down, saying,

"Go on, girl, just hop onto Gaia's wrist," then murmuring

"There, there," as she looked, then propped, then jumped.

Gaia felt the scratch of her claws, was surprised by her sudden weight, and let her arm drop forward. Fiera flapped her wings once, and - Gaia couldn't help it - her wrist gave a sharp, nervous jerk, at which the falcon leapt, hissing, back to the falconer's arm.

The girl cried out, and Monna Beatrice was up on her feet. Tuccio was at Gaia's side, examining her wrist.

"Has it hurt you?" his wife demanded, lunging past the bewildered priest, almost knocking him from his chair.

"No, no, it's alright," Gaia replied, sounding shaky despite her efforts to sound calm and controlled, then added more insistently, "I'm perfectly alright."

But Monna Beatrice would not be reassured until she herself had examined her daughter, not even when Tuccio said, "Yes, she's correct. The bird's only grazed her."

"Well..." she hesitated, needing some outlet for her anxiety, "...that was all very foolish. And I was fooli to let it happen."

"Yes, Monna Beatrice," said Baldassare, looking highly embarrassed and stroking Fiera, who was creaking to herself like a rusty old door. "The bird got a fright."

Then he turned solemnly to Gaia. "I-I'm sorry, the - "

"Can I have a try, Baldassare?" Marina interrupted, unable to contain herself any longer. "I'm sure I could do it. Gaia's always been scared of animals." 59

"You most certainly cannot!" snapped her mother, adding, "No!no!" when Marina tried to object. "It's out of the question!"

"No," agreed Tuccio, glancing at Gaia who glared at the bird, her hand unhurt, her pride undoubtedly wounded. "It was not one of your best ideas, I'm afraid, Baldassare."

"Well, I think it was," said Marina, falling silent at a y look from her mother.

"Saint Francis," put in the priest, who seemed finally to have caught up with the situation - "though I am not of his order - was not averse to wild beasts." Tuccio looked at him uncharitably. The old goat would argue with anything once he'd had a drink. "That good saint loved their innocence, wild though they might be."

"Yes, Father," Tuccio replied, "but unfortunately none of us is Saint Francis." And he turned to Baldassare. "Well, it's - "

"More's the pity," the priest suggested primly, and before Tuccio could say another word, Baldassare had proceeded to change the topic.

"Yes, you're right, Tuccio, it was a poor idea, and hardly the one I came to discuss with you." He looked out over the balustrade, once more stroking his bird with the 60 feather he appeared to carry for just that purpose. He let the pause grow into a more extended interval, as if finding the right form of words, or mastering feelings which the incident with Gaia had provoked. "I was wanting to do some business," he said at last, " with your agent in Carcassonne." Again he paused, but Tuccio did no more than raise his eyebrows. "I think I mentioned those fleeces I was arranging to have purchased. Well, the price is good, but the dealers there are only interested y in livres tournois."

"Yes," Tuccio chuckled, "those Languedoc farmers are a conservative lot. They don't like adding money-changing to their risks, and with what's been happening lately to the Florentine bankers I'm not sure that I blame them."

"True," said Baldassare, running a hand through his long blond hair. "So I was wondering, Tuccio, if you'd write me a bill of exchange, drawing on your Carcassonne agency in livres tournois."

Noticing Father Matteo lean blearily forward in his chair, Tuccio himself leaned closer toward Baldassare, speaking almost in a whisper. "Remind me of the amount," he muttered, "in gold florins."

"Around two hundred." 61

"Oh, well, fine," Tuccio smiled, appearing to relax,

"it's not a problem," then glanced warily toward the priest. "And for a sum like that we'll keep the commission little more than nominal."

The young man grinned, and seemed about to say his thanks, when Father Matteo blurted, "Merchants, beware of usury," pausing to master a belch, then adding, "And all you fine bankers, beware lest you sin with the Jew and y the lombard."

Tuccio rolled his eyes at his wife, who merely shrugged and said nothing.

"The Church approves bills of exchange," he said curtly.

"Fra Taddeo della Rocca condemns all profit as usurious that stems from a loan or exchange of moneys with no goods involved." And the priest was left panting for breath, looking pleased with his formula.

"Even the great Thomas of Aquino speaks of a just price,

Father," said Baldassare indignantly, while Tuccio couldn't help smiling, having heard Baldassare, only a few days before, call the Scholastic "that fat

Dominican" .

"He was only referring, my son, to those cases in which the creditor is owed some compensation for damage done to 62 him. He was not including artificial schemes where usury is disguised as a commission in the exchange of currencies."

"But the Church allows such commissions on bills of exchange," insisted Tuccio, "since the changes in currency rates mean there's no certain profit."

"Then so much the worse for the Church, Tuccio," y * ' announced the priest. "Though, of course, you're referring to the French Church, ruled by the Avignon popes. Those puppets of the French king would approve any evil that could make them a profit. But there are many holy men in Tuscany who know usury when they see it."

"I think you'd do away with all forms of trade," snarled

Tuccio, losing patience. "And then what would happen to the parish poor boxes, to the paupers of Santa Maria dei

Poveri or the Confraternita della Trinita Santa? What would happen to the rich bequests, the foundations? What would happen to charity, Father?"

For a moment the priest was left silent, staring out at the moon, as if it might open its mouth and give the merchant a reply which he couldn't answer. Yet before it had the chance, Baldassare said, "Gaia," stepping suddenly forward. "With all this talk I almost forgot. I have something for you and Marina." 63

Marina was on her feet at once. "What is it, Baldassare? Show me. "

Gaia raised one eyebrow.

He changed Fiera from his left wrist to his right, and proceeded to shake the vacated arm, as if it were cramped from the weight of the bird. And, as he did so, a sudden bright gold ring appeared, hey presto! between his fingers. He glanced at it, apparently surprised, shrugged his shoulders as if uncertain of its provenance, then held it out to Marina, who catapulted forward.

"It's beautiful, Baldassare," she said, trying the small ring on each of her fingers in turn. It was a thin gold band with a bright little topaz set into its scalloped bezel. Not expensive enough to be embarrassing, thought

Monna Beatrice. One or two florins, perhaps, thought

Tuccio. "I'll wear it here," Marina decided, pushing it onto the middle finger of her right hand, "And when I get older, I'll wear it here," she added, waving her little finger in the air.

"It's very kind of you, Baldassare," said Monna Beatrice.

"But what do you say, Marina?"

"I know, mother, I was just going to," she replied rather peevishly, then turned a ravishing smile upon her benefactor. "Thank you, Baldassare." 64

He bowed ceremoniously, keeping his right arm high above his head, so that Fiera complained in a voice like dry boughs in the wind.

"It might be a bit small for both our fingers," put in Gaia, smiling tauntingly at her sister.

"My lady," said Baldassare, bowing once more, returning the falcon to his left wrist, his right hand weaving a flourish in the air, a singular twirl which produced a second present, glittering like a bright mineral fruit at his fingertips.

She started forward, then stood her ground, so that he crossed the floor till he was standing before her, the object still balanced on his fingers. He reached out to place it in her hand. She saw that it was a brooch, a lovely thing of jasper and amethyst, set like an ageless flower garden amongst filigreed silver pathways. For a moment she felt his fingers linger on hers, his eyes gaze deeply down. "Put it on, Gaia," he said in a stifled voice. Father Matteo lowered his eyes. Beatrice glanced at her husband. It must be worth a hundred florins, thought Tuccio. And they watched the pair standing together, hands joined at the brooch as if by a clasp, the scene itself like the carved vignette of some larger brooch, until suddenly, with a cry and a flutter from 65

Fiera, the pair broke apart, Gaia jumping back, the brooch in her hand.

"You're being wicked today," cried Baldassare, waving a finger at his bird, then turning to the others. "I've never seen her like this." He shook his head, smiling at Gaia. "It's just like she's jealous."

Staring solemnly at Baldassare and his bird, Gaia said y nothing.

"Well, it's a beautiful gift, Baldassare," said Monna

Beatrice, breaking the silence. "Perhaps - though I don't wish to sound ungracious - a little too beautiful."

"Ah, Monna Beatrice," he sighed, eyes sad in his handsome face, "I won't wear it, and it's cost me nothing but the pleasure of the giving. It belonged to my mother, and nothing pleases me more than to see it no longer stored in a casket, but worn instead by Gaia."

"He's right, Beatrice," said Tuccio. "Such gifts are good from a friend you can trust. Baldassare seeks to put us under no obligation, and as you say, my friend, beauty should be shared, not stored away in some chest."

Baldassare nodded appreciatively, though even as he did so, he realised that Tuccio's words would have cancelled any obligation he'd been trying to glean with his present 66 d - had he been trying to glean any at all. He held Fiera steady, glancing across at Gaia to admire his gift at her breast, yet saw instead only her small, firm smile and an empty expanse of red velvet.

She had shut the brooch up in her sewing box.

* * * 67

An invincible enemy

For some weeks the people of Kaffa remained caged in their town like a colony of mice surrounded by an army of cats. The Tartars' deluge of stones and darts did not diminish, their assaults upon the walls were of such violent unpredictability that they did not allow the militia a moment's relaxation, and the volleys of their rocket-arrows went hissing every day across the town like erratic, smoky comets. Yet, for all this, it was perhaps the growing sense of the impossibility of rescue, of the inevitability of defeat, of the relentless decline of food and will and energy that was the Tartar's deadliest weapon. It was a weapon secreted within the hearts of the people themselves, and, as such, was all the harder to combat. With each fresh offensive on the outer walls, this sense of doom gnawed deeper at the walls within.

While they watched the wagons trundling down through the mountains to bring fresh weapons, troops and supplies to the investing army, the townsfolk increasingly felt themselves to be part of some failing mechanism, some piece of clockwork wound up tight at the Tartars' first appearance, now slowing, dulling, losing impetus - despite their best efforts - in a ceaseless winding down.

It was only after the arrival of the bombards, after evenings spent listening to the crack of their truncated thunder as the balls crashed on the ramparts in clouds of shattered stone, that they first began to realise that 68 the Tartar army itself contained some relentless inner enemy. For a time, the nature of this enemy was unclear, since it made itself known only through such vague evidence as the fact that the catapults and bombards grew more spasmodic in their firing, until whole days went by with barely a missile falling on the town; and there were cries in the night and great fires burning far across the plain. Some distance to the east a second camp was made, at first a tiny island of tents cut off from the main army, quite baffling in its placement, since it was neither on the main supply route nor close enough to be useful in the siege, and yet it grew until its size began to rival that of the main camp. Once, during this period, the Tartars mounted an assault against the walls, charging forward with their ladders and seige-towers behind a storm of fire-arrows. It was perhaps their most concerted effort since the first days of the campaign, and yet it was their least successful. The militia told stories of Tartar soldiers so exhausted by their attempt to scale the walls that they had simply stood there, panting, almost thankful, as they watched the pikes come lunging for their throats. Many said that they had seen their enemies clinging to their ladders with a wild-eyed, feverish look about them, swords dangling from their fingers; while others told of seeing Tartar leaders run their dazed troops through with scimitars. Needless to say the army had skulked back to its tents, humiliated. 69

It was during the following days - when great columns of

ox-drawn carts, filled to the brim with corpses, went

rattling out beyond the farthest line of tents to the

Tartars' makeshift graveyard - that the rumour of a

pestilence took hold in Kaffa. There seemed more bodies

than the abortive assault could account for, while all

signs of life, save those that dealt with the transport

of the dead, seemed suspended in the camp. What the

Genoese assumed were massive funeral pyres draped the air

with smoke-palls thick as velvet, as if both town and

camp were the coffins of twin giants laid out beside the

sea. The thick summer heat hung heavily about them, and

soon long spirals of black flies mimicked the coiling

smoke columns that rose above the plain, while the heavy

stench of corrupted air wafted across Kaffa with each

hint of a northern breeze. Refugees from Tana and the

hinterland beyond the mountains told stories of a

sickness from the east, something of which most had

heard, a pestilence that had lain waste to India and

Cathay with a rapacity unknown even to the Mongol hordes

of Chingis Khan. They pointed at the thinning, desolate

smoke of the funeral pyres, the wagons of the dead, the

silent camp, the great-winged vultures now flown down

from their mountain fastnesses, and nodded their heads

with the grim satisfaction of those who know worse truths

than others have imagined.

The roles of besieged and besiegers were reversed by the

advent of this plague, until it seemed to the people of 70

Kaffa that it was now they who patiently awaited the end of their enemies, watching the signs of their slow decline. It was an irresistible inversion, too like the working out of a mighty and vengeful God's justice to be passed off as mere good fortune. So the town's preachers gave thanks to the Lord for His wrath against the heathen, and merchants donated more of their profits to charity, while keeping a wary eye on the missiles that rained spasmodically down. In fact, Jacopo was in the y Borgo Sismondi when the fateful assault occurred. It plummeted from the sky, crashing through tiles and cloth awnings, and then - as if transformed in the air into some softer substance - striking the ground with a dull, muffled thud. When the barrage appeared to be over, he ran with the others to the scene of destruction, finding not only broken stones, but broken bodies fallen from the heavens, as if the charnel-house rains from the first days of the campaign had started all over again.

Jacopo fled the spot almost immediately, though not before he had time to be certain that these bodies were diseased. Certainly, they were beginning to rot. There was a putrid, livid quality to the flesh, and bits of them had broken off where they had hit the ground. But there was more to it than this. He had seen dead bodies before, and he had smelt them, but never any like these, which gave off a stench that was more than the beginning of decay, something cloying and heavy that made the onlookers gag where they stood, like a violent 71 concentration of the smell that had sometimes drifted from the Tartar camp. Even from the brief inspection that he allowed himself, Jacopo could see that some had lumps upon their bodies - behind their ears or on their necks - many of which had burst, staining the skin about them with black and putrid oozings, now dry, yet which seemed to be the main source of that nauseating stench. Some of these lumps were no bigger than chestnuts, others were the size of eggs, while a few were almost as big as an y apple. But he didn't stay to discover more about this sickness. He neither knew what it was nor what had caused it, just that it was decimating an army, and if it were indeed the wrath of God, then there was no reason why it should spare him. Like an earthquake or a flood, or any other sign of God's displeasure, it was wisest fled and questioned at a distance. So it wasn't until hours later that he heard the pronouncements of the city's doctors, that it was an unknown, Heaven-sent pestilence best kept outside the walls, where God intended, so that a troop of soldiers was ordered to cart the bodies through the town and dump them from the southern parapet into the sea. It was also reported that the worst of the lumps had been found in the armpits and groin, where, according to Lapo,

"they sprouted like a third ball as big as a melon."

In the days that followed, more bodies plummeted onto the streets of Kaffa, falling like infected angels from the clouds, splattering in stinking pieces on the squares and courtyards. Yet, no sooner had they fallen, than platoons 72 of labourers scraped them from the stones, rushing their fragments in wagons through the town, then hurling them from the southernmost bastion into the sea. Here was what seemed an endless supply of missiles, an army immune to death, and yet whose very numbers were the measure of its destruction. Talk of God's wrath and prayers of thanksgiving dwindled, perhaps in the sheer frenzy of the effort to dump the Tartars' corpses, and once the first cases of infection began to appear in the town, all y * mention of heavenly justice disappeared.

The initial occurrences of plague amongst the townsfolk seemed more like rumour than reality, a myth so frightening in its implications that its very intensity - or so they told themselves - would make it appear to be real though it remained a mere nightmare. Then, as the bodies began to appear in noticeable quantities, its actuality became undeniable, and yet remained, for the majority of the people, a series of reported facts that happened at a distance. The sickness made its first appearance amongst the small, crowded Turkish community, then quickly spread to the Armenian quarter and those areas where the poorer labourers and artisans were living. There were stories of families dying in great agony, delirious with fever, of streets where every window gave forth groans and cries, of whole neighbourhoods in which the suffocating stench of the dying made all attempts at entry fatal. Priests were known to have perished in the act of absolution, 73 physicians to have died while ministering to the ill. The authorities attempted to isolate the sickness by sealing off the worst-affected areas, yet it wasn't long before the telltale symptoms - the boils or buboes (called

"eggs" by the commonfolk), the pain, the lethargy and delirium - were appearing in the wealthier parts of town. Soon the two small cemeteries at Kaffa were having trouble coping with the dead, and large pits were beginning to be dug, while some argued that the bodies would have to be thrown into the sea like those of the

Tartars, and others even suggested lobbing all the corpses up over the eastern wall in answer to their enemy, as if it were some macabre sporting match.

The pattern of the pestilence was devilish. It seemed to make no sense at all. For a time it would devastate a neighbourhood, then abruptly vanish, occurring instead in some distant part of town, where perhaps one family might be affected before it disappeared there, popping up like a puppet-show demon in some entirely different quarter.

In the midst of such confusing danger there was little attempt at explanation, though most agreed that some corruption of the air was to blame. Magister Cosimo

Simonetti swirled his red cloak before the town council and announced that the pestilence was an effluvium spread over the town from the decay of Tartar corpses on the plain; whereas his colleague, Magister Salimbene di

Michele, picking nervously at his vair-lined hood, suggested that this did not explain how the army itself 74 had been infected, and that the contagion had sprung from the earth as a noxious vapour resulting from recent earthquakes in the Caucasus. Some suggested that the sickness might be passed from one person to another, but the Turks maintained that this could not be so, since the plague was God's punishment of man for his sins, and one man's punishment could not justly impose itself upon another. Fra Giacomo Lanfredi was apt to agree, asserting that each outbreak of the illness was visited upon the individual only through the direct intercession of God.

Such explanations did little to inform or reassure the inhabitants of the town, who found their own ways of coping, according to the advice of their physicians and the extent of their wealth.

Jacopo Passero had neither wealth nor physician. Yet he knew the sickness with a quicker intimacy than most of the wealthy. This was accomplished one morning, when Lapo

Tromba came howling down the hall toward him.

"She's hatching an egg," he cries, grasping Jacopo's shoulders, "Caterina, our little Caterina, hatching an egg. "

For a moment, taken completely off guard, Jacopo is silent.

"An egg," he says at last, confused by Lapo's weeping.

"Caterina's infected?" 75

"Yes," the man sighs, then grips his shoulders tightly, propelling him toward the rear of the house. "Come, we must hurry!"

Jacopo isn't sure just why they must hurry, but he allows himself to be steered through the doorway of a low chamber, where the little girl lies on a high, narrow bed by the window. For a moment, he can find nothing to say.

She is writhing in a knot of sheets, whining to herself, her small blunt features twisted in pain, completely absorbed in whatever it is that she's feeling, her skin shiny with sweat and already hinting at the heavy, foul stink of the pestilence.

"Are you sure?" he says, turning at last to his landlord, and only now seeing Monna Simona huddled on a chair in a corner of the room."It could be a chill or some other problem."

"A chill?" Lapo snarls, and for a moment looks as if he might strike him. He seems about to say something else, but instead, lunges toward the bed of his child and hurls back the sheets, revealing her small naked body. Then he takes both her legs, pulling them roughly apart in his anger, so that she screams a single, thin shriek of anguish. She draws legs, arms, all quickly together, shrivelling in on herself like some crushed white insect, but not before Jacopo sees the red tumour, the size of a 76 duck egg, swollen tight in her groin. "You call that a chill?"

Jacopo looks at Simona, then turns back to Lapo. "No," he says softly, shaking his head.

Soon the house of Lapo Tromba is thick with the stink of the sickness. It fills the bedrooms and kitchen, it drifts through the hallways and out through the windows, infecting the street and the alley. Simona has become invisible, tending her daughter, bringing her fluids, mopping her face and sharing her cries. The child is now quite delirious, mumbling to herself and moaning, screaming at shadows in the corners of the room, then breaking out into devilish laughter. If his wife rarely moves from the sick room, Lapo seems glued to the kitchen, drinking himself to a stuporous melancholy, urging Jacopo to join him. Once the landlord asks him to take up some food for his wife, saying, "I can't go up there, not today. The child seems so tiny to bear so much pain," and with trembling hands holds out the tray to his lodger. Upstairs, the corruption of the air is so heavy that Jacopo can barely go in. It's as if the room were filled to the ceiling with dense, foetid water, some choking fluid deadly to breathe, yet he struggles on through, placing the tray by Simona asleep on the bed.

Caterina also is sleeping, though she's thrown off her covers, fretting in some dream. A second egg has hatched

- this in her armpit - and seeps a black fluid. Abruptly, 77 as he watches, she moans in her sleep, twists, writhes, then cries aloud as a thick brown slime pours out beneath her, filling the room with such a stink that Jacopo begins to gag. But Simona has already sprung to her feet, upsetting the tray, eyes barely open as she wipes at the child with a filthy cloth. He lunges for the gushing wine, the tumbling loaf, rescuing a rough-cut piece of cheese and holding it dumbly to him. "She's too young," the woman says, more to herself than to him, "too much a child - " but pauses, unsure of how to put it - "to be punished like this."

It gets so Jacopo can barely stand to be in the place.

Now old Carlo, one of Lapo's other lodgers, has fallen ill, hatching a goose egg in his armpit and that of a pigeon behind his left ear. The place is like Kaffa in miniature, with its people undergoing a gradual decay inside its walls. Their physician, a self-styled

"Maestro" Bernadino, encourages Lapo's agreement to his treatment with gold and crushed sapphires, but since Lapo can't afford it he just bleeds everyone in sight, either as preventative or cure. He's adaptable. But Jacopo's had enough, taking off with Scimmi to break into the mansions of the dead. Yet, after a few days, that too gets badly on his nerves, and he wanders aimlessly about the city, while carts come carrying corpses to the gravepits or Tartars to the sea. Inevitably he winds up back at Lapo Tromba's, where he meets his landlord 78

stumbling down the steps, the body of his daughter in his arms.

"She's dead, Lapo," he says, no hint of a question in his voice. But Lapo says nothing, not a groan, not a sigh, just the slow dribbling of his great bulbous nose onto his daughter's pale hand. Her eyes are black glass, and her skin is mottled with livid splotches like sick marble. "We'll get the priest round, Lapo, and the sextons."

But the man just keeps walking, nudging him out of the way with his daughter's body. "Come on, Lapo, you want to do it right."

"Wake up to yourself, Jacopo," he mutters, not even turning in his progress. "There's no-one to bury her, except in a pit under hundreds of others. I'll do it myself. And don't you worry, I'll do it right." And he reels off round the corner, under the weight of more than his daughter and the grappa he's drunk.

Jacopo stares after him for a moment, then hurries inside. "Monna Simona," he cries, "Monna Simona," moving quickly through the house, opening doors and peering into rooms, finding only old Carlo and Luigi Garzoni - both sick - in the kitchen. He goes to the door of the main bedroom, knocks, hears a groan then a cough, and casting aside whatever delicacy he possesses, enters. He finds 79 pretty much what he expected - Simona, turning painfully over and over upon the bed as if on a griddle, her face thickly smeared with sweat that already has the smell of the gravepit about it. And it's right there and then that he knows, no matter what the obstacle, no matter what penalties hold for deserting the town, that somehow, even if he has to swim all the way to the Bosporus, he's going to get out of Kaffa.

y This is no isolated resolution. The town's richest traders, bankers and prelates have all made it before him, their departure delayed by the reluctance of the

Venetian and Genoese trading companies to risk their goods in the seige. Thus, there are only two galleys at anchor in the harbour. Jacopo's problem is more basic still: he has neither the money nor influence to obtain passage. And this is where he has his first really good piece of luck since coming to Kaffa. His search for the required cash has led him to a narrow but elegant little house in the centre of town, a place quite open to the world. Here, as in so many other such houses, he finds a corpse in the fluids that have burst from its buboes. Nor does he pause to admire the smell, but ransacks each room as fast as he can.

In a cluttered desk, he finds a letter identifying the corpse as Giorgio dei Sapori, who was apparently a man of no small means, a trader from Bologna only recently arrived in town. It also becomes clear that he was a 80 prudent man, the kind who always makes sure to put his money in a bank, since there's very little cash at all about the house. Jacopo goes back through drawers, chests, caskets, desks, cupboards, purses, bags, and then...and then the satchel, the expensive leather satchel with the small brass clasps, where he finds his lucky break. At first he passes over it, missing its significance entirely, but then his glance grazes the sum of money,- over a thousand florins - recorded on the scrap of parchment. He looks more closely at it, and - for the hundredth time that year - gives thanks to the great Alfredo, who'd taken such trouble to teach him to read. For now he sees that it's a receipt made out by one

"Giuseppe Pozzi (Master) on behalf of E. Argenti & Co." for the carriage of pepper and saffron at a weight of forty libbre grosse, as well as small quantities of oil, loaves, salted meat, fowls, oranges, vinegar, wine, cassia, comfits, rosewater, garlic, onions, ginger, pots, bowls, glasses, candles and...and here he gives a shout of joy..."for the passage of Ser Giorgio dei Sapori aboard the Santa Margherita..." Yes, this is his passage, his ticket out of Kaffa, and Jacopo gives another loud whoop, so that Scimmi comes hurrying in, rubbing at his legs and purring, divining a good feed in the pleasure of his voice.

He picks her up and spins her round in the cool, bright moonlight streaming through the room. Yes, it's Giorgio's

Passage to Genoa, the pepper and saffron his only 81 merchandise, while all the rest is what he would have needed for the trip. Good old Giorgio, the burglar's friend. Jacopo can't believe his luck, and before the trader can rise in vengeance from his bed, or Fortune change her mind, he puts the struggling Scimmi in her pouch, pockets the receipt and flees without a backward glance.

It was only three nights later, with a bag of stolen finery over his shoulder, the receipt gripped in his hand, that Jacopo Passero and his cat boarded the Santa

Margherita, slipping forever out of Kaffa and south across the sea.

* * * 82

In which Brother Corvo finds new work

Rosso Gitti, a little light-headed with wine, walked down the track that led to the woods from the Under the Star.

Normally he would have thought nothing of this walk, but tonight, with the crescent moon turning the cypresses lining the path to funereal stone, and the beech woods looming ahead like a tunnel of darkness, he felt oppressed by some vague threat. He tried to focus his mind on the conversation that had taken place round the table that evening, but the words kept drifting aside to reveal, through the inn's open window, the figure seated in the dusk, face shadowed in the folds of his cowl. "The cardinal's trying to increase the labour that's due to him!" - these words swirled up in eddies, obscuring the dark figure, as Giuliano, the farrier, mounted his hobbyhorse for the second time that evening. "Cardinal

Rollo da Parma," he'd spat on the inn's dirt floor, receiving a scowl from the taverner. "He's the greediest vulture in that flock of vultures, and I don't mind telling him to his face." He thought of the way the farrier jutted his chin, cheeks flushed with wine and belligerence, as if Rosso himself were responsible for his master's actions. "That's right," said Girardo, another chin-jutter, "last year the tithes, this year the work-dues." He was sick of the way they badgered him with the cardinal's greed, as if washing Rollo da Parma's dishes made him privy to his every decision. Yet he couldn't help himself - whenever they started 83 criticising, he always ended up defending his master's actions as if they were his own.

He shook his head at himself, bowing beneath the palpable shadows of the great beech trees, and glancing back across his shoulder at the pathway, pallid with moonlight between the cypress columns. There was nothing there, and he breathed a slow, giddy sigh, once again shaking his head at his own reactions. Like a child, he thought, and returned to the farrier's words. "Everybody knows he had trouble at Avignon. And now he's come back to make trouble here." This was something that was often said, though Rosso saw no proof of it. "Oh, people talk,

Giuliano," he said, draining his glass, "but I don't know. He comes up to his palace from Boccaperta because it's cool in the hills. Tithes get increased because life gets more expensive for everyone, even the cardinal." It was at this point that Girardo had slapped him on the back and laughed. "You're an innocent, Rosso," he'd grinned unpleasantly. "You could clean out the devil's shithouse and think him an angel. Rollo da Parma's going to screw us, and then he's going to go across to the coast and screw Topomagro. But it's no good arguing with the innocent."

Rosso felt his face go hot, even in the cool of the thick night woods. "I'm not innocent," he had said, gulping down yet another glass of oily red wine. "Then you're guilty!" roared the farrier, pounding the bench. "And 84 what are you guilty of, young Rosso?" But Rosso felt confused, and it was then that he'd seen the stranger in the dusky light, sitting outside alone, face framed by the small, square window, and staring directly at him, or so it had seemed, though it was hard to tell with his features shadowed as they were by the rough grey wool of his hood. "I - I'm not guilty of anything," he muttered, turning back toward the room. "Oh, well, that's a shame,"

Girardo had snickered, facetious as ever, till Rosso - again defending his master with no real intention of doing so - had blurted, "And I don't see what Topomagro's got to do with it."

He turned. A shadow had moved in the depths of the trees behind him. He was sure of it. He stood, unmoving, watching the bend of the path where moonlight trembled on the ground in thin little slivers. All was still, there was nothing there, he was drunk. Slowly, turning his head uneasily back to the section of track before him, he hurried on through the wood. Such fears were childish, and he tried once again to focus his thoughts on the talk at the inn. But it was all too confused. There was something about the Priors in Topomagro taking over church land and renting it out at a profit, but he'd grown bewildered by the wine and mockery, and couldn't properly understand what they were saying. Instead, while their words swarmed round his ears and the drink fumed in his skull, his eyes had turned to that person no-one else had appeared to notice, the figure now dark with the 85 deepening dusk, framed in the window like Death himself and shrouded in grey romagnolo.

It was the way this person - a Minorite friar to judge by his robes - had been staring so silently into the room, at Rosso himself...it was this that had jangled his nerves. And again he wanted to look back behind him. But he wouldn't. To do so was feeding his fears, making them worse by,giving in to them, and he held his gaze firmly before him. Yet slowly the shadows closed in, building like a wave at his back, till he had to look once, and there, behind him, secreted amongst the branches, was nothing. He breathed and went on, thinking of the last words the farrier had flung after him as he'd stumbled out the door. "What are you walking for?" he cried. "Why don't you get da Parma to give you a barge for one of those canals he's building all over the country?" But he hardly heard him, intent on the friar alone in the night, and on keeping his eyes averted as he went by. Yet he couldn't resist one swift, secret glance as he walked down the road, peering back to where the man sat silent at his bench, now watching after him, exhaling two quicksilver columns of steam - though he couldn't be sure

- and grinning an intimate grin.

The track went funnelling down under trees, their foliage rustling like sniggering imps. Rosso thought no more about the inn, but concentrated wholly on his footsteps, on the roots and hollows that threatened to pitch him 86 onto his face, on the branches switching at his skin, on his hurry. Fear stretched time with its tenterhooks, and as he stared through the dark - no longer lost in thoughts of the evening - he heard the footfall. Despite the rustling of the breeze and the sounds of his own progress, it burst upon him like a sword drawn in anger,

Yet he knew that, once again, he was pandering to his fears, increasing them by indulging them, and held himself rigid, refusing to look though the phantoms might swell behind him, until he could stop himself no longer, and turning, knowing that the path must once more be empty, saw the hooded figure following through the trees.

He panicked, almost cried out loud, walked briskly on with little gulping noises. As he hurried round a corner in the track, he allowed himself one backward glance, and was dismayed to see that the thing was rushing behind him, the Minorite robe billowing in the wind of its speed. Though nothing was clear amidst the shadows, he felt sure he had seen no feet below the cloth, nor face inside the hood. He began to bolt, when suddenly a voice cried, "Lad!" He slowed, and then it came again - "Hey, lad!" - a rich, smooth, fatherly voice, the very voice to rescue you from dreams and dangers. He looked behind, yet there was naught but that friar's habit, which, even as he looked, was raising one arm with a beckoning gesture, pushing back the hood to reveal a face that seemed to be laughing ruefully. "Hey, lad," the friar puffed, "slow down a minute. I've been trying to catch you up." And 87 suddenly the boy felt foolish, no more than half-grown, as if Girardo and the farrier were right to laugh at him.

He stood and waited for the man to reach him. "Sorry if I gave you a fright," the friar said, adjusting his habit.

"I'm trying to get to the cardinal's palace. I thought you might know the way."

Rosso listened to the smooth voice and nodded, still a y bit shaken. "Yes, I'm going there myself."

"Oh, good," the man chuckled, resuming his progress along the path, so that Rosso fell in with his footsteps, as if it were he who were following the friar, and not the other way round. They walked for a way in silence, then the man turned to him and said, "You work at the palace,

I take it."

"Yes," the boy mumbled, "I'm one of the scullions."

The friar nodded, and again there was silence, broken only some minutes later when he added, "Good food there,

I suppose?"

"Keeps body and soul together." The boy glanced up with a shy smile. "Ah, but thus they never were," sighed the cleric suavely. "And the black comet already mounts the earth's rim."

"What?" asked the boy, slowing his stride.

"I am that comet," said the patient voice.

"You're....what?" y

Rosso stood staring in the shadowy road, eyes wide, mouth uttering a breathless rattle, the knife now buried to the hilt in his chest. "Your humble servant - Brother Corvo," said the friar, bowing, as he let the boy too bow slowly, deeply to the ground, then tore away the blade.

The palace of Cardinal Rollo da Parma lay in the midst of the wooded plains to the north of Boccaperta. Though this port town, the largest in his see, contained what was technically his most magnificent residence, he loathed the way its windows opened on the scent of brine and gutted fish, and so spent whatever time he could within the honey-coloured walls of his country palace. It lay like a topaz set in the cleft of two low hills, surrounded by a park of fall elms and oak trees, no more than eight leagues south-east of Topomagro. It formed the nub of an incomplete wheel, whose spokes were a series of 89 half-built canals by which His Eminence would travel throughout his see, unimpeded by the vagaries of brigands, towns or bad roads. As if to follow the fashion of the countryside, it had the look of a castle about it, with the crenellated parapet ringing its roof, with its tall twin towers and the heavy bronze gate, ornamented with a moulded grille to ape a portcullis. Yet it lacked any real fortifications, designed to give only the appearance of severity while containing every luxury y within its walls.

Isolated though it seemed, it was really a little city unto itself, housing a small army of guards and servants, chaplains and chamberlains, lawyers and notaries, deacons, physicians, carpenters, masons, goldsmiths, jewellers, cooks, grooms and washer-women. Gardeners tended the shrubs and the lawns, keeping the moss off the statues, scrubbing at the sculpted saints as if they were

Heaven's bath attendants. And at the centre of this splendour sat Rollo da Parma, late of the Curia at

Avignon, late of the Papal Consistory, late of Pope

Clement VI' s inner circle, and lately returned to the tidal mudflats of Boccaperta. Squawking gulls and stinking fish - on the wharves of his home town he might well have been in the council chambers of Avignon.

On the night of the visit of Pope Clement's envoy, with flickering torchlight tormenting the faces of saints in the garden, Cardinal Rollo wore the mask of statesmanship 90 along with his best samite robes. His plump body was like a squat red ball in the glistening fabric, and beneath the crimson biretta his teeth shone whitely at the envoy.

Indeed, he'd had the servants light a small fire in the corner of the room, and though it was a rather crisp autumn night, the fact that he'd worn one of his best robes, lined as it was with ermine, meant that he was sweating with uncomfortable profusion and dabbing at his face with a linen napkin. By contrast, his guest - Dom y Pietro Carrara - looked sharp and cool as a raven in his long black habit. He peered smoothly about the big chamber, noting especially the tall, gaunt figure that stood unmoving in the shifting light, as if it hung from the wall in its motley, a Carnival puppet. He turned back to his smiling host and nodded.

"You were wise, Your Eminence, to return here. It's a place where works more lasting than the intrigues of

Avignon can be achieved." He raised the golden goblet to his lips, then paused, seeing that it was almost empty.

"Like ordering another jug of wine?" smiled the cardinal, raising his finger in the air, where a ruby flared in the firelight, so that the gawky clown unhooked himself from the wall and crept off to the kitchens. "Or deciding whether to have the partridge or the hare?"

"No, Your Eminence," said Dom Pietro softly. "I think what the Holy Father had in mind were those works on 91 canon law that the duties of the Curia had prevented you from writing."

Rollo wiped his brow and stared at his guest. It was no mere exercise in modesty to concede that the Benedictine knew canon law with a depth and subtlety that he, even were he to live forever, could never achieve.

"Yet even here, Dom Pietro," he said, dismissing the charade, "in the peace and silence of the countryside, where one would expect to be able to devote oneself less...distractedly... to Christ...even here one meets intrigue and faction."

The Benedictine toyed with the empty goblet in his hand, watching his reflection twist and flicker on its golden surface. "You are speaking of Schwanhals or Topomagro."

There was an air of getting suddenly down to business in his voice.

"Well..." the cardinal began, eager to continue, yet allowing his words to trail off as the lanky jester reentered the room. He looked like some ungainly stick- insect, his crown of bells ding-a-linging in the air, the tray perched high upon one spidery hand and, in the other, his fool's sceptre, a curlicue of wood where sat the moth-eaten head of a grinning monkey. He bent above the table, setting down his load, and it was only now that the Benedictine realised just how tall he was. 92

Indeed, lost in his momentary surprise at the figure's height, he absently proffered his goblet for the filling.

But the jester turned his bony face toward him with amusement, and gently waved a finger, soliciting his patience. Instead of filling the goblets, he poured some wine into the smaller, silver cup that sat beside them on the table. It was incised with an intaglio of serpents' tongues, bearers of truth upon the lip of the tasting goblet, which he lifted in the air as if proposing a y toast, tossing back its purplish contents and swilling them about his mouth. He might have been gauging their vintage instead of testing them for poison. Then he smacked his lips and sighed, apparently uncertain, his face clouding over, lifting up the jug to pour another draught into the tasting goblet.

"Tozzo, enough!" said the cardinal sharply, yet with a small, indulgent smile on his face, so that the clown did, in fact, sneak a few drops into his cup before ambling off upon his skinny stilt-legs to his corner by the fire.

"As you were about to say, Your Eminence," suggested Dom

Pietro, his voice betraying some impatience at the jester's antics, "the Priors of Topomagro are setting a dangerous precedent. The Holy Father would be pleased if you could teach them a lesson, and by then your problems at Avignon might well have abated." 93

"Oh, yes, I could teach them a lesson alright." And Dom

Pietro saw a helpful glint of pride in the cardinal's eyes. "In so many places, men's faith in the Church has been compromised, even among the clergy. But most, it benefits the jumped-up town magistrates and the more rapacious of the merchants."

"How true, Your Eminence. They think that, by casting off the guiding hand of the Holy Father, they can gain control of their local bishops and use the Church to their own advantage."

"And once again we see the Devil working through the avarice in men's hearts." The cardinal, warming to his subject, wiped at his glistening face and sucked the small bones of anchovies lodged in his teeth. "So many of these parochial townsmen have sought to discredit His

Holiness, simply because he is now at Avignon. And these little men of Topomagro are like all the worst of their breed. They nod piously at whatever rantings they hear against the wealth of the Church from some wandering

Fraticelli, and then steal whatever they can from her. As you know, the Priors of the town have taken over Church land, merely because it had lain unused for a few years.

But now, Dom Pietro, they've let it out to a gang of

Peasants on a share-cropping basis, spending nothing on it and making a small fortune in the process." "And these peasants have got the land back into full production?"

"Oh yes, you can be assured of that," Rollo sneered.

"They're paying none of their dues to me, but still get to hoard a share of the profits."

"You mentioned Bernardo Moltogalante in your letter."

"Yes, he remains exiled in Florence, where I'm helping him to negotiate some loans. He's eager to aid his brother, Odofredo, in rescuing the town from that overweening clutch of - " He stopped to draw breath, then picked up an olive. "They'd gladly hand Our Lady herself into the claws of the Devil if it meant a few florins for them."

"Yes, I believe you're right," nodded Dom Pietro, watching him closely. Then his voice grew softer, more probing, as he added, "And you're in contact with Wolf

Schwanhals."

"He's the best means of bringing the town to its knees."

And now it was the cardinal's turn to probe. "But his services don't come cheaply."

"Pope Clement is aware of that," the monk said in a voice as silky as Rollo's robes. "And he'd be willing to contribute to your costs, partly as a token of his sorrow 95 at what's happened." He leant back slowly in his chair, adding in a thoughtful, almost dreamy, voice. "These mercenaries - these condottieri, as they style themselves

- are possibly a sign of things to come, and a dangerous sign at that. There's no richer gem for them to pluck than Avignon. Schwanhals is just reckless enough to try it, and perhaps even able enough to succeed. Clement would rather that you kept him here in Tuscany."

y For a moment there was silence, both men pausing to consider the significance of Dom Pietro's words. "Is

Clement's enthusiasm for my plans great enough to induce

- to some extent, at least - his funding of my construction projects?"

The Benedictine stared into the still-brimming depths of his wine, then smiled quietly to himself. "Yes, I think I could properly say that he has shown some interest in these canals of yours." He looked slowly up at Rollo, eyes replete with sincerity. "He has always held the utmost respect for your abilities and affection for your person..." But any further words between them were cut short by a disturbance in the doorway, as the jester,

Tozzo, wrestled a great salver of roast pheasants from the servant just arrived there from the kitchens.

* 96

In the massive kitchens of the palace, it seemed that all creatures of land, sea and air, each herb of the forest and plant of the field, every tuber, fruit and leaf were grist to the mill of the cardinal's belly. Here, in the glare of the great fire, where were roasting the spitted silhouettes of pheasants and partridges, the high-vaulted dome was painted with ducks, geese, hares, rabbits, boars, deer, and all the other totems of the table, while copper pots and saucepans, hanging on the wall, glimmered in the smoky air like the armour of a troop of trenchermen. It was here that Strappo the cook held court, bouncing his ladle off the heads of lazy kitchenboys, marching through the lurid blaze of hearth and oven, squat and ruddy as a terracotta general. And it was here, on the night of the papal envoy's arrival, that he was poking at the parboiled cubes of carrot with a skewer, dipping his finger into the blood-red sauce of savore sanguino, upbraiding the sauce-cook for the abundance of sumach, and generally throwing about his not-inconsiderable weight beneath the hams, mortadella, trussed fowls and spiced sausages that hung from the ceiling like misshapen chandeliers.

Brother Corvo, minus his habit, and now dressed in a scullion's greasy tunic, peered sidelong round the room as he plucked a small capon. He watched the figures bent over the great pie at the long central table, the shadows that toiled at the spits with their burden of birds, the strutting Strappo who gestured and snarled in the hell- glow. He walked slowly over to the hot metal plates, past the pots that were boiling in a fury of steam, to a more gently simmering pan of white camellina, the cardinal's favourite sauce. For a moment he thought of the scullion buried in the woods, glancing swiftly about him at the scurrying kitchen-maids, at the glassy eyes of a hung rabbit, at the long-necked goose that craned from its cage, and then, with an almost invisible movement of his fingers, spread a fine rain of herbs on the bubbling sauce, grinning with quick delight at the ease of it all.

Strappo watched as Brother Corvo approached two of the wenches. He didn't like this new addition to his kitchens. Certainly the man had been there at just the right time, almost at the instant they'd realised the boy

- Rocco, Rosso, whatever his name was - had run off. But this new one... there was something unsettling about him.

With his long billhook of a nose and his lank greasy hair

- the way it fell to his shoulders from his bare white pate - he sometimes looked as hard and tough as an eagle.

Yet at other times, like now, peering about him with a quick, wily look, he seemed more like some old buzzard perched on a carcass. Though he couldn't say what it was, and though the fellow seemed a good worker, Strappo felt sure he was up to no good. There was nothing for it but to keep an eye on him, and kick him out at the first sign of mischief. 98

"You watch out for him," hissed one of the malkins, glancing toward the cook. "He doesn't like you, Naso," which was their nickname for him, on account of his great beak.

"You're right, Speranza," said the other, taking him gently by the arm. "He can be horrible when he wants to."

"Even when he doesn't want to," smiled Brother Corvo, y pressing closer against them, while they crushed galinga roots for the cardinal's after-dinner comfits.

"Yes," nodded Speranza, then chuckled softly. "Though that isn't often."

"He's beaten some of the boys pretty badly. He even sliced one's finger off with a kitchen knife."

"Well, he'd be wise not to try it with me," he said, and his words were neither threat nor boast, but a simply stated fact.

"You might be right," murmured Speranza, looking searchingly up into his eyes. "But just remember, his soul's as black as that pot, isn't it, Fiducia? And just as filthy."

Her companion nodded, giving Brother Corvo's arm another solicitous squeeze, but he peered boldly over to where 99

Strappo was staring, and seemed to take their admonitions lightly.

"His soul? As black as that pot, Speranza?" he smiled, licking at the fragments of herb that remained on his fingers. "Then if his soul's his only strength I've little to fear."

The women remained silent, looking blankly at him, until y Fiducia moved to shoo away some pullets that came pecking round her feet.

"The Church speaks of the soul and devours God's body."

He gazed down at them, smiling, yet his tone seemed far more serious than when they'd been merely speaking of his safety. "And the Cathars say that true good is the good of the spirit. But believe me, ladies, the path of the spirit lies through the body's prostration."

They gazed at him, bewildered, as if pondering some mistake they may have made, when suddenly he laughed and ran his hands round their waists, squeezing Speranza's chubby flanks. "I, for one, have a yen for prostration," and Fiducia giggled giddily at his words, though unsure of what they meant, just as Strappo shoved her away, grasping a fistful of Corvo's neck.

Though the cook was not a tall man, he was as solid and hot as the oven behind him, and with one hand seemed easily to hurl the thin Corvo at the sputtering hearth. Speranza made to grip his arm, but he brushed her aside, springing quickly after his victim, shouting, "That's enough of your heretical filth," and flung him once more at the flames. A group of pullets went scattering under the tables, while the cat on the mantle opened one eye, and a bevy of scullions patiently plucked some plump quail on a bench. Brother Corvo brushed the hot bricks with his hand, drawing it back as the cook strode in, y bawling, "You're paid to work here, not gabble your smut. "

Yet then, in mid-stride, Strappo found himself twirled in a dance with the lanky scullion, who whispered things into his ear. "If that was smut," he was hissing, waving his arm at the rabbits, sausages, pheasants and hams,

"then your kitchen's a temple to smut," and he'd plucked a knife out of nowhere, its point now pricking the cook's thick throat as they stumbled back to the blaze. "And if you ever try that again, I'll cut out your fat heart."

When the table had finally been cleared of the plates

Piled high with brittle bones, of the vast pie dish where remnants of crust remained smoking like a crater, of jams and jellies scooped up in careless curlicues, of half- eaten comfits and exhausted wine jugs, Cardinal Rollo da

Parma lurched up from his chair, a little shaky on his legs. With a quick, nimble skip, Dom Pietro Carrara came to his side and took hold of his elbow.

"It's alright, Dom Pietro," he protested a trifle peevishly, "this blasted cope gets caught under my feet."

"Ah, the theatre of the Church, Your Eminence," smiled the monk. "It can turn so quickly from spectacle to farce. " y

Rollo glanced at him sharply, pulled at his robes and straightened his biretta, then marched stiffly for the door. The Benedictine strode after him, while the jester, lounging by the fire, pulled a torch from the wall and led the way to a long, vaulted corridor hung with more crosses than an old Roman highway.

"Tozzo," cried the cardinal, "for the love of Heaven, slow down." And the jester did, moving through the dim corridors on his stilted legs like a piebald cricket, sometimes changing his stride, though not his pace, to perform slow-motion tumbles and cartwheels with such easy grace that, at first, Dom Pietro had thought the smoky torchlight was playing tricks on his eyes.

"My trouble here in the country, Dom Pietro..." puffed the cardinal. "I don't know why... perhaps it's too quiet after Avignon...I get bad dreams... terrible things that wake me up in a sweat in the middle of the night." "Dreams, Your Eminence?"

Rollo felt a sudden urge to turn and push him down the stairs, for there it was again, that supercilious formality to which the man retreated whenever he was unsure of what to say.

"Yes, Dom Pietro, dreams. Dreams that hold such a force of terror in them that they make the waking world seem pallid and shadowy."

Dom Pietro glanced up and saw the shimmering scarlet cardinal waddling ahead of him on the staircase; and beyond, beneath the torch itself, the jester turned a spidery cartwheel.

They may be the echoes of Avignon's upheavals. The intrigues of the French prelates, Rollo, those accusations about the murder of the Grenoble cardinal,

Guy de St Marcel d'Avancon...I'm convinced that Clement was right to give you this respite from the Curia. Bad dreams, like the pain of a bad wound, are sometimes a

Part of the soul's healing."

They had reached the top of the stairs, and the cardinal was nodding, partly in agreement and partly, so it seemed, from sleep. He reached out suddenly and gave the monk a rough embrace. "You may be right, Dom Pietro, you may be right. But at present I'm too tired to think with clarity. We'll speak further on it in the morning." And he gave Pietro's arm a final squeeze, plucking a torch from its sconce as he headed off into the darkness, his last words flung back over his shoulder: "Tozzo will show you to your chamber."

The jester was already walking in the opposite direction along the dim corridor. When Dom Pietro reached his room the clown was waiting by the doorway, proffering a torch, his hollow, bony face stretched tight in such a grotesque mockery of a grin that the Benedictine wondered if he too, along with Rollo, would dream a Carnival of nightmares .

* * * Jacopo sails to the Bosporus

The galley sails in the warm sunlight under skywide flocks of cirrus cloud. A mild north-eastern breeze puffs at its canvas, and the oarsmen lounge at their drawn oars, chatting like lords on a pleasure cruise. Jacopo sits at the bow, taking in the sun, his legs stretched before him, while Scimmi perches between his feet, leaning into the wind of their passage like a small y ruffled figurehead. Once again he finds himself swivelling on his elbow and glancing back over his shoulder, as if he might see, beyond the fat sails and low poop, and the shimmer of cirrus streaming out of the north, the great black shadow of the plague itself pursuing them from Kaffa. But all is sunlight there, and reclining as he is on the mild blue sea, he finds it hard to imagine that, beyond the horizon, the townsfolk are huddling away from the Tartars, avoiding each other, while Death piles up corpses between their high walls.

He'd slipped off in the night, he and the others, the shallow hold crammed with provisions and whatever fine cargo of spices or silks the captain permitted - for they are all, with one exception, prosperous merchants - leaving only the promise of further galleys with the abandoned townsmen. After all, there's been word of a dozen vessels, perhaps, from the many rich ports to the west; and indeed, fourteen passengers are more than the limit, and that - owing to the captain's greed - now makes them dangerously overcrowded, what with the necessary contingent of archers and twenty-two oarsmen.

The larger of the two galleys, Lo Storione, which had left a day before them, carries no more than the Santa

Margherita, since its captain had been more cautious and his passengers had included the cream of the town - the consul, the bishop, the chief magistrates, guild consuls, the town's richest merchants. They've seen no sign of it, and probably won't, at least till their first port of call, since it's undoubtedly the faster ship. Jacopo regrets that Giorgio dei Sapori had lacked the funds or the status to get a berth on Lo Storione, since the passenger list includes the Fanfanis, and he might have been able to get another crack at that diamond. "And no dog this time, eh, Scimmi?" He scratches the soft fur behind her ears, and she rolls her head back, making the burred, squeaky sound that's her version of purring. He glances round at the poop, where a number of passengers are talking to the captain, their long gonnelloni luffing about them like loose sails in the wind, while one or two others sit at the rail, legs dangling over the water. One old merchant, Guglielmo Carogna, who could buy and sell everyone else on board - and probably would, given half the chance - has so far managed to monopolise the captain. Even now he has him in a huddle, as if discussing some complex, confidential business deal, though Jacopo has noticed that he treats the most harmless pieces of conversation as if they were the transactions of spies. He might take you by the sleeve, glance slyly about him, then look conspiratorially up into your eyes and say, "Hey, Giorgio, pass the salt," or something of the sort. Anyway, ludicrous or not, the old man and his wife have got the only cabin other than the captain's. And this captain, Giuseppe Pozzi, is a man who looks like he knows what he's about, dark, stout, his beard flecked with grey, and his skin with the hardy look of well-w^orn leather. His mate, on the other hand, has a bit too much of the pirate about him for Jacopo's liking, lean and flinty, with a hungry gleam to his eyes, though perhaps it's just that he's surly at having to give up his cabin to Carogna, quite probably for the captain's sole profit.

Jacopo would much rather be on one of the plump cogs that ply the waters of the peninsula. The Santa Margherita might be quicker, but it's built for war and the fast transport of cargo, not for carrying over a dozen passengers from one sea to another. And such passengers - all of them, save himself, used to the comforts of wealth; and all of whom will doubtless be full of complaints about sleeping on deck, especially if the weather turns cold, once the relief of getting out of

Kaffa no longer holds their tongues. And if things get bad enough, with gales or sudden snowstorms from the north, how will' sleeping in the narrow, sopping dark below decks appeal to such a bunch of pampered fat cats?

"Sorry, Scimmi," he says, stroking her throat. "I'm not 107 including little ratters like you. You'd love it in the bilge." She stares primly up at him, and he smiles to himself. So who's complaining now? Barely a day out of

Kaffa and already forgetting to number his blessings. He shakes his head, lounging back on the boards, once again feeling the flood of gratitude to God, to Fortune, to whatever it was that had led him to Giorgio dei Sapori.

After all, it's not wise to take such things for granted. A little thanks, at least, seems prudent. y

Yet, in the midst of this feeling, there is also regret, or perhaps something more like self-doubt, since he sees that the circle of leaving has started once more, and that just as before, he feels almost nothing for the place left behind. Kaffa, Lapo, Monna Simona,

Caterina....perhaps there's a twinge of sadness, yet it's really an emptiness, a blank that he feels whenever he knows that the weeks or the months that he's been in some place might never have happened for the little they've touched him. He stares down at the sea, suddenly tired, lost in the dazzle of sun, the flickering light that sparks in the swell, just as the salt had seemed to catch fire on the plains at Hyeres - those thirsty salt marshes

- in the years after his father had died. His thoughts drift through that time, after the loss of their land to the lombards, after the years of vagabondage, his father's death, when he'd scraped Provencal salt for a living, piling it up into friable pillars like a host of

Lot's wives on the ice-white plain. The boat rocks beneath him, and he thinks of the salt-tax, the hated gabelle, grinding his teeth till Scimmi looks up at the noise. He sees the salt workers forced from the land, wandering foodless over the roads in their salt-stiffened rags, like knights' errant bones, mail brittle with rust the colour of snow.

He looks at his hands, still callused from those days scraping/salt. Perhaps leaving breeds its own kind of calluses. Perhaps each departure is reduced by the sum of those other departures, which flood back to mind at each moment of leaving, just as he now recalls his flight from

Provence, then the hills of Savoy where he'd worked as a shepherd, and the freedom he'd felt when he'd first led his flocks to the high spring pastures. At first it had seemed to provide a fine life, no longer hammered with heat on the salt flats, but tending the sheep - just like the Good Pastor - beneath the mild stars. Yet in winter, when he free-lanced in the meadows around the lower villages, not only did he nearly freeze some nights amid his bleating sheep, but he felt the distrust of the people, and grew sick of the other shepherds, infected as they were by the stupidity of their flocks. At last he'd found the itinerant lifestyle, the hostility of strangers and the poverty of his wages conducive to the odd bit of thieving - usually from some affluent peasant intent on defrauding him - and so had begun his latest vocation, though not before his career as an actor....and now he is smiling, not quite ironically, nor with nostalgia, but with an amused sort of pride.

He thinks of his ramblings back through Liguria, the land of his father, then down into Tuscany and up north to

Lombardy, where he'd met Alfredo the Great, who'd offended Archbishop Visconti with some bit of "mistero buffo" - his famous Clown Cardinal - and was fleeing

Milan wifh his troupe. It was more than their lives were worth to remain in Lombardy, and he recalls how he'd convinced Alfredo that he was an acrobat from the episcopal court, who was fleeing the archbishop's tyranny. Politically correct perhaps, but acrobatically unsound, he remembers pratfalling his way down through

Tuscany, collapsing in cartwheels and unsuccessful somersaults, landing on his head all the way across

Umbria, juggling eggs that seemed to hurl themselves at his forehead, till his view of Campania and the ruins of

Rome were seen through a haze of egg yolks. Yet he always recovered with a beatific smile, silly as a saint in an ecstacy, so that people assumed he was a clown and happily echoed his idiot's grin. Even Alfredo seemed taken in, which was hardly surprising, since half the time his true tumblers and jugglers got so drunk that they performed like a troupe with the falling sickness.

And sure enough, as time went by, he had not only learnt the rudiments of reading, but could twist in the air,

Juggle hot turnips and walk a wire with the best of them, even when they were sober. But it was their satires of princes, their mock parables, their misteri buffi, which kept them on the move through Puglia, Basilicata and

Calabria, until, pursued by a choleric lord of

Aspromonte, they crossed the Straits into Sicily. It was here that Jacopo performed the feat of walking on air.

He smiles to himself, leaning back in the sun while he strokes Scimmi's flanks. He remembers her as she was then, a small kitten in his pocket when he performed his greatest feat. It was at Colpatorta, soon after the

Patriarch Archbishop of Catania had increased the rigours of the Inquisition against a group of latter-day

Arnoldists alleged to be in the area. The court was set up by the local priest and a Dominican brother who'd been sent to the town; and they prosecuted the priest's enemies with a vengeance, burning a handful, gaoling some, and forcing many to wear the yellow cross of heresy. Then, just as Alfredo's actors arrived, everything blew up around them: the townsfolk and the peasants of the nearby farmlands joined forces - not in the cause of heresy, but against the Church's work-dues - accusing the priest of simony and fornication, and driving the Dominican out of the town. They held their own court, convicting numerous church functionaries of corruption, and condemning the priest to death. The pyre was set up in the central piazza, yet it was not a solemn occasion, as the burning of their fellows had been, but seemed more like some agitated Carnival, with masks and dancing and a great deal of feasting in the streets. Alfredo and his troupe were pressed to perform, their payment made from the priest's corrupt profits. And it was here, after much drunken juggling and tumbling - as the priest went up in smoke - that Jacopo walked on the air.

He shakes his head, recalling the smell of the burning priest, still seeing the wire stretched over the flames from the/tall campanile to the Palazzo's tower. Even now the aroma of blackening meat can bring back the terror he'd felt. Yet the townsfolk prevailed, their extortion and gold too much to withstand, so that Jacopo found himself up in the air, knowing nought but the wire under feet and Scimmi's warm piss in his pocket. He remembers little of his exploit, though Alfredo told him later that, just as the fire was roaring most fiercely, the people looked up with their painted faces and saw him, not on a wire, but walking through empty air. For everything round the blaze was ashimmer, the belltower swaying like the drunken crowd, and he'd seemed to appear out of nowhere, drifting in the heated vapour over the stake, so that many - forgetting the terms of their entertainment - were terrified, as if he were the cleric's spirit, or some angelic visitation.

He chuckles at the thought of that cowering crowd, at himself on the wire, unneedful of the vapour to make him tremble. Yet it was the most remunerative trick he had ever performed, and as they'd fled the town before the archbishop's troops, Alfredo kept muttering, "Miracles, yes, miracles," as if racking his brain for some way to exploit the miraculous. Then, perhaps for the lack of burning priests, he'd forgotten all about it, and they were back in Naples with their usual routines.

"He's a nice cat," says a tiny voice, so that Jacopo swings round in surprise, and finds a tiny girl to match the voice, staring into his eyes. She seems a bit nonplussed by the startled expression on his face, and says more tentatively, "Is he a boy?"

"A girl," he says softly, feeling inclined to ask if she herself is a girl or a doll, her face is so perfect and her hair, the colour of sunflowers, so neatly arranged in its tight little bun.

"Oh..." she nods, then seems unsure of what to say.

Jacopo waits, noticing the boy, a little older - perhaps five or six - who is standing behind her, as dark as she's bright.

"How old is she?" he asks in a manner so solemnly adult that he seems almost sulky.

"0ooh...I'm not sure," Jacopo sighs, counting off years on his fingers. "Not as old as you I'll bet." The boy's face lights up for an instant, then he resumes his stolid demeanour. Meanwhile, the little girl hasn't taken her eyes off the cat.

"Can I pat her?" she says at last, as if she can wait no longer, and totters forward at a nod from Jacopo, while

Scimmi regally lifts her head to the child's plump fingers. "Oh, she's nice and soft. What's her name?"

y "Scimmia," he smiles. "Scimmi for short. Why don't you try scratching under her chin? She likes that too," Then he sits up straighter and folds his arms round his knees.

"Aren't you going to tell her your name?"

"I forgot," she apologises, looking more closely at the cat. "I'm Tessa."

"And what about you?" he coaxes the boy. "Cat got your tongue?" But the child looks more serious still beneath his dark curls.

"Bruno," he mutters quickly, and then, as if to cover the sudden sound of his name, adds, "Is she playful?"

"Well, sometimes. It depends on her mood. Right now, while Tessa's patting her, I don't think she'd feel very

Playful. " "They seem to have made a friend," says a deep female voice, interrupting his absorption with the children.

"Yes," he laughs, turning to find the woman he'd expected, the tall, dark woman with the elegant gestures and the face of a sombre Madonna. "Though she's a fickle little creature."

She looks at him, then seems to smile to herself. He thinks that, perhaps, it's his accent. For though he'd worked hard on his voice in his time with Alfredo, he's never felt sure that it hides his true origins.

"For a moment, I thought you were going to say like all women," she laughs, watching her children run to the cat. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Then so am I," he smiles, and leaves it at that.

After they've both observed the children for a while, she turns to him and says, "I'm Laura della Bosca." He raises his eyebrows. Her manner is very direct - what some would call modern - though Jacopo wonders if it mightn't have something to do with what they've all so recently been through, since not just their health, but much formal nicety, seemed consumed by the pestilence.

Giorgio dei Sapori," he says with a bow. "Funny, she smiles, "I met a Giorgio dei Sapori at one of Raffaello Moretti's parties." She glances blandly over the sea-swell. "He was a trader from Bologna. He looks nothing like you."

"And it's not a common name," he says softly, clicking his tongue. "Oh, Monna Laura, it's a small world we move in."

The galley sails into the south, loaded with its cargo of spices and fugitives. It seems that they have left the plague safely behind, and a more relaxed mood now prevails amongst them as they skim lightly over the calm blue waters, their Genoese banner rippling like the wake of their passage. From time to time a flock of gulls comes squalling round the mast as they pass some invisible island, or the sea beneath them winks with the shimmering flanks of mackerel, or turns to flexible glass with a jellyfish flotilla. Jacopo spends much of his time with Laura. Indeed, he had noticed her from his first moments on the boat, her thick dark hair and her face of a pale, haughty saint made all the more striking by the severity of her widow's weeds, and he welcomes the growth in their closeness as the days go by.

Unfortunately, the fact of her mourning sets strict limits on just how close that closeness can grow, while the definite, yet friendly, distance between them means that he can never really allow the mask of Giorgio dei

Sapori to slip. Not that she ever again mentions her acquaintance with the man, but - for Jacopo at least - it remains a hinted suspicion, and keeps him on his guard.

Nor, he suspects, is the nature of her mourning any real impediment to their intimacy, since - though she never says it directly - there seem to be resentments toward her dead^usband. This gentleman was apparently a merchant of some wealth, though of even greater years, and it was only in the last hours of his life, when he lay in the grip of the pestilence, that she learned just how much of his fortune he'd devoted to saving his soul.

He had bequeathed almost all his property, his shares in his companies and over fifty thousand florins to the

Church and its charities, while leaving to her and the children little more than a house in Genoa and individual bequests of a few hundred florins each a year. Almost twenty thousand florins were to be redistributed to families against whom he feared he had made usurious loans, so that all she carried with her, apart from her copy of his will, were the provisions she needed for the voyage and a cargo of cinnamon, nutmeg, galinga and cassia. "So, with the grace of God and the Pope's good will, he may enter Paradise," she says softly, gazing out to the eastern horizon, not the least trace of irony marring her words. Most of their conversations, however, are a good deal happier. For indolent hours they sit at the stern, feet dangling above the lacy sillion of their passing, while he tells her of the strange events he has witnessed in his years of wandering, now cast in the form of a rich trader's tales, and she in turn conjures up the luxuries of Avignon and the watery mazeways of Venice, till he wonders if they are both distorting their lives through coloured, eccentric lenses. He sometimes surprises both himself and the lady, when, turning back suddenly from watching the children, he catches her gaze upon his face, a gaze which, if anything, grows all the fonder when he speaks of his wealth in Perugia. Yet, whatever these hopes and doubts, schemings and impossibilities, everything is changed by a single cry from one of the oarsmen, a sound not of shock or of pain, but of simple despair as he slumps from his bench to the boards. The archers stop their dice game at the bow, the passengers fall silent, every heart gone cold with the same conviction as the mate leans over the fallen oarsman.

Even he, hard man though he is, can't stifle the groan that comes to his lips as he turns the man round and discovers the tumour, already quite swollen in his armpit.

Now the voyage grows dire and frightful. No longer do they feel that they've escaped the closed trap of Kaffa for the freedom of the sea. Instead, it now seems they are caught in the narrower confines of the Santa Margherita, with no way at all of escape. The sun, which had seemed so friendly and warm, now beats down on the deck like a hammer. The heat that they feel, the sweat that they drip, might well be the fever's first fatal signs. The water, some now insist, has a strange, metallic taste to it. Even the fleas, which all had ignored, begin to feel like an infestation. The oarsman is kept at the front of the ship, and yet, as if to prove that it plays no favourites, the sickness now lights on old Guglielmo and his arthritic wife. As they've been using one of the only two cabins on board, they are easily isolated, and those who had previously spent their time wooing the elderly pair now leave them alone, their only company the crewman appointed to serve them. The door is shut, except when this fellow brings them their water and the food they won't eat. Yet their groans haunt the galley as they hatch the great eggs in their groins, as do those of the oarsman who shouts at the prow; and the stench of the fever blankets the ship from bowsprit to stern, a drifting miasma beneath the blue sky.

The others' one-time indolence becomes an anxious, watchful torpor, as if they too tossed in the throes of the sickness. When they speak, they do so more softly, yet with greater purpose, responding to jokes with uneasy laughter, observing their fellows more keenly, since they know that they number more than fourteen, that the ship carries one not listed, a stowaway that stalks through their dreams and breathes on their faces, sharing his meals with the rats and the vermin, hiding by day in the ship's dark places. For Death nestles somewhere amongst them, and there is nothing to do but wait and be watchful. Then the wind from the north, the first wintry wind, turns sharp and cold, cutting over the sea like a scythe. And in its sweep it carries away - with the foam and the spindrift - the souls of the merchant, his wife and the oarsman, sweeping them up in the starless dark so that all,that remains is their hunched, cradled husks.

These are quickly consigned to the sea, sinking with a sound that's softer than the wind round the witnesses' ears, while Captain Pozzi sprinkles a handful of prayers on the waves.

Now come days of waiting under slate skies. They muffle themselves up in their coats against the bitter wind, yet will not huddle, scattered on the deck like so many islands, eyes peering out between hats and tight scarves, watching their neighbours for a sign, a hint of sickness, quaking at every twinge they feel behind their walls of wool. Then the rain comes sweeping in slow, icy drifts, urging them to go below, to gather together in the creaking gloom, as if it were the plague's accomplice.

Yet most refuse, remaining on deck to breathe the wet air, while the sheets of rain come lashing over the waves like sails cut loose, soaking them to the bone where they sit unmoving in the tents of themselves. And the curious thing is that now, when the weather turns bad, the plague disappears. Watch though they might, as if the very force of their imagination willed the pestilence to strike them down, it does not return. None of them - sailors, oarsmen, archers, passengers - fall sick with anything worse than a cold. Once, during the rain's easing, Jacopo watches Scimmi play with a rat that she's caught in the hold. It's a tiny black creature, little more than a baby, and she pauses after she's mauled it, waiting for some movement, patient despite the urge to strike that tremblesywithin her, giving it time to lose its fear, to grow bold, to make a bolt for freedom. And then she pounces, hurling it through the air on the tips of her dainty needles, while Jacopo watches, wondering whether the sickness is waiting, allowing them to recover, to grow in boldness, poised over them like a claw.

Whether or not it is merely toying with them, the plague remains absent from the galley long enough to allow the return of fine weather, to enable the travellers to loll on the deck once more and regain their habits of conversation. The sun is now cooler, and the breeze which blows from the north-east, though gentler than it had been, can no longer be called a summer breeze. Winter is coming with a relentlessness that isn't concealed by its fits and starts; and the plague, like summer, may well be dying. And yet it is now, as their eyes turn hopefully southward to seek out Byzantium, that the sickness returns, felling first another of the oarsmen, then his neighbour, but still unsatisfied, swelling up from the bodies of two further passengers and the first of the archers.

Captain Giuseppe Pozzi now acts decisively, ordering the ill to be taken down to the hold and lain on whatever bedding they possess. This decision, however, is not decisive enough for the ship's mate, whom Jacopo and

Laura had overheard one morning in conversation with the captain., At first they had spoken so softly that the lady and the burglar, engaged as they were in their own discussion, heard only the tone of their voices and not the words themselves. It was a change in the tone that first caught their attention, the mate's voice growing especially heated.

"We can't afford to let it get worse!"

The mate was vehement, and he leaned from the rail to stare in open challenge at the captain, who replied softly, "I know that, Aldo."

But what action are you willing to take? Trying to isolate them in the hold may do no good at all. You saw how things went in Kaffa."

I did," said the captain, and Jacopo sensed that his calm was actually anger, .barely contained. "And I saw too that no-one could find a satisfactory reason for what happened. " "Maybe not, but the fact remains that the more the plague infects the more will be infected."

"So just what are you suggesting, Aldo?"

"That it won't be long before everyone on board falls sick, and even if the Santa Margherita lands at

Constantinople, it'll bring nothing but a cargo of corpses."

"But you keep implying the need for some action other than those that I'm already taking. Have I misunderstood you, or do you have something concrete to suggest?"

Jacopo and Laura leaned closer together, both aware that their silence might betray their interest, yet eager to hear more.

"No, you haven't misunderstood me," said the mate, too immersed in his argument to notice anything else. "What

I'm saying should be perfectly clear. That if we have any further signs of infection - and preferably before, in my opinion - we should rid ourselves of those who endanger the rest. "

Put the sick overboard, you mean?"

"Yes." The captain drew himself up. His face clouded so quickly, so sternly, and his response was such a ready one that it was as if he'd rehearsed it. "I'm afraid I could never resign myself to so ruthless an action, and I'm deeply disappointed to find an officer in my charge recommending such a course . "

"Well, then let it be - " but here the mate stopped, and simply stood there, unyielding in his gaze if not in his words. Jacopo waited for someone to break the silence, and was surprised to find it was Laura who did so,

"I entirely agree, Captain," she said stoutly. "It would be a mortal sin to cast the helpless into the sea simply to avoid the risk of sickness ourselves."

"If God visits the plague upon them, then it's His will that they die." The mate turned and spat over the rail.

"Whether His will is done by drowning or pestilence seems of little issue if it means saving the rest of the ship."

"I can't believe that anyone who suggests killing the sick, when it's our charitable duty to care for them, could possibly be the best person to interpret God's will." The captain had smiled, the mate had glared at her, and

Jacopo, staring out toward the southern horizon, had started to whistle.

Most times that he descends to the hold, Jacopo averts his eyes from the dying. Once, however, when he bustles down to retrieve a bottle of malmsey for Laura, he becomes aware of a series of urgent movements at the periphery of his vision. He peers into the noisome gloom, through the dusty, golden sunshafts that fall between the boards, and sees one of the sick oarsmen sitting up on his pallet with a strange rigidity, his arms extended as if in supplication. The man's glistening face seems rapt, and his lips move so quickly that no words emerge, yet his attention is so firmly fixed upon the darkness in the depths of the hold that Jacopo follows his gaze, expecting to see he doesn't know what - some demon from the man's delirium, an angel arrayed for battle, or the great, grim shadow of Death himself towering in the silence. But as his eyes adjust, he sees only the supine body of one of the sick passengers, and beyond - their fur slick with bilgewater - a group of rats scratching at themselves and eyeing him cautiously from the darkness.

Then the man falls panting back upon his rags, and Jacopo swings round to find the malmsey, snatching it up and scuttling for the hatch.

Though Death may not have appeared to Jacopo that morning, his presence is palpable in the hold as - one after the other - he takes his victims. Indeed, from among the sick, only the archer and one of the passengers remain when Captain Giuseppe Pozzi himself falls ill. He can barely stand with the pain of the egg between his legs, yet addresses them all from the steps to the poop, claiming that the Bosporus can be no more than two days distant, and insisting that he too be confined to the hold, since his isolation of the sick has worked so well in containing the plague. Then he almost falls down the steps, and the mate, showing none of the satisfaction that Jacopo's sure he must feel, takes him at his word and has him carried below. And now, its trail of corpses sinking in its wake, its captain tossing in the tides of delirium, the Santa Margherita has the stench of a death ship. They drift beneath the warm autumn sun, across the blue sea, like a tiny island black with corruption. Yet

Aldo, the mate, ensconced in the captain's cabin, seems swollen with confidence, wearing his smartest outfit and strutting the poop like an admiral. And indeed, the following afternoon, they spy land to the south.

It's evening by the time they are sailing beneath the walls of Constantinople. Jacopo gazes out across the

Bosporus, at the great, fat-bellied domes and smoky towers of the city, and feels the first real confidence that he has known since leaving Kaffa. The Emperor's

Palace and Santa Sofia rise into the gilt-and-crimson mosaic of the sky, making him dream up endless avenues of open windows and unlocked caskets. Yet the promise of such easy invitations is quickly belied by their welcome at the harbour's gates. The watch, arrayed in brass armour - more like trumpets than soldiers - stand armed on the seawall. Their captain comes forth and challenges the galley in a bluster of Greek. As it happens, no-one aboard can speak any but the most rudimentary phrases of the language, so that Aldo is reduced to gestures and grimaces, while the Greek captain points contemptuously at their,Genoese banner and waves them off with his sword.

"We are the friends of the Emperor!" Aldo cries hopelessly. "We trade with the patriarchs!" But all he receives are the same peremptory gestures and a volley of babble, in which can be distinguished only Kaffa and, possibly, Tartar. Then the mate suddenly hears an eruption of Greek at his back, as Captain Giuseppe Pozzi, arisen from the hold and trembling in his blanket, makes a speech to the wide-eyed watch. Yet they barely seem to listen, more intent on his appearance than his words, edging away from him with a disorderly clanking and shuffling of their spears, until their commander calls back through the gloom of the seawall, only to be answered by yet more shouting. The speech of Captain

Pozzi peters quickly out, leaving him panting at the rail, while Aldo, sidling to the helm, gives him more than adequate breathing space. "It's no good,' he says in a barely audible voice, sounding as if he might weep at any moment. "You didn't understand...but what they were saying before ... they're allowing no vessels from Kaffa to land because of the plague.. . "

"But that's not right!" cries Aldo. "We could keep the sick aboard and quarantine them in the harbour."

y "They don't see the point," he sighs, almost slumping to the deck, "What their commander was saying... I think I got it right...was that Lo Storione tried to land two days ago...that it was riddled with plague... that they'd sent it on under threat of setting it alight...So the only - "

But he stops short, peering shoreward with everyone else.

The docks are now lost in the gloom, and the first stars are out, studding the indigo depths above the city's lamplit towers. A flurry of torches is rushing toward them with a clatter of armour.

"Cast off!" shouts Aldo, almost shrieking with frustration. "Hurry up! Lay to those oars!"

Yet already the archers are out on the seawall, fiery bolts in their bows. Captain Pozzi collapses at the rail amid the chunk of oars and a chaos of shouting, while the arrows come arcing through the air like ill-omened comets, falling with a hiss of steam in the water, some smouldering on the boards, a few catching at the sails and shrouds, where both men and women are dousing them with brine. Jacopo leaps to a bench where an oarsman is missing, pulling at the oar with all his strength, as the

Santa Margherita, festooned with bright fires, crawls south through the night for the Sea of Marmora.

* * * Tuccio visits his carders

Sext was already ringing when Tuccio rode past San

Francesco on his fine Spanish mule, and the friars inside were doubtless beginning their midday office. Via Gentili was crowded with carts and wagons, and not even the bullying tones of Luca, his steward, and his two hefty servants could clear the road before him. So, by the time they were approaching the Ponte alia Porta Santa Maria, the old, inadequate bridge was jammed with lunchtime traffic, and Tuccio cursed himself for lingering over the consignment of gall-nuts which had arrived that morning from Roumania. He glanced dismally at the Ombronetto swirling round the bridge's plinths in its final descent from the plateau to the sea. The foaming water reminded him of some veils he had only recently received from

Perugia, all somehow torn in transit. He glanced irritably at his mule's twitching ears. Nothing was pleasing to him today, and now those grumbling carders at his workshop would have finished their midday meal, and he'd have to interrupt their work to talk to them. It still annoyed him to think that his fattore, Niccolo di

Lapo, had needed him to deal with it. Things had reached a dismal point when a man of his standing, a lanaiuolo, who'd been a consul of the wool guild and already served a term as Prior, must start dealing with his own wool washers. He glanced down the hillside toward the Chiasso delle Bestie, where the tanneries lay humped among hovels by the river. Even up here, on the bridge, the stench of their lyes infected the air. He cast a more sanguine eye over the Borgo Santa Maria del Carmine, where the dye shops jostled with a crumbling colony of labourers' cottages for space on the bank. A picture came briefly to mind of the great vats brimming with all the world's colours - with violet orchil, crushed from the lichens of y Majorca, with Catalonian saffron, with Indian lak, yellow arsenic, and orange-red realgar shipped from the Red Sea.

He saw vats of madder and black burnet, brazil from the trees of the spice islands, a cauldron of woad like a huge blue eye, and bright scarlet grana, leached like blood from the myriad bodies of insects. He thought of the mordants for fixing the dyes, the red and white tartar and Black Sea alum, knowing the satisfaction of one who possessed not only the town's biggest dye-shop, but the only real network of transport and agents to import dyes in large quantities. It had been to stop the wool guild's starting its own dye-shop that he'd devoted his first term as guild consul. He'd thought long and worked hard to get his business where it was today, and he was not in the mood to listen kindly to the complaints of a handful of carders.

Tuccio glanced back at the river as it flowed past the dyers', tinged with spilt madder. He peered upstream at the scourers' and carders' rickety cottages. They leaned at strange angles over the water, where it came laden with oils, soap and fuller's earth from the washers and fulling mills. Beyond were the stretching sheds with their tenterhooks, and those shops where the fulled cloth was teazled and shorn, and further yet the looms of the piecework weavers, and out in the countryside, the spinsters who'd spin forty pounds of yarn for a bushel of grain. All this set in motion by Tuccio's hands, and here he was, coming to talk pennies with carders. Of course, he had to admit life was hard for them, especially with the present food shortages. Yet it was he, and those like him, whose efforts provided the work that they needed. It was people like Tuccio who had freed such men from their bonds to the soil, who'd enabled them to become free citizens of Topomagro rather than remain slaves to the likes of Montagna and the Gentili. And to think that they might be consorting with those mutterers. Yes, this was the rumour - that some of the malcontents among them were finding common ground with the nobles in their envy of the merchants, and that even a few of the subcontractors, people who had made good money out of their fulling mills and mending shops, were joining in the agitation. Not, of course, that there was any actual agitation, just that the mere hint of it was enough to make the Priors and the guild consuls nervous. Something was afoot with Montagna and the others, and there was no doubt that the poorest of the labourers were feeling the pinch of famine. If those clog-wearers could somehow join forces with the nobles. ..well, then blood would flow. Indeed, it already had, at least in a small, almost unconnected set of incidents. For instance, there was the death of Guccio di Leonardo, one of the most skilled wool sorters in any of his shops, whose body was found outside a tavern in the Borgo Santa Caterina, throat cut and head battered almost past recognition. His fattore, Niccolo di

Lapo, had suspected some of the workers, and had mentioned a carder named Geri Pinza as an unsettling influence in the shop. Yet it was possible that such events formed no part of any planned campaign, and that they were simply the individual emunctories of the time's infection. For a moment, he thought of the idlers that gathered round the empty fountains in the town's piazzas, of Frederico dalla Montagna waiting for his chance, of the vengeful cardinal plotting in his palace. The world seemed to be lurching toward chaos. And yet it was this very feeling, this fear of some impending doom, that urged him to contribute to the madness. He shook his head

- more at himself than anything else - as they rode along the laneway to the river, approaching the long, low, narrow building that was his largest carding shed. Above all else he must seem patient with these carders.

Geri Pinza stood at the carding bench, pulling the fine metal teeth of the card across the dense wool, drawing out the long fibres, untangling the knots, removing the burrs and small seeds that lay trapped in its depths. He was one of those men whose very bulk makes them look

Shorter than they are, with squat, solid legs and a barrel chest, almost as if he were a dwarf who had somehow, by some freak of nature, managed to reach average height. He was frowning now, appearing to give all his attention to the task of straightening the fibres with the twin metal cards, his dark beard and thick curls not unlike the wool with which he worked, giving him the y look of some sombre black ram, head bowed above the bench as if ready to charge. In fact, he was thinking up an answer to give his companion, who was working at the bench next to his.

"Well, I was right, eh, Geri?" the man urged once more.

"He's not going to come."

Geri glanced up, and said nothing for a moment. Alfredo

Crostadura, as long and sinewy as Geri was solid, as nervy and choleric as he was phlegmatic, could irritate him almost beyond all patience. He passed his hand through his hair, which was wet with sweat. As always, the long room was hot, since there was a great fire burning at the end where the fleeces were hung to soften their oils for the sorting. The door was wide open, revealing the scourers rinsing the wool, foamy with soap in the chilly river; but here it was hot as a new-baked loaf. "Well, he might still come," said Ciuto di Dino, a rather gentle old man whose bench faced the others. "A man like

Signor Tuccio is bound to have things cropping up, you know."

"Like a long lunch, when the rest of us can barely afford the price of a loaf?" snapped Alfredo, not taking his eyes off Geri.

y "You might be right, Alfredo," Geri conceded at last,

"but let's not get ourselves all steamed up before we're certain. It's hot enough in here."

Alfredo leaned from his bench. "Maybe somebody should get steamed up, Geri." After all, how long could they put up with a wage that wouldn't buy enough food? "I'm sick of not getting steamed up."

"Yes, I've noticed," he smiled, and turned his gaze from

Alfredo's face, avoiding his intensity. For a moment he watched Rocco and Leonardo over by the door, preparing the wool to make worsted yarns, drawing out the short, furry fibres and straightening the long with their sharp metal combs. On the far side of the room, nearer the heat, a pair of sorters worked on the fleeces, hurling them about on the high wooden bench, plucking the good wool from the poor and dumping the pickings into big graded bins. "Geri, you re as impatient as I am. You just hide it better."

Geri gave him a level look. Impatient? That the shortages drove up the price of bread? That their wages stayed the same? He shrugged. "Of course I'm impatient. I just don't think getting hot-headed's the way to solve it."

"We've held back for too long." Alfredo thought of them y all, the clog-wearing mobs that could neither pay rent nor buy enough food, and who, because they worked hard, remained unregistered at the city's poor tables. "The paupers live better than we do."

"So you'd rather beg, Alfredo?"

"I'd rather work and get paid a decent wage. I'd rather not have to pay a deposit on these cards and combs just for the pleasure of making Tuccio a profit. I'd rather be a member of the wool guild, Geri, instead of simply having it tell us what to do. Or better still, I'd like us to have a guild of our own, one for the little people as well as the great, so that we might have a chance to hold office, or at least have some sort of say."

Geri slowly nodded his head, but old Ciuto di Dino, looking alarmed, said, "That's dangerous talk, Alfredo.

In Florence they executed carders for trying to organise their own guild." "Nobody's organised anything yet, Ciuto," Geri said softly. They'd simply asked for a meeting with Tuccio to discuss their conditions. He glanced at Alfredo. "And nobody's going to say anything about forming a guild or holding office. We simply want wages more in keeping with food prices."

"Yes, I know, all very humble and reasonable. But you ask y me would I rather beg, Geri? Well, what are we doing now but begging, holding out our caps and pleading for

Tuccio's charity? It'll be like this again and again...begging for crumbs because we've got no power.

And do you think we'll ever get any more than crumbs from the guild consuls or the Signoria?"

"Alright, Alfredo!" he snapped, losing patience at last.

"We all know that power lies in the hands of the lanaiuoli and money-changers. It goes without saying. But we're talking about real possibilities, in the real world, about getting food in our bellies and a roof over our heads, not about getting thrown into gaol or hanged for sedition."

"But if anyone's betraying the commune it's some of these bastards that get themselves voted as Prior or

Gonfaloniere." Yes, there were Priors - everyone knew it

- who ran the town into debt and then lent it money at huge personal profit. "Keep your voices down, put in Ciuto, bending harder to his work. "Niccolo's just come back in."

"I'm not criticising you, Geri," continued Alfredo. "But the only other group excluded from office like us...I know you mightn't like the comparison...but it's the nobles. And that was because they tried to keep power by violence. But what have we - " y

"Alright! But we can only get what's possible. Now keep your voice down."

"What's possible is up to us," hissed Alfredo. "Maybe

Montagna's message was worth - "

"Come on, let's get some work done," boomed the voice of

Niccolo di Lapo. "We don't want Signor Tuccio coming in and finding you chatting like a bunch of old women doing the washing."

Geri glanced at Alfredo, who was watching him sidewise with a pointed smile on his pointed face, then bent to his work.

The meeting with Tuccio was all too brief. He swept into the shop in his long grey cloak and hood, flanked by his burly attendants, peering critically about him at the fleeces and spooled rovings. Niccolo di Lapo, the fattore, fussed about him, taking it upon himself to thank the merchant on behalf of his labourers for coming to see them, and presenting a number of the carders to him with tactful reminders of their names.

"Ah, Geri Pinza!" barked Tuccio. "You're the chosen spokesman, I hear." y

Geri raised his eyebrows and nodded, not humbly, but discreetly. "Yes, Signor Tuccio, I suppose I am."

"You suppose you are?"

Geri frowned and said softly, "I am."

"Hmmm." Tuccio gazed quizzically at him. "Well, Signor

Spokesman...speak."

Geri glanced about him, looking a bit embarrassed. "I suppose you will have heard the gist of our... requests."

He waited for some response, but received a non-committal stare. "Well, uh, they concern the fact that life is getting harder every day...that grain is now four times the price it was two years ago... that rents have doubled with so many of the hungry coming here from the countryside. . . " "Yes, you're right, Geri," said Tuccio sadly, "life is harder for everyone these days."

"Harder for some than others," muttered Alfredo, eliciting a frown from Niccolo, though gaining nothing from the merchant.

"The problem is, Signor Tuccio," blurted Geri, as if to cancel further comment from his neighbour, "that our wages can no longer purchase the means to live. We receive six soldi a day, minus the deposit on our tools, while grain is now more than sixty soldi a bushel. Two years ago it was often less than fifteen."

"You want me to increase your wages," said Tuccio flatly.

"Yes, Signor Tuccio." Geri looked round hopefully at his fellows, some of whom nodded in agreement. "Ten, perhaps even nine, soldi would help to alleviate the difficulties that we all find ourselves in."

Tuccio looked grave. He closed his eyes as if making calculations, then sighed heavily and nodded. "Yes, it's true," he said, "life is now far from easy, even for those who have work. You'll have your increase." Tuccio's eyes stayed fixed on Geri alone. "Seven-and-a-half soldi should just be possible in the present climate." And finally his expression softened into a smile of infinite largesse. Geri looked uncertainly around the room, noting Alfredo's silent glare, then shook his head regretfully. "Even nine soldi would still leave our families hungry, Signor

Tuccio. Seven and a half would change nothing."

"It would change everything by one-and-a-half soldi a day, Geri," and here, raising his voice in a tone near anger, he turned to address the entire workshop. "These last two winters have benefited no-one. People are not buying cloth the way they did. They buy less of everything. It's as if the barren fields and empty granaries leached their purses of money. Our markets in the north are being drained of wealth by war. Perhaps if we made cannons and not cloth I could afford nine soldi.

But at present we'll be lucky if the business survives.

Even seven and a half is reckless."

"Then we'll be lucky if we survive," said Alfredo bitterly.

"You'll survive." Tuccio's voice was loud and stern. "If worse comes to worst, the Priors will feed the people from the commune's granaries."

"If I was a Prior," said Alfredo, voice shaking with anger or fear, "I'd feed the people now." "Then you'd starve the whole city when the famine got worse. But you're not a Prior," said Tuccio, pausing, as if he'd been about to say something further on the subject, contenting himself with, "...and I'm no magician. I can't change the company's finances with the wave of a wand. Seven and a half is the only offer I can responsibly make."

This time his announcement was met with silence. Some y stared numbly, others with sullen, hooded eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he added, "But as a sign of good faith,

I'll undertake to provide you with a brace of pheasants and a suckling pig for your feast next Carnival. And I hope it may allay your hunger." Then he nodded, twirling on his heel, his servants scurrying to catch him up, while Niccolo di Lapo thanked him for his kindness, and the carders simply stood there, looking glumly at each other.

* * * In which Jacopo tells a tale and then grows silent

Crossing the Sea of Marmora the last of the sick, including the captain, died. The death of Giuseppe Pozzi unsettled Jacopo more than he might have expected, and he wondered if, perhaps, there had remained in the back of his mind the notion of some authority that he could appeal to, someone whose sense of good service might somehow banish the plague if a passenger protested loudly enough. Clearly the captain was not that authority. Nor was Aldo, strutting above the oarsmen and making scant attempt to conceal his initial panic when a pair of Greek war galleys appeared to the north, sailing from

Byzantium. These trailed them almost ten leagues into the

Hellespont. "Some Christians, these Greeks," snarled Aldo at last. "They don't want us landing anywhere in the

Emperor's domains. But don't worry, they'll keep their distance." And he was right. Even before the Santa

Margherita had left the narrow straits, the galleys had vanished.

They were soon sailing out on the bright blue Aegean, under fleets of big clouds drifting north through the air. The sun, glaring down in great pallid sheets, seemed to echo the swell of their three-cornered sails, which rippled and luffed in the strong southern wind. Here they sailed for some days, waiting for the first sign of fever. Yet none occurred. Under the cold, searing brightness of the early winter sun, with that wind from the south blowing hard in their faces, they stood wrapped in their coats on the unsteady deck, as if the sickness were being blown from them.

Long weeks passed by of crisp, fair weather. They put in at Lesvos and Khios, Tinos, Milos and Kithira, replenishing their food and water, and, above all, their sense of membership amongst the living, of oneness with the squabbling mass of fishermen and other clients of the y dusty, dark tavernas. Not once did they make mention of the sickness, smiling instead like merchants on some well-provided pilgrimage, until it almost seemed they'd forgotten their danger, and the shadow of the fatal stowaway down in their hold. The villages that ringed the high blue harbours, the crosses on the white basilicas, the men who mended fishing nets, and the old women with their seamed faces and dark dresses - everything reminded them that they were going home.

It did not take long for such a sea change to work its influence on them all. The torpid fear which had gripped the ship now relaxed its hold. And the children, boisterous at any time, now peppered him anew with questions about Scimmi. At first, his chief pesterer was

Tessa, asking him whatever she could dream up about his cat - "Does she eat mice, Giorgio?", "Does she have a mummy?" - but later he was quizzed by Bruno, who gained in confidence, and grew impatient of his sister as he did so. He liked to ask what he felt were grown-up questions, while Tessa looked on wide-eyed, hoping for a story. For instance, there was the matter of Scimmi's worth.

"How much did you pay for Scimmi, Giorgio?" asks Bruno, hands behind his back and looking very solemn, much as

Jacopo imagines his father must have looked when establishing the cost of a shipment of spices.

Now it's Jacopo's turn to look solemn, wrinkling his brow y and rolling up his eyes, as if doing complex calculations. "Well, I didn't pay anything for her," he says at last, "at least not when I got her. But after that 1 paid over six thousand gold scudi for the little beast." And he gives her a quick scratch behind the ear, so that she cranes up with a virtuous look, waiting for more.

Laura glances dubiously at him, Bruno seems confused, and

Tessa, looking at the others, starts to pout.

"Six thousand scudi?" asks Laura.

"What do you mean, Giorgio?" adds Bruno.

"What's a scudi?" lisps Tessa.

"A gold scudo is a lot of money," says her mother, raising her eyebrows at Jacopo, as if to accuse him of boasting or lying, or possibly both. "Sicilian scudi," Jacopo adds by way of explanation, then pauses, as if to think up further tales. "It was on the

Canary Isle," he says, "when I was with Alfredo the

Great." Then he gazes earnestly at Tessa. "I've told you about Alfredo the Great, haven't I?"

"Yes," Tessa nods vehemently, shoving her thumb into her mouth, her listening-to-stories pose.

"Well, this time," he says, once again rolling up his eyes to see the text of some codex in his head, "Alfredo was taking his troupe across the sea to the Canary Isle."

"Mice?" says Laura cryptically.

Jacopo smiles at her slyly, but Bruno turns as if she's mad. "Canaries," he insists, shaking his head at Tessa, who's simply waiting, thumb in mouth, for more.

"That's right, Bruno," Jacopo chuckles, patting the boy's head, "the Canary Isle it was." And he too turns to shake his head at Laura.

"Well," she says, " what happened on this Canary Isle of yours?"

"Oh, it wasn't mine. It was the king's. King Agapanthus.

He invited us all to dinner the night that we arrived." "Were you going to juggle there?" asks Bruno. "In his palace?"

"Clever boy," he says, then looks at Tessa gazing at him over her thumb, and gives her cheek a soft pinch. "And you're clever, too." Then he rolls his eyes and reads his mental manuscript. "Yes, all of us, all of Alfredo's troupe, were going to perform at the palace. So King y Agapanthus, who was a very nice king, gave us a banquet the night we arrived. The ship's captain and his mate were there as well, and one or two of the other passengers. So, there we were, seated at the king's big banquet table, with napkins in front of us and...well, what else would you expect?"

"A cake!" splutters Tessa, dragging her thumb out of her mouth.

"A knife and spoon," laughs Bruno, "a bowl? a cup and a big piece of bread?"

"Well, you would. And I'd have loved a cake there, Tessa.

But you know what there was?" And the children shake their heads. Jacopo waits, then looks at them and chuckles, "The only thing before me on the table was a club, a thick wooden club almost as big as my arm."

"A club?" says Bruno. "How can you eat with a club?" "Well, that's exactly what I was wondering. I thought they might bring out a chicken, a live one, and put it on my plate for me to bonk on the head."

Bruno and Tessa erupt in a splutter of giggles. "Bonk!" says Tessa, pulling out her moist thumb, then reaching up to hit Bruno on the head, while he lurches away and Laura shushes them to silence. y

"Yes," laughs Jacopo, avoiding Laura's eye. "Well, I was a bit worried, I can tell you. But my fears were needless. The food, when it arrived, was not only dead, but delicious - great steaming bowls of veal with spicy sauces and vegetable dumplings, roasted woodcocks stuffed with figs, then plates of quivering pork jellies and bowls of coloured jams. Oh, it makes me hungry just to think about it."

"But how could you eat it with a club?" Bruno insists.

"Well, no-one did. Everyone, including the king, used nothing but their fingers, which is probably the most sensible way to eat anything. After all, animals get on perfectly well without spoons, don't they, Scimmi?"

"Then, why did they give you the club?" "Oh, I thought you d never ask." Now Jacopo leans forward, as if to impart a secret, and says in a loud voice, "You see, almost as soon as the food was brought out, and certainly before it reached anybody's mouth, the floor began to move as if it were alive. There was a squiggling and scuttering and squeaking everywhere - along the wainscot, under the chairs, even on the table.

And this was because, the instant they smelt the food, a horde of mice, hundreds of them, an entire city of mice that lived inside the walls, all came rushing out to join the banquet, scurrying amongst the dishes, stealing bits of food, practically nipping each mouthful from between your teeth. And it was now, when I noticed the king and all of his companions reaching for their clubs, that I saw what they were for. Suddenly the whole room was in an uproar, with people lashing out - even as they chewed their dinner - at the tiny, rushing creatures, sometimes scoring a hit, but more often than not, either missing or hitting their neighbour by mistake. It was a battle, and

I had no doubt that the mice were the winners."

"But," says Bruno, "but...didn't they have any cats?"

"Like Scimmi?" cries Tessa.

"Yes, that's a very good question." And Jacopo shakes his head sadly. "You see, I'd left Scimmi back on the boat, out of courtesy to the king. And now, as the poor man apologized, lamenting how they'd found no better way than the clubs to deal with the troublesome creatures, I realised I could do these catless islanders a favour."

"What did you do, Giorgio?" says Tessa.

"Well, the next night, when the king invited us back again, I made sure that I had Scimmi carefully tucked inside my sleeve. Then, when dinner was served and the mice came swarming out of all their little holes inside y the wall, running under the chairs and up the table legs, just as the king and his whole court were reaching for their clubs, I opened my sleeve and Scimmi came bounding out. King Agapanthus sat there open-mouthed, his crown atilt. His court seemed totally stunned. And the mice, who'd never seen a cat before, seemed even more so. For a moment they didn't move. Scimmi, on the other hand, who'd not only seen, but tasted many a mouse, hurtled amongst them like a knight amongst peasants, killing more than forty before pausing to draw breath."

The children stare silently at her, where she snoozes in

Jacopo's lap.

"So, right then and there, the king offers me three thousand scudi for her." He rubs the back her neck, though she doesn't stir. "For this skinny little alley cat. Well, fool that you may say I am, I didn't want to sell her." And the children shake and nod their heads, unsure of how to agree with what he did, but certain that they do. "She's my cat, and I simply didn't want to sell her, not even for that ridiculous sum. So the king offers four thousand scudi, then five, but still I shake my head, until he starts to look unhappy. Then finally he tells me to think it over and to bring her the following night. He invites everyone back, looking at the heap of mice and declaring that another night or two like this might see him rid of them forever."

y "Did you sell her, Giorgio?" asks Tessa.

"Of course he didn't," says her brother, then turns to

Jacopo. "But did you take her back again?"

"Yes, Bruno, I did. But not because I was thinking of selling her. I just didn't want to leave her alone on the ship, not now that she was worth so much. Someone might have stolen her." He looks down at Scimmi and shakes his head ruefully. "Yes, five thousand scudi..." and once again his eyes roll up as he pauses for a moment. "Now, where was I?" he says absently. "Oh, yes, that's right, at the following evening's banquet in the palace. This time I didn't bother hiding Scimmi, but simply waited with her in my arms till the meal was brought out. Of course nobody made a move toward the food, nobody except the mice, which once again came rushing out across the room and up onto the table. Nor did anyone reach for their club. The only other thing that seemed to move was

Scimmi, who leapt, snarling, at the nearest mouse. She was already pouncing on her second victim, when there was a scrabbling and a hissing from somewhere in the room, and the fat ship's cat came bursting out of the captain's coat, sliding and then falling from the greasy fable, and killing half-a-dozen mice beneath her as she landed. This was almost all the overfed thing had managed to catch by the time that Scimmi had gobbled a score. Still, inexperienced as he was, King Agapanthus was quite without discrimination on the subject of mousers, and he offered the captain six thousand scudi on the spot. Six thousand scudi. Ah, Scimmi, I could almost say you've ruined me. "

"But did he take it? Did the captain sell his cat?"

"Did he take it?" cries Jacopo, wide-eyed. "Bruno, do cats eat mice? My boy, he thrust that cat so hard into the king's hands that he nearly caused a diplomatic incident. And not only that. He came to an arrangement with the king whereby he would sell him a whole shipment of cats, to keep the kingdom free of mice forevermore.

Oh, I tell you, children, this cat has kept me in the poor house . "

Tessa giggles behind her thumb at his grimacing face.

Well may you laugh, my pretty one!" he cries, tickling her ribs till she splutters and wriggles. "But when I said that Scimmi cost me six thousand scudi... well, I wasn't even thinking of the fortune I could have made on all those other cats. She's probably cost me half of Florence,"

"You poor man, Giorgio," laughs Laura, squeezing his elbow with mock-sympathy, "and to think I never knew what a hard life you've led. What you need is a glass of good malmsey to sweeten things up." And before long, the childrenare gorging on comfits and cordials, slipping a share to the priciest cat in all the known world, while

Laura and Jacopo consume the best part of a bottle of Levantine malmsey.

They were not long out of Kithira when a violent gale blew up, screaming over the swells and taking the galley with it. For some days they ran at a wild clip before this wind, covering league upon league, passing far beyond the Pelcponnesos, across the Ionian Sea. At last the gale abated, giving way to a period of unseasonable heat, which reddened their flesh and reduced the crew to thirsty silence. The passengers lolled about in the sun, watching the waves roll sluggishly by, losing themselves in pleasant dreams of Venice and Genoa, of country villas in the hills, until, one evening, from the stern of the galley, they heard a cry of purest terror. A crewman, who'd been pissing from beside the tiller, now whimpered with his pizzle in one hand, while he prodded with the other at his crotch. For there, amongst the tangled hair, was the tender redness of a budding tumour.

"An egg!" cried the new mate. "He's hatching an egg!" And there was no-one on that ship who felt relief that it was someone else, since all now felt as if they themselves had hatched that bubo, as if it grew between their own two legs, pronouncing their own death. And, indeed, it was the start of yet another cycle of the sickness.

Within a day, two more had brought forth tumours, lapsing quickly like the crewman into fever, while Captain Aldo, whose skill and popularity had seemed to grow with the disappearance of the plague, was once again discussing their need to be rid of the sick before they infected others. But, for the moment, he followed the example of

Giuseppe Pozzi and placed the victims in the hold.

Despair, so heavy that it might have dragged them to the bottom, now weighed their spirits down. After feeling that they'd finally escaped the pestilence, after having rejoiced in their freedom and harboured thoughts of home, it was almost impossible to accept that Death now held the ship once more within its grip. For two days the sick lay in the hold, delirious with fever, before another victim, the wife of a rich notary, fell ill. And now an incident occurred that was to split the ship for the remainder of the voyage. The woman was taken down into the hold, where it was discovered that the first of the recent victims, the crewman, was now lying as if dead.

The captain instantly pronounced him so, and proceeded to direct his removal from the galley. Some protested - the notary most vigorously of all - that the fever never finished anyone so fast, that it invariably took four days at least to kill a sturdy man, and that the crewman must be no more than unconscious. But Aldo insisted he could hear no heartbeat, that the man was dead and that, besides, it was now his ship and his command. So they bore the senseless body up on deck, where Aldo pronounced a perfunctory prayer amidst a clamour of protests, while the archers milled uneasily upon the stairs, their weapons at the ready.

Jacopo, watching all this time, had said nothing. Indeed, he'd attempted to distract the children with small bits of magic, since Laura had grown quite voluble amongst the protestors, who were shouting at the captain and decrying his prayers as hypocrisy. At one point, noticing the archers on the stairs, he'd tried to warn her to be quiet, but she'd have none of it. In fact, her face was white and sweating, her eyes quite glassy with the ardour of her anger, and when she brushed him aside, her hand was burning up with passion. Then the crewman's body was hoisted aloft in a riot of cries, where it hung suspended for a moment, and then slid into the sea. There was an instant hush. The crowd stared solemnly at the flat blue water, as if attempting to digest some crime. Then suddenly the body bobbed back up, seemed to make a flailing movement with one arm, and just as quickly vanished. The hush erupted into shouts. "You killed him!" cried some, and "Murder!" shouted others, while some defended Aldo, yelling back, "It was the tide that did it," "A wave," "Some hungry fish." But Laura wasn't shouting out at all. Jacopo saw that she was crying, clutching at her side and weeping there in loud, hoarse sobs, now tearing at the sleeve of her long dress, turning toward him and lifting up her arm to show the red and fierce tumour.

Laura lies drifting in the ship's dark infirmary. The air is like a single flame about her, folding her tight in a pocket of heat, then flaring out till it licks at the walls' damp planking. Sometimes it seems to run through her veins in red, wriggling streams, seeping through the cracks of her skin and melting her thoughts, till she floats through the hold, choking and light as burning sulphur. Sometimes her flesh is a wineskin full of vinegar, a bloated thing that rolls with the ocean in restless anguish, as if her only salvation were to be slit open. She feels transparent to pain, like some stained glass saint where the sun comes streaming, searing her innards with red-hot fingers and filling the air with crimson light. This place is not vacant - its edges shift with familiar strange things. Troops of black rats wait in the corners, slimy with brine, their eyes pale pearls in the swimming light. And high on their backs are the fat black fleas, their dark armour glinting and whetted heads turning. Sometimes they wait while she blossoms with fires, then suddenly swarm: Berich in purple armour, Gemer sheathed in his ebon helm, Azazel with banners and fanions flaring; some leaping, some hopping on squat, jointed legs as they mount the red giantess, silent as spirits, crueller than armies, spitting her flesh and sucking her blood with their bladed heads.

A change comes to the hold. At her side there is whimpering, sobbing then screaming, till the air seems to ache of itself. Tessa and Bruno have been lain beside her. She sees them lifted in fingers of flame, their bodies ash-pale, pocked black on the arms and mottled with tumours. Tessa begs her to come, while Bruno writhes on his sheets as if bound. She strains to sit up, and the rats come staggering out of the bilge to group in the shadows. She watches their riders - among them spined

Moloch, Asmodeus shrouded in jagged black plumes - as they scuttle across her children's pale limbs, bursting the skin, nuzzling and suckling like venomous babies. She cries, feebly twists, while a hand dabs her brow with soft, moistened silk, a knife of smooth ice that slices her nerves.

* * * Tuccio gives alms

Further back along the beach, at the base of the high wall, the river spewed from the water-gate's wide, grated mouth. Ahead, there was something washed up on the sand, where gulls and waves and a single furiously barking dog competed for its possession. Tuccio glanced round at the troop of riders following at his back, men like

Baldassare d'Aquila and Bernardo Cuorevero, all mounted y on spirited horses except, of course, for Luigi Pucci, his accountant, Luca his steward, and the rest of his servants, whose nags - though healthy enough - were hardly the stuff of romances. Yet here they were, trailing meekly along the beach behind him while he rode his sedate black mule. The only person riding at his side was Francesco Morelli, also mounted on a Spanish mule, a purchase which Tuccio could not help considering a

slavish copy of his own.

"They're like an army of buzzards and stray cats,"

Francesco was saying. "At present, the whole countryside

is full of them." He pointed at the makeshift lean-tos

that huddled by the wall. "And there's not one of them who's not a leper or convulsive, who doesn't suffer some malignant fever or catarrh, some rash of boils or ulcers,

scabies or scrofula. To treat such mobs would be like trying to catch..." and here he paused, then swept out an arm to include the waves beside them "...to catch the ocean in a thimble." 158

Tuccio nodded at him slowly, knowing that nothing could have induced Maestro Francesco Morelli, physician and commune Gonfaloniere, to treat that indigent mass of suffering. Not that Tuccio had any desire to induce such acts of charity in his friend. The quicker these vagrants realised there was little for them here in Topomagro the better.

y "They run from famine in the north to famine in the south," he said, pausing for a moment to peer at the shallows, where the dog did noisy battle with the gulls for a bundle of wave-tossed rags. "And the winter already looks like being a cold one. There'll be even more deaths than last year."

"The thing is, Tuccio, we can't afford to keep them in the town. There've been troubles elsewhere already - disorder in San Gimignano, insurrection in Florence, food-riots in Pistoia. These vagabond armies are prey to every false rumour of plentiful communes and lands of

Cockaigne. Yet when they arrive, only to find the granaries guarded by the town militia...then things can turn nasty. We're going to have to get rid of them."

"Perhaps..." said Tuccio doubtfully. He glanced at the scene about them, at the grey clouds of the late afternoon, at the ragged shacks below the wall and the great white ribcage rising from the beach before him.

"Yet the Church enjoins us to charity."

Francesco smiled and reined his mule around the first of the whale's remaining bones. "But it doesn't require that we care for all the poor of Lombardy and Piedmont when their own cities neglect to help them."

Tuccio nodded absently, his attention drawn by the massive ribcage that rose above them from the sands.

Unconsciously, he slowed his mule, the better to examine the remains, so that the entire party behind him came almost to a standstill. He realised that he'd virtually expunged the creature from his memory, something that underlined for him just how long it had been since he'd ridden on the beach. It was this very absence, this withdrawal from public attention, which had decided them on their impromptu procession. It had been time to once again assert their presence and their wealth. And Tuccio had been surprised to find just how beneficial it was for him, since here, riding through town with his friends and his followers, he had sensed his own strength with an intensity he rarely allowed himself to feel. Yet now, just at this moment of revitalisation, as he looked at the ruined whale, he was returned to those feelings he'd had upon seeing it for the first time. For the briefest of instants, as the wind-picked ribs rose over him like the spars of one of his own merchant ships, he felt a curious identification with the creature, as if he himself were lying there, a dilapidated giant picked clean by a rabble of gulls.

"Come on, Tuccio," called the physician, who was already some way ahead, "it'll be night before we get back, and then we'll never - "

"Look!" shouted someone in the group behind them, interrupting Francesco. Tuccio turned from the bones to y the men at his back. He saw Baldassare pointing toward the Porta del Mare, and followed the direction of his gesture until he saw the horsemen riding down onto the beach. It was Frederico dalla Montagna with his retainers and friends. They rode at a canter across the sand, coming quickly toward them, so that Baldassare, Bernardo and a number of others in the party started reaching for their swords.

"Leave your weapons where they are," called Tuccio, annoyed by the unwonted squeak in his voice. Yet the approaching riders had already slowed to a walk, their horses tossing their manes and snorting out steam in the cool evening air. He urged his mule a little faster forward in an attempt to match their pace, watching the face of Frederico dalla Montagna, his features obscure in the dimming light. There was no doubt about it, the man was impressive on his heavy black horse, as it sidled and

Propped and sprayed up the sand. He held its head upright by sheer strength, despite its restlessness, baring his teeth at the merchant in a smile that might have been unctuous and veiled as a gypsy's were it not for his arrogant eyes. His sons rode just behind him on horses almost as wild, and Tuccio could not help feeling that he himself cut a small, timid figure on his sedate little mule, no matter what it was worth, until he wondered if all that shying and prancing weren't merely for show.

Then the horsemen were almost upon them.

y "A nice evening, Tuccio... Francesco," said the noble, smiling once more, though Tuccio could see that some of his men had their hands on their hilts. "Just take care that your mule doesn't bolt." And he came straight on, not pausing at all as his stallion slid by breathing steam.

"Yes, he looks pretty wild," crowed one of his sons, the other shouting with laughter, riding close on their father's heels, while Francesco and Tuccio nodded tight greetings, reining in their uneasy mounts. And now the groups rode through each other, the party of nobles moving, perhaps, just a little faster, the horsemen merging their ranks like stormbanks clashing in mute confusion. Yet as Tuccio turned in his saddle, and

Montagna's retainers scraped past, there was something about that hushed, tense watchfulness, those stiff, sidelong glances, that made him think of a pair of street dogs passing close by each other, hackles raised and snarls buried deep in their throats. There were mutters and bumpmgs and the jostle of harness, till even the merchant gripped at the dagger under his cape, expecting the hiss of the first drawn sword. But the last rider was past him, and Montagna - he could see him high on his mettlesome horse - was already beyond old Luigi Pucci dawdling at the rear. Then, just as the danger seemed over, there was a cry and a thud as Luca, his steward, fell to the sand amid skittering hooves. Baldassare and

Bernardo Cuorevero had their swords out already, and his y servants glared darkly about them, while the nobles, in turn, drew their weapons in one hissing sigh.

"Stoldo!" bellowed the patriarch from beyond the melee, voice cleaving the air like a blade.

The elder of his two sons dropped his head, then his sword, and swung his horse round with the jerk of an arm.

"Your pardon," he murmured, leaning from his saddle to help up the steward. "My arm caught on your coat as we passed."

There were grumbles from Tuccio's men, who made no effort to sheathe their weapons, and Baldassare came forward.

But Stoldo had already turned, cantering off with his brother in a flurry of riders, leaving Tuccio's men to mumble indignantly there on the sand. "Forget it, Baldassare, all of you," said Tuccio softly, rediscovering his authority. "He said it was an accident, so we'll treat it as one."

There were mutters of protest, but they put up their swords and knew he was right. This was just one more pinprick to their pride, which must await some other day of reckoning. Yet that such a day would come seemed no longer in doubt. It was just that it would have to wait until Tuccio, Francesco Morelli and the other town worthies saw it as necessary. For the present, they would be prudent, keep their swords sheathed, and follow

Tuccio's mule toward the Porta del Mare. For here they were, so distracted by their anger that they'd hardly noticed how the sand had turned to stone beneath their horses' hooves.

Tuccio gazed at the tall gate above them, urging the mule beneath the dark arch. He nodded stiffly at the guards and cast one final glance at the beach, where the party of Frederico dalla Montagna seemed already to have turned back the way they had come. Then he was entering the

Borgo San Pietro, quickly immersed in the quandary of streets that twisted beneath the city walls, his nose assailed by the stench of dead fish. Nor were his nostrils spared by a dung heap that steamed in the darkening air, recalling to Tuccio how - at the peak of the previous winter - each dawn had revealed the corpses of beggars prone on such mountains, where they'd lain for the heat. There was no reason to think that this winter wouldn't be worse.

They wound through the quarter past groups of young men, some of whom nodded, while others seemed churlish, turning slyly away or mumbling together with quick bursts of laughter. Then they entered the Piazza San Pietro, a small square hemmed in by stone houses and the heavy, squat form of San Pietro itself. The entrances to narrow y streets and laneways opened on the square, as if it were the hub of a set of twisted spokes, while at its centre - the hub of the hub - sat a dry stone fountain from which rose the form of some decapitated goddess. Approaching this fountain, Tuccio paused for a moment, finding it surrounded by a group of vagrants, who lounged on its steps like the pauperised apostles of its ruined deity.

Across the piazza, the portico of San Pietro seemed filled with a still larger crowd, though the growing darkness made it hard to differentiate between shadows and their owners. Then Tuccio went forward. Yet, before his mule had covered more than a few paces, a pair of figures was rising from the fountain's steps and slowly approaching, while others sat up with expectant expressions. They were almost upon him before he'd been able to make them out, a man and a boy, the child no more than six or seven, leading his companion by a rope. The man seemed ageless, and anxiously stretched out his hands despite the boy's ministrations. Indeed, with his wide, gaping mouth and eyeless sockets, his entire body seemed to grope at the air before him.

"Coins," cried the child in a practised wail, "a few coins for God's poor, Signore!"

"Yes, Signore, a few humble pennies for the blind!" the blindman blurted, then stumbled forward, hands clutching like suckers, and caught at the mule. The mule shied, wheezing, but the man held firm, staggering round on his great flat feet while the boy kept up his plaintive wailing. Francesco Morelli proceeded to remonstrate with the pair, and the others gathered round, demanding the man loose his grip. But Tuccio put up his hand.

"Here," he said gently, placing a silver grosso in the palm of the boy, who instantly handed it to the blindman.

May that make the winter a little warmer for you." Then he made to ride on. Yet the man kept hold, as if afraid to let go now that he held something solid. And the others were rising from the steps, coming quickly toward them. Already a figure was hopping across like some featherless crow on a big wooden crutch. One leg was gone, and his head was completely devoid of hair, his features collapsed as if eaten away from within. "A penny for the poor!" roared the leper, while an old woman, whose flesh was a thin, brittle spiderweb over her bones, came trembling and whining at the feet of Francesco. "I don't like this," hissed Baldassare in Tuccio's ear.

"Nor I," said Bernardo beside him, while the crowd closed tighter still.

"Go on, get away," cried the voice of Luigi from somewhere behind them, followed by the sound of a scuffle, as a pair of Tuccio's servants shoved at a group who were jostling the old accountant. Then Tuccio caught y the glint of a blade, unsure of whose it was, while others swarmed from the steps of the church and the blindman wrenched at his arm. He tried to pull free, watching the approaching crowd, some hobbling on ulcerated legs, some on crutches, others wheeled headlong on small wooden trolleys, while all seemed so ragged and shrunken and thin that their progress across the piazza was like the charge of an army of mummies. "My purse!" cried the voice of Niccolo di Lapo behind him, and as the merchant turned he saw one of the beggars slide Luca

Bagnato's sword from its scabbard. Then Francesco was rowling his mule for all he was worth, and Niccolo followed suit, lurching forward across the square, while

Baldassare yelled, "Come on, let's get moving!" and all of them battered the ribs of their horses. Tuccio jerked his arm free of the blindman, kicking his mule till it lunged through the crowd with a harsh, wheezing cry. More

People, beggars perhaps, clung tight to the walls as the riders sped north up a narrow laneway, and the merchant, wheeling round once in the saddle, caught a glimpse of the child stretched out on the ground, while the blindman, still tied to his wrist, gaped after them dumbly; and across the piazza, at the start of the street that led back to the beach, Frederico dalla Montagna watched from the shadows with his men ranged behind him.

* * * Cardinal Rollo da Parma hires help

Beneath the new moon's waxing crescent the palace of

Cardinal Rollo da Parma, deep in its cleft between oaken hillsides, was little more than a hint of pale masonry in a forest of guttering torches. The cardinal's expected visitor was now so late that it seemed unlikely he would come, and all the servants - with the exception of a handful of grooms and serving-maids - had been sent to y bed, leaving the windows in darkness but for those few that glimmered with lights from rooms farther in.

Carvings - dark friezes mottled with moss and weathered by time - were visible in those wan strips of moonlight that played on the walls. Angels cast demons from dense granite clouds, the glorified bodies of saints sprouted patches of mould like the guilt of old sins, and high on the walls, between tall upper windows, the damned burned in flames that were yellow with lichen. The carven limbs of these figures, which appeared to writhe with real movement as the moonlight shifted amongst the leaves, were framed by the arch of a pair of thin legs that belonged, so it seemed, to some nameless demon carved on a far grander scale, yet which, even now, ran a hand through its hair to catch small, crawling things between finger and thumb.

Brother Corvo shone with cold sweat and gazed to the north, sensing the dawn of a rancorous Saturn. Then he turned to the eastern horizon, from which a black comet would soon be ascending. He laughed with no sound. The cardinal should feel secure here in the hills, though now, with the help of strange herbs that had found their way to his kitchens, he foresaw the coming chaos almost as clearly as Corvo himself. But he would not see if for what it was. For him it was no changing in the fabric of the world, but a fraying at its edges, a shift in circumstance instead of substance, something that could be fought with swords and gold, when, in fact, it would y demand nothing short of total obeisance. The cardinal's solution was as yet all wrong, and Corvo waited eagerly for its arrival.

This solution, though late, was unmistakable in its imminence. At first it was a rumbling in the darkened woods, and then a thunder, and at last, a trembling in the ground that seemed to clank like metal as the horsemen raced at the palace through moon-coloured dust.

Corvo pressed closer against the cold stone, watching the riders' approach, dressed as they were in full armour, their horses hideous in metal masks, as if they were here, not to bargain, but to ransack. Orange light from the torches passed over their forms, till they seemed to well up from the darkness of sleep, the first like some great armoured swan with his neck of tight mail and long- beaked visor, and behind him others with bear's-head helms or snouted bevors tusked like boars. They drew up at the walls, banners flying with the rush of their motion, and stood like a herd of heraldic beasts. Their pennants emblem - a swan that breathed fire - nested in flames like a phoenix; while their captain himself wore a bright steel aventail at his long neck, and climbed from his horse, shouting commands in a harsh German tongue, stamping and clanking beneath the high walls. Then the others dismounted and dragged off their helms, while

Brother Corvo noted the squeal of the big metal gates and the voice of a palace guard. Then the leader, Wolf

Schwanhals - for this was who it was - disappeared from sight, and the rest of his company with him.

The north-west wind picked up, blowing so cold that it might have come, icy and white, from the moon itself. But

Corvo would wait till his blood turned to frost, since he wished to confirm how the dreams he had stirred into

Rollo's food affected his actions. Yet more than this, the demise of His Eminence, Prince of the Church, was a prelude to something far greater. The thrill of conviction fired his heart, spreading at last to his numb, livid skin as the window beside him glowed suddenly yellow with torchlight.

He peered through the gap where the sheets of waxed linen failed to meet squarely, and saw the cardinal enter the room ahead of the soldier. Rollo wore a taffeta gown, which shone so brightly in the smoky light that he seemed like a magnified version of the ruby that gleamed on his finger. Wolf Schwanhals, minus his helm, had remained in his armour, clanking through the room in the wake of his host, the flickering torchlight glinting and sparking off the white steel edges, giving the soldier too a bright, gem-like quality, though his was the hardness of diamond.

A servant - quite shadowy amidst that interplay of light and reflected light - entered behind them, setting a tray with a brimming ewer and two golden goblets upon a low table. Rollo dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and the two men faced each other, mouths set, like jealous contestants at an opulent masque. y

"Help yourself to some wine, Baron," said the cardinal, indicating the tray, his voice barely muffled at all by the panes of waxed cloth.

"With pleasure...Your Eminence," his guest replied, hesitating at the honorific, perhaps through uncertainty, perhaps through pride. His chiselled, beardless face gave nothing away. Then he moved to the low table, pausing over the goblets, bending his neck, which seemed almost freakish in its sinewy length, so that Brother Corvo was reminded of a head on the end of a soldier's pike. The head raised its brows in a question, the cardinal nodded, and Wolf Schwanhals filled both goblets with wine. He handed one to Rollo, then stood with the other, both men waiting in a slow, appraising silence, one short and squat and moist with sweat, the other tall, strong and dry as a stone. Then Rollo led the way to a pair of chairs on either side of the table, gathering up his robes before he sat. "Please, Baron, feel free," he said, indicating the goblet which Schwanhals was just bringing to his lips.

"It has already been tasted."

The man paused, sniffing at the wine before sipping. "A fine wine, Your Eminence, by the aroma." His Tuscan was larded with thick German vowels. "More subtle and delicate than that of Swabia." He smiled at the wine but y still did not drink. "Not as sweet, yet not perhaps as potent either."

The cardinal grinned back at him knowingly, raised the cup to his bared white teeth and tipped it up in a lingering draught, keeping his eyes on his guest all the while, as if in ironic display of just who held the power here in the palace. "Your health," he said, raising his glass in a belated toast.

Schwanhals mirrored the gesture, his features motionless, and took a quick sip at his wine. "Well, Your Eminence, to business, eh? It's been a long ride, and I'm eager to know your terms."

"You know the larger part of them already." The cardinal frowned, as if at an inattentive scribe. "We've spoken of

Topomagro, of its overweening burghers and their need to be humbled." "Oh, yes, we've spoken of that. I'm perfectly happy to teach the town some respect for the Church." Rollo winced at his tone, which seemed to imply that the Church could gain respect in no other way. "But it's time we said more about payment."

"We've spoken of a sum, I think, Baron," said Rollo severely.

Wolf Schwanhals finished the wine at a gulp and put down the goblet. "Yes, we spoke of a sum." Then he laughed abruptly. "But that was a joke, I think." He glanced sharply up at the cardinal, who refused to respond. "Ten thousand florins, Your Eminence, is nothing for such a campaign."

"Oh, come on, Baron. You'll gain almost as much again from the countryside."

At this Wolf Schwanhals laughed out loud. "My dear cardinal, with all due respect, you are no soldier, unlike some others of your rank." He now stood up and went clanking round the room. J'We are talking of storming a fortified town. For this I will need far more than my

German knights, warriors though they are. At present, I can count on a core of little more than eight hundred horsemen of the finest calibre. To take such a town, which will be well apprised of our intentions - let's have no illusions there - I will need at least another thousand men-at-arms and no fewer than six or seven

hundred foot soldiers. I will also require seige machines

and bombards for breaching the walls. Such things cost money."

Rollo stared up blankly at the man, who was standing,

arms akimbo, on the rucked, frayed fabric of the rug, his head lolling sideways on his sinewy neck.

y "It will amount to little more than twenty thousand

florins," he announced, gazing sardonically at the cardinal.

"I don't have that kind of spare money," Rollo protested,

and looked suddenly flustered in the changeable light.

"Well, that's how it is then," smiled Schwanhals slowly.

"There are rich pickings elsewhere, and other, richer

lords. You say the Priors themselves are wealthy." He

shrugged philosophically. "And then there's the Emperor."

He bowed, turning as if to leave, but Rollo blurted,

'Wait!" just shrilly enough to make Schwanhals pause,

grinning, eyebrows raised in a question. "Naturally I myself don't have that much to spare. But I know for a

fact how concerned Pope Clement is to protect the prestige of the Church. In times such as these - surely you've noted it, Baron - men turn from the Lord to gold and material pleasure, from the wisdom of the monasteries to the vulgar tongue and the superficial learning of the universities. The Pope requires great knights to mount a new sort of crusade, yet not in the infidel lands, but in the traitorous hearts of our fellow Christians."

"I know what you mean, Your Eminence, and I'm ready to help. But, of course, even the crusades needed more than the Pontiff's blessing. I'm no alchemist. I can't simply turn the blood of the vanquished to gold." y

"So you first take the gold and then wring the blood from it?"

Brother Corvo grinned as Rollo craned forward in his chair, bumping his cup with a thrust of his hand and spilling the dregs on the table.

"No," sneered Schwanhals, turning away, "there's no point in trying to sound like you're above the process. You can't snatch the victory and leave me the blood. Face it,

Your Eminence...it's God's strength we worship, and it's the strong that God rewards. The Emperor knows it, and the Pope. The great kings always have. God's on the side of the sharpest sword. He despises the poor and the weak.

Why else would He have them live like they do? The peacemakers will only be blessed if they submit. The meek might inherit the earth, but Paradise goes to the strong . " Rollo was showing the whites of his eyes. "That sounds dangerously close to heresy, Baron Schwanhals." But his voice betrayed the lameness of the statement. The mercenary's words were heretical. Heresy must be punished by the inquisitor. Thus, the syllogism insisted, the inquisitor must punish the mercenary. But what inquisitor could try Wolf Schwanhals?

"Well, perhaps...perhaps not." The man shrugged y impatiently. "Can you pay, or can't you?"

The cardinal opened his mouth, either to speak or in bewilderment, but was saved from making any response at all by the sudden opening of the door. A bowl of zuccate

- pale gold pumpkins boiled in sugar and hardened with honey - now entered the room, perched on the jester's splayed fingers. A hush descended as the long, gaunt figure crept through the shadows. Besides the truncated tinkling of his bells, the only other sound was Rollo's laboured breathing. He wheezed and panted in his chair like some gaudy, winded organ, his eyes fixed white upon the clown as if he were a prophecy of doom come true against all odds. For an instant Brother Corvo saw the jester as the cardinal now saw him, saw the eyepits dark and saturnine above his smile, the ape's head twisted on the summit of his sceptre, and his hands so quick and pallid that they scuttled through the air as if on webs.

The figure seemed transformed from the awkward, gawky mime of the previous few moments, and was now a thing that might have stepped - with its loose, skeletal limbs and leering grin - from some entablature of Death itself got up in cap and bells. Brother Corvo rubbed his hands with glee. It seemed his cookery was good, his recipes for Rollo's dreams correct and well-prepared.

The jester, Tozzo, had now produced his tasting goblet from the air. He was reaching for the ewer when Rollo leapt suddenly to his feet, shouting in a voice both y hoarse and shrill, "Tozzo, get out! Go on, get out!" plunging a hand beneath his robes as if to find some weapon. "Get out, or I'll have you beaten." But Tozzo was already slipping from the room, vanishing through the open door in a horizontal lunge which should have ended with the crunch of bones. Yet the jester might have continued, levitant, amongst the hallways of the palace for all that was heard of his impact on the flagstones, and this silence served only to accentuate the awkwardness now reigning in the room.

"I'm sorry," Rollo blurted at last, "but sometimes he goes too far." Wolf Schwanhals made no attempt to ease the tension, simply sitting, staring at the red-faced cardinal, fingers tapping at his sword-hilt till Rollo felt obliged to offer further explanations. "And I've not been sleeping well. To tell you the truth, Baron, I'm

Plagued by dreams, such dreams as I couldn't explain to you...But they're all the fault of those apostates who've snatched my land in Topomagro, of that I'm certain." Schwanhals gave him time to settle down, to ease his flustered breathing, which made him rattle like a fat red bellows. Then finally the soldier said, "An army of apostates? There's no problem, Your Eminence. We'll crush them like so many bugs. Oh, yes, and whatever...bad dreams they may bring." Then, just as the cardinal was about to speak, he held up his hand for silence, so that

Rollo closed his mouth. "But I'll need that twenty y thousand."

"Oh, there'll be no problem there. I'm certain of it now." And Rollo raised his arms, palms upward in a gesture of reconciliation. "I wasn't really quibbling.

You see, I have some influence with Clement. He'll be willing to help with funds, just as he's guaranteed to finance my canals. Besides, I've apprised him of your usefulness. No, with you to sweep the country clean of treacherous hearts, and the canals to secure my safe passage, all our fears will be over."

"Well," said Wolf Schwanhals, reaching for a glistening zuccata, "if you hire my company you'll be safe enough without canals. You might save yourself some money." But further argument was curtailed by a sudden scuffling sound outside the window. The cardinal turned, peering at the shut wax panes, while Schwanhals reached them in a single stride, sword sighing from his scabbard. He unfastened the cinched frame and flung it wide, thrusting 179 first his blade and then his head into the dark, where he found nothing but the weathered frieze beneath his hand, and the cold, pale crescent of the waxing moon.

* * * 180

Tuccio hears a proposal

It was a cold winter's day with low, dark clouds above the hills where they rode, and a promise of rain in the air. Tuccio shivered slightly despite the fur lining of his grey gonnellone and his long grey cloak. The withers of his mule, too, twitched and quivered, though not with the cold, he presumed, but with the movements of some unseasonal insect which he would speak to the grooms about when he returned.

"Some ringleaders have been identified and arrested by the militia," he continued, watching the remnants of mist that still clung to the stones of the hillside. "One or two will probably be hanged, and the rest will be birched through the streets and expelled from the town. Indeed, the Priors need to consider expelling these vagabonds wholesale. "

"And no connection's been established with Montagna or the others?"

Tuccio frowned at Baldassare and shook his head slowly.

"No, nothing that we could really use against them." He watched the young man astride his black horse, his ubiquitous falcon on his wrist. "Just the usual vague hints of strangers fomenting trouble, of free wine and gifts of small change. Nothing to mount a case on." 181

"Not even though Montagna and his men were there? You saw them yourself." Baldassare spoke with passion, and Tuccio smiled to see the glint of sword-blades in his pale blue eyes.

"You were there too," he said softly, patting his friend on the shoulder. "That's hardly reason enough to clap you in gaol for sedition."

Baldassare opened his mouth to say more, yet remained silent. Then he seemed to recollect himself, to take a breath and square his shoulders, as if about to give a speech. "You may be right, Tuccio. Your judgement has rarely failed you in the past." He seemed suddenly so formal, and Tuccio could hear a surprising tremor in his voice, so that he found himself wondering whether

Baldassare had asked him here for more than a mere ride and political discussion. "In fact, it's to your judgement, wise and impartial as I deem it to be, that I now wish to submit myself - "

"Why, Baldassare," he interrupted, smiling, "you sound so solemn that I'd swear you were about to ask for a loan."

Then he raised his hand quickly to forestall his friend's protestations. "But I know you wouldn't feel the need to put on an act. "

"I - I'm sorry if I seem awkward." Baldassare looked crestfallen. "But it's precisely because I want to avoid formality that I'm speaking as I am. You see...it must have been obvious for some time that, well..." Then he took another deep breath, drew his horse to a standstill and tried to compose his features before the puzzled merchant. "I mean, I'm not sure whether I'll offend you doing things this way. But I don't want to deal with you through some middleman or broker - I'd rather simply ask you, Tuccio, as one friend to another." And it was suddenly clear to Tuccio what all the stammering and y clumsiness was about, so clear that, for a moment, he could see the face of Gaia staring out of Baldassare's eyes .

"Yes, Baldassare, you wish to ask me...?"

"Oh, it must have been plain to you, to everybody, in fact - " and now the face that had seemed as fierce as his falcon's was blushing - "my feelings toward Gaia, I mean. You see, Tuccio, I want to ask you, to be so bold as to ask you, for her hand." And then there was a silence, in which this last word seemed to reverberate, as if the hand were all he was asking for.

Tuccio watched his handsome face, now as eager as a boy's, seeing the long blond hair and silky beard, blue eyes and tanned brown skin, then picturing beside him on the steps of the Duomo, Gaia, in a gown that reflected the sun like a second moon as she smiled above the wedding crowd. His heart surged for a moment, whether in joy or fear he was uncertain, and then he reined it in.

"This is very sudden, Baldassare," he said softly, "and so...well...direct. You've caught me off guard, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry if I have." Yet, if anything, Baldassare now looked more at ease, as if he'd somehow taken charge of the situation. "Perhaps I've been discourteous." And now it was his turn to hold up his hand to anticipate the other's protestations. "But we've much in common, Tuccio.

I don't think either of us has a lot of time for the niceties of protocol. Your whole career has been to see a thing and take it, to achieve what you have through the strength of your will. And I too have had to overcome the pattern of things in Topomagro. Perhaps others need to follow the slow and cloistered path. But surely we can be direct with each other."

"Yes, we always have been," said Tuccio, feeling a sudden warmth toward his friend. "There's no reason to stop now. "

"You know, almost from the first time we met, all those years back, when I first came to Topomagro from Roumania,

I've felt that somehow you were like a father to me. To make that feeling still more real by becoming part of your family... well, it would make me very happy." The merchant watched him on his tall black horse, considering what an excellent son he would be for any man. Yet all he said was, "You'd be marrying Gaia,

Baldassare, not me," at which his friend began to laugh, turning his face toward the valley.

"Well, it must be obvious to you that I've been thinking of almost nothing else but her." He wiped at his eyes, which glistened brightly as he spoke. "The thought of y Gaia is with me always, from the moment I wake till when

I go to sleep, and even then she fills my dreams." And

Tuccio now saw the lines of strain drawn tight on his skin, which was moist with heat, even in the hills' cold air, till the nobility of his sentiments took on a less flattering hue. He was speaking like an empty-headed knight from some romantic tale. There was a softness about his words, a self-indulgence which seemed so typical of the noble caste, as if, despite his claims to the contrary, Baldassare could not throw off their weaknesses. "As my friend," he was saying, "I know you must have been aware of how I feel, so I have no hesitation in being perfectly frank with you."

Tuccio observed him coolly, nodding at his words. "Yes, we've always been open with each other. It would be absurd not to be so on an issue such as this." But there was a stiffness in his voice, and he couldn't help feeling that Baldassare might well have been wiser to 185 observe convention, to temper these overripe emotions with the services of some reliable marriage-broker.

"Like me, Tuccio," he said, "you've spent long years without a home, finding a place among foreigners, amassing what wealth your wits could encompass. And like me, you've known the freedom of other places, so that your heart could know passions which others rarely know.

Yet I've known no passion like the love I feel for Gaia." y And as he spoke, Tuccio realised that this was perhaps the thing that made them so different, despite the superficial similarities listed by his friend. For

Baldassare, the Balkans had meant adventure, romance and licence, the playing out of a part that suited the generous size of both his heart and his vanity. Whereas, for Tuccio himself, the fondaco at Barcelona - remembered though it might be with some sentiment - was essentially a place where he learned to master the urgings of his passions, and even, at times, to discover the way those passions might be used in the service of sound profit.

Baldassare, like every man of noble blood he'd ever known, could keep nothing solid in his mind for long, but was forever finding some new fantasy to pursue, be it that wild scheme for importing curious pets from Africa, or vernacular poetry, or his birds, or a woman. Such a son-in-law could well bleed him dry. These are fair sentiments, Baldassare," he said gently,

"but marriage is, after all, a contract between families, not lovers."

"And this is just why I'm talking to you as I am," protested Baldassare, who seemed somewhat stung by

Tuccio's words. Yet it was this protest that Tuccio, in his uneasiness, had hoped to elicit. After all, Gaia was now eighteen years old, and he had perhaps indulged for too long her habit of rejecting suitors. He was soft with her to the point of scandal. And perhaps, through caution, he was being too harsh in his judgements on his friend. There was no denying that Baldassare had much to recommend him. He was charming, well set up, audacious when the need arose, a pleasure for almost any man to meet. He had - it was undeniable - created a certain wealth for himself. And, above all, Tuccio liked him better than any other man he knew. Yet that did not preclude his doubts. No, even if he agreed to a wedding - and the thought had much to recommend it - he would not lavish some huge dowry on the pair. There were other, slower, more prudent ways to help them; and besides, what better way was there to proclaim one's surplus wealth and attract a sudden hike in taxes than to settle a dowry of, say, ten thousand florins on your daughter? Wiser to spend modestly in public, and slip a few thousand to them later on. "Id rather not do this in the usual way," Baldassare was continuing. "It's not like I'm proposing a partnership in...well... the purchase of a shipment of wool. I don't want Gaia to feel she's being bargained over like some commodity. She must want to marry me."

Tuccio gazed at him for some moments, nodding his head slowly. Yes, he thought, there it was, that noble vision, that thoroughly dependable unreliability. "Well, you know Gaia. She can be quite ... perverse."

"That's one of the things that makes her fascinating."

"Yes," Tuccio said doubtfully, knowing precisely what

Baldassare meant, yet finding it irritating just the same. As a friend he loved him, but as a son-in- law...well, he wasn't so sure. And then there was Gaia herself. She seemed so indifferent - indeed, antagonistic

- toward Baldassare. The memory of that night when he'd brought his falcon to their home was still etched in

Tuccio's brain. Yet, like they'd said, the girl was perverse. With Gaia such behaviour could mean more than met the eye, though her hostility sometimes seemed so palpable that Tuccio could hardly doubt it was real. He couldn't even imagine trying to persuade her to accept someone she didn't like. After all, he never tried to persuade her to do anything she didn't like. He sighed loudly. The whole thing was confusing and ambivalent. And then inspiration hit him. "You know, you're right, my friend. It would be absurd for us to try to force her into this." The idea was so outrageous it was probably correct. "Yes, it must be Gaia who decides."

"Indeed," was all that Baldassare said, but Tuccio knew that he was right. Oh, to be sure, Agnolo del Leone,

Francesco Morelli, Bartolomeo Chiaudano, they and all the y others would say that he was mad, weak, anti-social, that he was spoiling his daughter and insulting Baldassare.

And he could just imagine Father Matteo's mournful bleating. But why should they know? Who was going to tell them how the decision had been made? Of course, there was

Beatrice to consider. She was always accusing him of indulging Gaia, and she liked Baldassare. Yet the idea seemed right. It suited his friend and avoided conflict with his daughter, while he himself would feel guilty if he rejected Baldassare, and full of doubt if he accepted him. No, to judge by Gaia's attitude, she would spurn him, thus solving the problem for them all.

"I'll talk to Gaia," he said, smiling, feeling that he'd found a true pragmatist's solution. "Then, though its irregularity means that we must be discreet, you can come to our house and ask her for her hand. After that, of course, everything must take its normal path." 189

"Ah, Tuccio," cried Baldassare, suddenly relaxing as if released from fetters. "I was right, wasn't I? We're two of a kind, no doubt about it."

And for no other reason than his happiness, he flung

Fiera up into the air, where she quickly soared from sight among the grey and lowering clouds.

* * * Jacopo Jumps ship and meets a holy man

They sighted hills to the north-west ten days after

Laura's death. Yet, at the lookout's cry, Jacopo barely raised his eyes to see. She had died in a mess of stench and fever, followed in a matter of hours by her children, first Bruno, and later, little Tessa screaming at a death-bed host of nightmares. Jacopo had gone to see them a few times, mopping Laura's brow, helping the children y drink while they still could, and yet he'd hesitated, more often than not remaining on deck, afraid of that hold so full of plague that it was like descending into death's antechamber. Now his memory saw her corpse, and those of both her children, thrown time and time again into the sea. Once, quite near the end, she'd opened her eyes wide and spoken with a sudden clarity, saying he could have all that was hers upon the ship. He'd nodded, knowing he would take it, yet knowing also that he'd long since failed some kind of test.

About him people laughed and shouted, hysterical with gaiety. So many had now died, and so many still lay dying in the hold. Messina and the Straits lay dead ahead. It was Sicily, they assured each other, reeling round the deck and staring intently into one another's eyes like lovers. Then, in the midst of that rejoicing, someone stopped, his wine cup frozen at his lips. "But what about

Byzantium?" he said. "You remember, in Constantinople, the way they wouldn't let us land?" 'Well...yes...that's right," replied another slowly, his brimming cup set down upon the rail. "The other galley had been turned away before us with the plague, and when they saw that we had sick on board - "

"By Christ, that's true," put in a third. "And what if Lo Storione has already tried to land here?"

y "Yes," cried a fourth, "would they do the same to us again?"

And so the conversation went, their laughter and thanksgiving turned to fear, distracted hands now spilling wine out of their cups, full demijohns unopened.

"There's one way only," Aldo roared above the babble,

"unless you want things to go the way they did in

Constantinople." And the bickering softened to a mutter.

He peered round them with his hungry eyes, looking first in one man's face, then in another's, until they shifted on their feet uneasily and gave him full attention.

Satisfied, he cleared his throat and continued. "It's more than likely that Lo Storione has survived the trip.

Her captain's an able enough man and she's a bigger galley. And unlike those other, smaller ports where we found a ready welcome, it's almost certain that they'd attempt to put in at Messina. Nor, on the basis of our own experience, is there much reason to doubt that there'll be plague aboard her still. If so, we mustn't try to deceive ourselves that we'll be allowed to land if we carry the least sign of sickness. And there's nowhere but the hold to keep the sick. As long as they're on board that's where they'll have to stay."

"So what do you suggest?" cried one of the passengers angrily. "That we turn back for some island?"

y "Or that we pray hard while we try to land?" another shouted to a chorus of uneasy laughter.

"No," said Aldo simply, and his manner was so dignified and solemn that the crowd grew quiet. "No...what I say is this. There is no way that we can dock in Sicily with any trace of plague aboard. All those now sick have only hours, at most a day or two, to live. The rest of us have our whole lives before us. We have no other choice but to relieve the dying of their misery... that is, to put them off the ship before we land."

They'd heard Aldo argue this before, but now, with Sicily in sight and the threat of being turned away, most muttered their approval, ambivalent perhaps, yet determined now to land without impediment, and willing to let events go as they would in Aldo's hands. There were angry protests from one or two of those with relatives among the ill, yet even these seemed overwhelmed by the slow, uneasy rumble of assent, while Aldo was already ordering a number of the archers to fetch the sick out of the hold. Jacopo noticed how their fellows now moved slowly to the upper deck, their weapons at the ready.

"They're dying," said a man whose uncle lay below. "But this will still be murder, Aldo."

"We should see if they will let us land," insisted one of the oldest of the women. y

"And if they refuse?" demanded the man behind her. "Then the rumour of our coming will fly before us all the way up the peninsula."

"We'll sail from port to port until we starve!" cried another.

But the argument was made to seem redundant by the arrival of the sick, three of whom were being hefted up on deck in the slings of their bedding like sacks of old bones. The archers on the upper deck leaned forward, their crossbows in their hands.

It's sinful!" hissed the woman.

And you'll doubtless hang for murder," blurted Jacopo, staring about him with a shocked expression on his face, unable to cast aside the notion that Laura and her children might have been amongst that shuddering procession now huddled on the deck.

"What we're proposing is no crime," said the captain,

"not in such desperate circumstances."

"Then you won't mind if there are witnesses."

"What do you mean?" snarled Aldo, leaning menacingly forward. "Who's going to be telling anyone about it?"

"Them, I suppose," suggested Jacopo in a helpful tone, pointing in the direction of what, at first, he'd thought was a single ship, but which now appeared to be two. All eyes turned and saw the drum-tight sails against the clouds, both ships cutting with surprising speed across the waves, appearing to draw nearer even as they watched.

"Corsairs!" cried Aldo, turning to his mate and shouting,

"Let out as much sail as we safely can." He swung to the stout boatswain, and pointed at the oarsmen. "Keep them rowing till they drop if you have to."

"What are they?" urged one of the passengers. "Pirates?"

But Aldo ignored him, calling at his mate's retreating back, "We'll make for Messina at all speed...try to outrun them," mounting the final two steps till he was fully on the upper deck, swinging round to face the helmsman and jutting out his jaw. "Have you got that, Mario?"

They fled to the north-west, eyes fixed on the corsairs, which were running flush before the wind. For the moment, the issue of the sick seemed totally forgotten, lost in urgency and speed and the rush of air upon their faces.

Yet it soon became apparent that they had no chance of outrunning their pursuers. The nearer of the pair was now so close that they could see its archers already loading bolts into their bows, and both ships had the advantage of the wind and greater canvas, while the Santa

Margherita had lost most of her best oarsmen. Soon the corsair was close enough for Jacopo to hear the luffing of her sails and the hiss of foam against her hull. Then a great volley of arrows arced across the galley's bows, some thumping down into the boards. Their own archers answered fire, only to receive a second, far more deadly enfilade of bolts, which stuttered down upon the deck, some piercing hands, heads, unprotected eyes in a whirring, vertical storm. Three died and several more were wounded in that first attack, as the corsair scraped their side with a groaning sigh of timbers, and its crew came leaping down onto the gunnels, bristling with bright blades. Jacopo saw their captain at their head, a fair- haired man with a yellow beard, whose eyes were surveying the galley to see what kind of wealth she might be carrying. Then, just as he was about to wave them forward, Jacopo saw his gaze sweep suddenly across the plague-struck bodies sprawled upon the deck. He saw him hesitate, draw back, eyes wide with recognition.

"Stop!" he shouted at his men. "It's the sister of that ship they burned in Messina three days back."

"Pestilence!" yelled a second, catching the stink of the fistulated sores and carbuncles of the sick, who trembled there beneath him, slick with sweat.

"Come on," called the captain, waving them all back with his Spanish sword, "the only cargo for us here is death," and they scuttled up behind the railings of their ship, already shoving free with wooden poles and shouting orders to the helmsman.

Those aboard the galley stared bewilderedly at each other. At first there was the simple relief of having escaped an attack that had seemed inevitable, of avoiding death or, at the least, imprisonment and ransom. Yet now they also knew that Lo Storione had been destroyed in

Messina. But what had happened to those on board? Had they been burned inside her, or imprisoned, or possibly taken to some hospice where the sick were cared for? At present, there was nothing they could do but treat their wounded and continue for the Straits, heading further on toward some other mainland port. They watched as the second of the corsairs joined the first, as if to parley, still hoping to put as much water behind them as they could before the pirates changed their minds. They cast sidelong glances at the sick - their saviours - with feelings of misgiving. There was no more talk of abandoning them, at least for the time being, yet the sense of shame created by their transformation from lepers to the ship's protectors only served to increase the resentment of those who'd spoken against them. Still, no-one raised a hand in protest when the old woman and some others, including Jacopo, carried them back down below.

Meanwhile, the corsairs had followed them toward the

Straits, falling back only in the late afternoon. And then, near evening, as if to compound the day's misfortunes, they noticed a storm approaching from the south. Great bleak thunderheads rolled over the horizon, flashing blades of blue lightning from their bellies, and a wind came coldly breathing over the dark waves. Jacopo watched the little ships beneath the shadow of the storm, the abrupt way they began to pitch and buck, their sails appearing to ignite in bursts of luminosity. Then, while they jerked about as if on strings, the clouds engulfed them in their darkness, coming quickly on across the whitecaps. The Santa Margherita made no attempt to land, since the coastline was too rocky to be safe, swept as it now was with breakers, and the storm stalked forward on its bright blue legs, bursting over them with a roar of foam and thunder. They rode upon that sea of lead, swirling and groaning, crushed then torn apart, until the sky became the white-flecked sea beneath them, and the sea the boiling sky, all things inverting, so that fish went flying through the clouds above and gulls screamed in the depths. The well became sick, their insides out, and the sick grew still till it seemed that they were well. Days went by, or weeks, or hours so crammed with motion that whole lifetimes might have passed without their owners knowing. And, indeed, the lives of all the sick - and of numerous others too - did pass. But it was only when the storm died down, becoming a mere gale that whipped them northward for some days, that they began to tally up the dead. All those stricken with the plague now lay as stone-cold corpses in the hold. Three crewmen and four passengers had drowned, and one of the archers lay below, dying of a head wound. As winds tore through the shredded sails, the bodies were dropped overboard, and each survivor stared behind into the waves, where even their pursuers might briefly have seemed welcome, had they not already vanished in the emptiness.

One night, however, the wind abated, the furrowed sea grew smooth, and reflections of the stars shone softly in the deep, whose unwonted tranquillity shocked sleepers from their dreams, until they thought the calm another, stranger dream and sank back into sleep. Yet, in the half-light before dawn, staring at the peaceful bay into which the helmsman brought them, they saw that it was real. The forms of ships were all about them, bobbing on the swell or creaking in their tethers at the jetty. A town of tiered houses rose up the cliffs about them, and the convolutions of steep laneways were suggested by the rooftops. Barely a lamp shone anywhere, yet this was no impediment to Aldo, who turned to his mate, declaring,

"It's Amalfi," then shouted out to any who would hear,

"We've reached Amalfi."

But Jacopo no longer heard him, since he'd slipped down from the side some time before, tired of his connection y with that ill-fated ship, and was already reaching out to take a hold upon the jetty's steps, a bag of sodden florins at his waist, and Scimmi like a rigid, wild-eyed collar round his neck.

At Amalfi, Jacopo bought supplies and ship's passage as far north as his florins would take him. This was

Civitavecchia, and though the last thing that he felt like was setting out on yet another voyage, he wished to put as much distance between himself and the plague ship as he could. So he and Scimmi embarked that evening, using their own names to keep things simple, and remaining pretty much to themselves for the entire voyage. The vessel was a trading scow, carrying cargo and no more than half-a-dozen other passengers up the coast at a pace that was slow, calm and uneventful. They called at Naples, Gaeta and numerous other, smaller towns along the way, passing by the ancient Roman port of Ostia as the weather grew bitterly cold and sleet fell silently upon the waves. Only a few days before Christmas they reached Civitavecchia, where Jacopo left the ship with no more than his cat, a handful of silver grossi and a bundle containing a shirt, some bread and a bit of old cheese. If he had set out upon the sea at Kaffa as a prosperous merchant, provided with wealth and reputation, he now landed as a vagabond in Latium, trembling with the cold, eyes wide open to embrace whatever Fortune offered. y

Yet he certainly did not regret this change of status.

Indeed, he tramped through the town's slushy streets with a sense of freedom and hopefulness that he'd almost forgotten on the galley. The very act of walking wherever he might choose, his freedom from the plague's grim spectre and the gunnels of the ship, the sound of Scimmi purring in the pouch against his side, all made him want to keep on going, to leave this last reminder of the sea behind. He rested in a tavern, warmed himself by the fire and drank some wine, but his urge to hurry on would not be quelled so easily. The road kept opening out before him, leading on toward the north, to Tuscany, and further yet, so that he left the inn and stepped into the drizzle of the streets, hurrying past great palazzi, the shops and houses of the master craftsmen, the cottages of artisans, until he was no longer in the town, but walking on a muddy road past smoky farmhouses and fields devoid of crops. It was not too long before his legs started aching, unused to such unbroken bouts of exercise, and he slowed down, already beginning to feel the first small blisters where his feet rubbed in his merchant's boots, which had seemed to fit him perfectly in the confines of the galley. Yet the discomfort did not prevent his thoughts from flowing freely, as they always did when he went walking. Not that his present thoughts were particularly pleasant ones. Indeed, he was back to pondering the y question which had kept returning ever since the death of

Laura and her children. He simply couldn't understand why he - a cutpurse and a burglar - should remain untouched by pestilence, while she and her two innocents were ravaged by it. He rolled up his sleeves as he walked, almost expecting to find some belated sign of plague, as if justice, though slow, were still relentless. Yet there it was, his skin, as white and without blemish as if he'd spent his life in cloistered purity. Of course he'd long decided that, if there is any superhuman justice in the mortal world, then it's a thing past human understanding; and yet the agony of Laura, Bruno and little Tessa seems too vividly grotesque to leave any meaning at all in such easily stated words. Nor, try as he might after witnessing their plague-corrupted bodies, can he picture them somehow beatified and cleansed in Paradise, no matter how far off the place might be. So, once again, he seeks the comfort of his perilous friend, Dame Fortune, and labours on her wheel. Despite his relief to be back upon dry land, he soon discovers just how little there is to steal along the roads he travels. Numerous of the villages have near- empty granaries, while the fields seem strangely bare of livestock, and even the doorways of the houses lack the usual cluck and strut of chickens. Some places appear to have lost the bulk of their inhabitants, and those remaining look hollow-eyed and hungry. In such villages,

Jacopo doesn't even bother to look for loaves or cooling y pies to steal, but hurries through, head lowered against the almost inevitable wind of rain or sleet. Needless to say, a thief can hardly flourish in a landscape where there's nothing left to steal, and the pleasures of the road are quickly mired in the slush. More often than not he's reduced to hunting his next meal in scrub and hedgerow, something at which Scimmi is far more capable than he. So it is that, in the poorest places, he's obliged to her for almost every mouthful, and sometimes he must chase her, while she darts from spot to spot with quail or dove or tiny mole between her teeth, and a growl deep in her throat. Yet finally they share the meal, whether it's some pigeon that she's pinioned in a tree, or a hedgehog - curled into a ball of spines - that she's hit and worried at until he comes along to kill it.

Some villages seem better off, and here he exploits his every talent to fill the gaps in both their bellies. It's at a crossroads, just after they've eaten a delicious

Pigeon pie, plucked from a roof in one such hamlet, that they hear a pounding of hooves and an urgent shout from somewhere back along the road. Jacopo darts instantly behind a rock, fearing that the owner of the pie is after them. But the voice cries out again, and this time there is no mistaking that its urgency springs not from anger, but from fear. Jacopo pokes his head out slowly, and

Scimmi peers from her pouch, both gaping in amazement at the figure that almost tumbles from his donkey, he reins it in so hard. The animal wheezes violently and stares at them in some alarm, while the rider struggles from its back. This person appears to be naked, or at least devoid of proper clothing, since, like some huge chicken, he wears a pelt of ruffled feathers, stuck on, it would seem, with some sort of treacle or molasses, since nothing else would explain either the sickly sweet smell or the swarms of flies and bees that hang about him.

Jacopo simply stares, unsure of what to say, or even of what language he should use. But this becomes clear immediately, when the figure hits at the insects on his feathery face - disturbing, yet failing to dislodge, the plumage that is stuck there - and blurts out, "Help me!" in a hoarse, harsh voice.

"What?" says Jacopo.

"Please, I need your help," the man continues, brushing at the feathers round his lips. "I'm being pursued by madmen, a gang of cutthroats. They'll kill me if they can. " 204

"Well, I - "

"Quick!" he urges, grasping Jacopo's arm with a silky, sticky hand. "They're right behind me."

Jacopo watches the terrified eyes that blink at him through their plumage. Already he can hear a commotion back along the road.

"Alright..." he says doubtfully. "Take your donkey into the bushes and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" gasps the stranger, already rushing for the bushes with a bandy, stiff-kneed run, leading his beast behind him until both have disappeared in the foliage, though Jacopo can still hear the buzz of flies and the occasional yelp of pain as the man is stung by a bee.

No sooner have they hidden themselves than a gang of hot and flustered men comes storming up the road, most of them on foot and brandishing flails, scythes, pitchforks and numerous other makeshift weapons, while their leader, a huge man with a rusty sword, rides a small, exhausted ass. At the middle of the crossroads they come to a sudden halt, glaring about them with surprised and furious looks upon their faces, till the fellow leading them leans down from his overburdened ass and, without any introduction whatsoever, fixes Jacopo with a narrow stare, demanding, "Where is he?" as if their quarry might be hidden on the burglar's person.

"Who?" says Jacopo, eyes wide with consternation.

"That scum! that turd!" the man erupts, waving the sword's brown blade above his head. "That simoniacal

Minorite who got away before we finished with him!"

"I...don't know. There's no-one here but us." And he lifts Scimmi from her pouch, rubbing her soft fur against his whiskery cheek.

The man rolls his eyes at his fellows and asks more loudly, as if shouting at a halfwit, "But did you see anyone before we got here?"

"Oh! Oh!" And Jacopo nods vehemently. "I see what you mean. Yes, yes," then shakes his head with equal vehemence. "No, I didn't. I didn't see anyone."

"Christ, man," snarls his interrogator. "Then which way did you come?"

Jacopo puts his finger to his mouth and ponders, scratching at himself, then seems to discover a louse, which he takes so long in cracking that the group looks ready to attack him. Uh...from Friuli," he says at last, as if he'd only just recalled the question.

The man leans suddenly down and grasps him by his coat.

"On the northern road? Here?" he urges, pointing up the road, while Jacopo nods his head and the leader waves his arm. "Come on," he cries, kicking at the sagging ass, "he must have headed this way." And, without further ado, he leads them grumbling down the eastern road. y

Once they've disappeared from sight - and a good while

after that - the feathered man emerges slowly from the

trees. He turns his head with difficulty in the direction

of his pursuers, then waddles over to the centre of the road, where Jacopo still stands.

"Thank you," he mumbles, flailing at an eager bee. "You

might well have saved my life."

Jacopo stares at him, then suddenly bursts out laughing.

"You're going to have to get cleaned up before somebody

plucks you and sticks you in a pot."

"Yes, I think there's a creek a little way ahead.

Otherwise I'm going to set like toffee."

"But tell me, what were they chasing you for?" "Oh, I don t know - cacciatore, a casserole, a stew," laughs the chicken with a decidedly hysteric cackle.

"No, I mean it," Jacopo insists. "I was running a risk then. I'd like to know why."

"Oh." And the man seems suddenly sobered, arms sagging at his sides like tired wings. "I'm not sure that I can explain it properly myself." Then he reaches for the bag y that's hanging from his saddle, drawing out of it a rumpled robe of stained and faded brown, which reveals itself as a Minorite's coarse-wooled cowl. "Incredible as my present state might make it seem, I follow the Rule of

Saint Francis. It was my zeal, I'm afraid, which caused me to run foul of those cutthroats... no pun intended." He quickly folds up the habit and crams it back into the sack. "But tell me, who is it that I must thank for saving me from their indignities?"

"Jacopo," says his saviour, "Jacopo Passero."

The friar smiles tightly from beneath his feathers. "Fra

Filippo Peppo at your service. Fra Lippo for short."

Jacopo returns the smile, while Scimmi wriggles from her pouch and leaps down to the ground. "But why did they object so strongly to your zeal?" "Oh...well, who can fathom the motives of such vicious souls?" He pauses, as if to plumb the depths of their depravity. "I think it was a kind of moral envy, mixed with shame."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it had to do with my preaching... in a village just south of here. I'm a very... ardent preacher... and I was y dealing with the Acts of the Apostles, trying to clarify for the villagers the nature of their sins, when, without any obvious reason I could see, a group of loiterers starting calling out comments of various kinds. I mean, really, it isn't normally like this." And he bows his head and spreads his arms to indicate his wretched state.

"Anyway, to cut a long story short, their interjections grew more rowdy, until I felt obliged to reprimand them, at which a series of worsening exchanges ensued, followed by my being set upon by members of the gang you saw. The other villagers being too afraid to help me, I was subjected to various indignities, culminating in that thug, their leader, claiming that if I was so angelic I'd need some feathers. And so you see me in the state I'm in."

And he stands there, arms akimbo, legs apart, his feathers shining whitely in the wintry sun. "But they were still after you, and you said they wanted to do more."

"Yes, yes, that's true," Fra Lippo mutters thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure what would have happened had they caught me. They kept making jokes about tests for angels... about whether I could fly. I think, perhaps - though I can't be

certain now - that they had some nearby cliff in mind."

y "Yes, I see," says Jacopo slowly, glancing down the

eastern road. "Well, perhaps we'd better hurry to that creek."

"But you're going south, aren't you, from Friuli?"

Then Jacopo simply grins, shakes his head and takes the

feathered friar by the arm. After some minutes of walking on in silence - the donkey trudging along behind while

Scimmi, dog-like, weaves between its feet - Fra Lippo turns to his companion with a smile. "You know, you're a

smart lad, Jacopo - the way you fooled them, I mean.

Indeed, you had me wondering too if you were simple- minded." He glances sideways at him through his plumage.

"I could use someone like you - indeed, the Lord could use someone like you - to bring His word to these rough villagers."

"No, thanks all the same, Friar, but I've no wish to sprout feathers." "Look, my boy, believe me, this is one of those rare trials the Lord sends upon His children. It's not normally like this at all. Most times it's like a pilgrimage, spreading the Gospel and the teachings of holy Saint Francis, wandering through the countryside, meeting a host of good souls and sleeping in warm inns."

He notes Jacopo's sceptical gaze. "Really, Jacopo, do I look poorly fed?" He pats his belly with his hand. "I should say not. Usually people respond well to my preaching and shower me with alms, sometimes more than I can carry. I eat well and live well, and generally with a minimum of risk. Whereas you, my boy, look in need of a good meal. And I can guarantee it - with me you'll get one...a good deal more than one, in fact. And right now I could do with a helper who can use his wits."

Jacopo observes Fra Lippo, his expression still sceptical. Yet when he considers the friar's portly form, and when he recalls those moles and hedgehogs, and scrambling through the bushes after Scimmi, the thought of being showered with alms by faithful peasants takes on a more appealing lustre.

You wouldn't expect me to do any preaching, would you?"

"Oh, good heavens, no," the friar chuckles. "No, it's just a matter of assisting with the props I use to make the message more accessible to simple minds." Jacopo ponders, weighing his words, then bends as if to whisper in Scimmi's ear. "What do you think, Scimmi?

Should we do it?" And after some muttered counsel with his cat, he turns, grinning, to Fra Lippo and says, "Why not?"

But at that moment they come upon the creek, the merest little rill that trickles at the bottom of a ditch across y the road. Fra Lippo pulls at one embedded feather, looks at the water, then at himself, and sighs, "Oh, dear."

* * * Tuccio becomes a politician

From the top of the Duomo's campanile or the Torre del

Colombo, Topomagro looked like a web of winding streets and laneways surrounded by a wheel of walls. At the hub of this webbed wheel lay the Piazza della Signoria, with its benches of old men and its air full of pigeons. Here were the Gentili and the Chiaudano palazzi, the church of

San Giovanni del Agnello, and the Arte della Lana, y headquarters of the wool merchants' guild; yet shadowing them all were the high stone walls and massive tower of the Palazzo dei Dieci, home of the commune's government.

It was here, in the centre of this building at the city's heart, that Tuccio now sat - and, indeed, would sit many times during the next two months - making executive decisions with the other Priors. For it was only ten days previously that the commission of scrutators had once again declared him an eligible candidate for the

Signoria, just two days after which his name, along with those of his nine fellows, had been drawn from the bag of fifty names. So now he was a Prior for the second time in his career, his belly still churning from the great feast he'd enjoyed with the outgoing office-holders, and he was waiting with the others in the fading light for old

Agnolo del Leone.

He gazed around him, while Bartolomeo Chiaudano droned on and attendants lit the lamps about the walls. He stifled a yawn, observing the heavy blocks of stone, the great Guelph lion roaring on its banner, and of course, the walnut table with its sixteen chairs. For tonight the fen

Priors and the six Gonfalonieri were meeting in joint session to deal with the approaching crisis. Yet Tuccio was thinking more of Baldassare and his daughter than about the plots of Frederico dalla Montagna, Odofredo

Moltogalante, the Gentili and their rebellious friends.

Indeed, he'd been surprised by Gaia's response when he'd communicated Baldassare's wish to speak with her alone.

After what could only be called a moment's confusion on the part of the usually composed Gaia, she had simply set her lips in a straight, tight line and said, "Yes, if that is what he wishes." Perhaps she liked him after all.

Or - he wouldn't put it past her - she was planning a refusal which demanded the intimacy of such an interview to achieve complete finality.

"No, Bartolomeo," Marco Martello was protesting, "the cost of so much veal would be exorbitant at this time of year. And it'll be poor, tough meat from the Maremma or worse . "

"Marco, you've just been voted Prior," Bartolomeo explained patiently. "Stop thinking like a shopkeeper.

The Priors' High Table is no peasant's trencher to be stocked with bargains. We should have the best veal available, and who'd be fool enough to charge excessive prices to those who set the taxes?" "Oh, I see. How naive of me. You mean use our position as a threat?"

"No," sighed Bartolomeo, "of course not. But we must maintain the dignity our position demands." And so the debate went on, though Tuccio was not in the mood for listening. He kept thinking about Gaia, and peered round the assembly, wondering what they would make of his actions. Indeed, now that she'd agreed to see Baldassare, y he himself was beginning to doubt his own wisdom, fretting over his friend's predilection for hunting- birds, over-priced horses, high-risk ventures, poetry, and all the various other things that made him so entertaining as a friend and so frightening as a son-in- law. Then, just when he was proclaiming himself the worst kind of fool, Agnolo del Leone entered the room.

The bickering ceased so abruptly that he glanced up from his thoughts and saw Agnolo standing there amidst the silence, handing his hat and fur coat to the boy behind him. Four times elected Prior, and with this his seventh term as Gonfaloniere, he was watching them with all the stout and ruddy authority that such experience commanded.

"I'm sorry to be late, gentlemen," he said, not sounding apologetic in the least, and remaining on his feet, as if control of the meeting were now his. "But I wanted to apprise myself fully of the matters you're expecting me to report on." "So what's the story, Agnolo?" said Francesco Morelli, his fellow Gonfaloniere.

"Not a very reassuring one, I'm afraid." There was a small dramatic pause as he removed his kid gloves. "At least, if the information of one of our spies in Florence is correct. And there's no reason to think it isn't."

Tuccio watched him silently, as they all did, allowing him to take his time. His four-month commission - twice as long as Tuccio's - included the responsibility for detecting and exposing conspiracies against the commune.

Right now it was a full-time job. "Our informant has learnt from Orfeo Beccanuggi, son of the Ghibelline exile, Buonaccorso Beccanuggi, that our enemies within the town are plotting against us with - well, we might have guessed it - Cardinal Rollo da Parma, who just happens to have hired the services of the Swabian condottiere, Wolf Schwanhals."

There was momentary silence round the table, not stunned so much as crackling with such a mass of questions that, for an instant, none was asked. Then the deluge came -

"Schwanhals?" "They're dealing with da Parma?" "Which of our enemies exactly?" "Isn't Schwanhals still in Latium?"

"Spy?" "What spy?" "How reliable is this informant?" - until Agnolo raised his chubby fingers as if to say,

"Enough," and the cries died down into a series of anxious, muttered conversations. "We re all aware of da Parma's spite," said Francesco Morelli. "And no-one believed that he'd do nothing. But that he's hired Wolf Schwanhals and his company... and that some within the town are dealing with him...well, surely none of us suspected this. They'd be sealing their own fate with someone such as Schwanhals."

"Perhaps," Agnolo muttered doubtfully. "But then again, they might feel they can come to some accommodation with him. The livestock of half the commune's peasants, the gold of the richest and most troublesome merchants - such a price may not be too great to once again control the town, and with it, the drafting of its laws, the imposition of its taxes and forced loans, the disposition of its militia, the..." But here he stopped, raising his hands and eyebrows to indicate the obvious.

"This informant you refer to, Agnolo," said Poggio

Cerini, one of the new Priors, "did he confirm the names of any of these traitors? Did he speak of Frederico dalla

Montagna, Ludovico dei Gentili or Odofredo Moltogalante?"

The grizzled red face of the Gonfaloniere stared blankly at him. "These are the names he mentioned," was all he said.

A momentary silence descended, until Tuccio broke it. Did you get any idea of how advanced the condottiere is in his preparations?" he said softly. "Or whether things have even gone so far as his making preparations?"

"Oh, yes." The old man's tone was grim. "He's made preparations alright. As far as I know, he's gathered a force of several thousand horsemen and foot soldiers, which, at this very moment, is settling like a horde of locusts on the marchlands of Tuscany and Latium. If they wished, they could be here in twelve to fifteen days."

Tuccio leaned forward in his seat, nodding his head so emphatically that his thin face seemed to cleave the air like an axe-blade. "Then there really isn't any time to lose. I don't think we can afford the luxury of quibbling about guilt or innocence. If any of these traitors are allowed the freedom to continue with their plans..."

Indeed, the commune allowed these men no access to political office, doubled for them the normal penalties for crimes of violence, required them to post a bond for good behaviour. Tuccio swung round, addressing the whole company. "Just think what you would do in their position...You'd rise in armed rebellion as the condottiere neared the city. Then, if you succeeded, you could honour whatever guarantees of booty you had made.

And if it looked like you were losing? Well, then you could open as many gates as possible to the mercenaries."

He peered slowly round the table, daring those who would to refute his logic. When it appeared that Marco Martello was about to try, he quickly said, "No, there must be no delay in placing these three men, at least, in chains."

There was muttered agreement round the table, but Marco cut across it. "But nothing here is certain, Tuccio," he protested, giving his impersonation of the only sane man in a madhouse. "We have no real notion of the condottiere's plans, no clear idea of just how widespread this conspiracy is, no solid information of how well y armed the nobles are. To act too hastily could precipitate events that might otherwise never have happened."

Tuccio felt himself flush with annoyance. It was always

Marco who found objections, pushing himself forward, trying to find something to say, irrespective of its worth, just like the jumped-up silk merchant and importer of inferior veils that he was.

"I agree with Marco," put in Poggio Cerini, yet another would-be trader with the heart of a shopkeeper. "We need to proceed more prudently. Unless we can be sure of every detail, we may engineer our own downfall."

"These fears may even play into Montagna's hands," added the silk merchant.

"Prudence is a cardinal virtue," nodded Pandolfo

Salutati, the apothecary, "there's no denying that." Tuccio had thought the old goat was asleep, but true to form, he'd opened his eyes just long enough to deliver a platitude. "Perhaps it is," he began, "but - "

"But virtues depend upon their context," interrupted

Francesco Morelli. "Prudence and temperance may be vital in the daily running of a business, yet on the battlefield such qualities can be misplaced. They - "

"Must we be so eager to find ourselves upon the battlefield?" cried Marco Martello.

"Must you be so eager to avoid it?" demanded Tuccio, losing all patience.

"Exactly," nodded Ser Gianozzo Lamberteschi, the notary and scholar. "It appears that we'll have no choice. And besides, Maestro Francesco is correct - the hierarchy of virtues changes according to the situation. When Edward of England defaulted on his debts and the banks of the

Bardi, Peruzzi and the Acciaiuoli fell, do you think it was the prudent, waiting to hear if the rumours were correct, who survived the collapse? No, in situations of such extremity, one must simply react as quickly as one can according to one's instincts. As the Yorkish Alcuin said in the days of Charlemagne - "

"Just so," said Agnolo del Leone. "We must act quickly." With as little unnecessary quibbling as possible," added Francesco Morelli.

"And this needn't preclude attempts to gain further information." Tuccio's smile was both conspiratorial and conciliatory. "Such inquiries can proceed while we are preparing the militia and passing the necessary legislation." y

"Yes," said Agnolo, "and then, with the conspirators in prison, we can have them confirm whatever information we may gather."

There was a muttering of laughter round the table, cut short as Tuccio cleared his throat and rose to speak.

"But we must not lose sight of the danger of the situation." His smile was gone, his voice now tight and anxious. "In the south we have Wolf Schwanhals and his company. In the town we have a conspiracy that's been festering too long to be discounted as mere bluster.

Either possibility would be parlous on its own. Together?

Well, they spell disaster. So, we must inform the captain of the people and the castellani of the city gates as soon as possible, and kill the rebellion in the womb."

"What, you mean attack the nobles' houses?" demanded

Marco. "No," replied Agnolo, "not attack. Well, not unless we lose the advantage of surprise, or their resistance is too great. It should be a matter of sending three strong forces to the three key households - those of Frederico dalla Montagna, Ludovico dei Gentili and Odofredo

Moltogalante. There, before they can mount any sort of defence at all, we'll arrest these men and those amongst their dependents who might pose a threat. Thus, by the time Schwanhals arrives, any help he might have expected y from within will have been imprisoned or demoralised."

"Then we'll need to move very fast indeed," said

Francesco Morelli, "since surprise is of the essence."

"Mmmm," "Yes," "He's right," "No doubt about it..." Their murmurs of assent passed round the table, while their noddings fanned the air.

"I see," Agnolo smiled at last. "Well, we'll need to vote on it, of course. Though I'm not sure that we can move as quickly as we'd like on everything, since we'll also have to propose legislation for some levies and forced loans to combat the approaching army."

"I can't see that we'll have time to raise an army of our own," said Francesco Morelli incredulously.

"Of course not," agreed Agnolo, his face reddening still brighter than its usual colour. 'No, we 11 have to rely on buying Schwanhals off." Then

Tuccio's frowning face relaxed a little. "Not that we'll need to overcome any moral scruples on his part. It'll simply be expensive."

"But you know the record on rejecting forced loans," said

Poggio. "At a time of such harsh food shortages, the

Council of the People is going to need convincing." y

"I think they'll be convinced by this," Bartolomeo Chiaudano smiled grimly.

Marco Martello snorted and gave a cynical smile. "Well,

if we keep talking about it there'll be no call to

convince them. The army will already be here."

"Exactly," nodded Tuccio, surprised by Marco's acuteness.

"We must decide on the timing of the arrests, and find

some form of words for the legislation on the loan."

"Then come on," said Agnolo gruffly, "you're the Priors.

How about getting the voting started?"

And the new incumbents immediately shifted in their

chairs and shuffled at their papers to demonstrate their

familiarity with the procedures of the Signoria.

* * * In which Jacopo and the good friar bring salvation to the people

Fra Lippo Peppo stands ringing a bell in the centre of the village. It seems more prosperous than some that Jacopo has passed through, with flocks of chickens scrabbling in the mud about the little timber houses, and the smell of baking bread wafting through the afternoon air. The ,few cows that he sees appear to have some fat between their ribs, and there is actually a rubbish heap with a plump pair of pigs rooting about amongst its rinds and rotting vegetables. Fra Lippo stands there ringing his bell like a one-man chapel to bring the people to him. And slowly they gather, the idle and the curious, the suspicious and the querulous, all coming from their evening tasks with tentative, slow steps, while the friar opens wide his mouth and yells, "Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord," "Hear all you sinners the word of the

Lord," till every person in that place is gathered watchfully about him.

Jacopo stands with Scimmi by the donkey, ready to plunge into the tethered sacks for whatever Fra Lippo requires.

At present he requires nothing but this silent, goggling crowd, with its old men and matrons, its strong-backed peasants and its children jostling for a vantage point.

The place seems suitable enough, with few signs of hunger or disease, and none at all of a resident priest. So, Fra

Lippo plants his sandalled feet, flings out his arms and starts to bellow: 'Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord upon this eve of judgement. Hear you men puffed up with pride and women full of vanity. Hear you angry, choleric souls, and you made vicious as a snake with envy. Hear you slothful and you bloated gluttons, you misers who embrace your wealth as if it were the Lamb of

God, you lechers writhing in your secret dreams. Hear and know your judgement is at hand." Indeed, Jacopo's impressed to hear the soft-voiced friar come bursting forth like a thunder-clap, eyes drilling into every listener's gaze in turn, as if he saw the very sins he listed nestling in their hearts. "And do you tell yourselves that you are meek and poor, and thus exempt from the Almighty's wrath? Then know at once that none remain exempt. Both kings and paupers are a prey to their own sinfulness. Do we not see King Lewis descend in vengeance on the Neapolitan queen? the self-styled tribune, di Rienzo, squatting like a spider on the Roman throne, while the Pope delays in Avignon? In Naples, Rome and Venice the churches crack with earthquakes, while rain and floods and icy winters cause the crops to shrivel, till grain is nowhere to be found but in the rich man's granary. I've heard people in the countryside beg Christ to turn them into asses that they might eat the grass..." And here, a group among the crowd begins to giggle, so that Lippo swings upon them, saying, "And there are those who turn to asses without the aid of

Prayer," which causes smiles amongst the others and the quick return of silence as he turns his gaze on them. "Oh, Lord," he cries, as if in pain, "did You die in agony that they might laugh at You? Was iron driven through Your hands and feet that they might think it funny?" He glances through his narrowed eyes and notes their looks of horror, then falls upon the ground before them with a supplicating gesture. "What purpose is there in the harvesting of corn when it's the harvesting of hearts that matters? Why save money when you might save your soul? Do you think that you can buy God's grace with gold?" He rises to his feet and stares at them with fixed intensity. "Now, on the very eve of judgement, as the world collapses round us, there are two undoubted ways, revealed to us by God, to save ourselves from the destruction. But do you wish to save your souls?" His eyes alight on individuals in the crowd. "Do you?" he pursues. "Do you?"

Some look frightened and confused, some nod dumbly, while others answer, "Yes," or "Yes, I do," or "That I would, good Father," until the entire village seems desperate to save that which they had never realised they were on the point of losing.

But what is the best way to salvation, Father?" one voice cries out.

A vital question," he replies, "and one which I can answer with no hesitation, since this answer is recorded in all the great authorities, and in the holy words of God Himself."

And here, he does indeed hesitate, giving people time to wonder and to ask more of him. Yet nothing comes to fill the silence, no word, no question, just a hushed, confused expectancy, until Jacopo shouts, "What is that answer, Father?"

y "I'm glad you asked," says Fra Lippo with a smile. "The best way to salvation is through good works and charity, through the witnessing of things most holy, and the granting of donations to the order that enables you to witness them." But Jacopo's no longer listening, too busy opening up the sacks and sorting through them as Fra

Lippo showed him. "For the Holy Order of the Minorites has granted me the dispensation to bring - at least for those who truly wish it - salvation to this region; and in so doing, has placed at my disposal certain relics of a sanctity beyond all words."

Taking this as his cue, Jacopo draws out a stoppered vial of fluid. One or two among the crowd move forward, and then the rest surge after them, at which Fra Lippo starts ringing the bell for all he's worth, shouting, "Get back!

Stand away!" and staring timidly up toward the heavens.

Do you want to draw God's fiery vengeance down upon you all and turn this place into another Sodom?" He glances doubtfully about the muddy clutch of hovels, waving back the people with his bell. Jacopo hands him the small phial, which he lets them glimpse before he palms it.

"What is it?" asks one, nudging forward past his neighbour.

"It looks a bit like oil," suggests another.

At this,,Fra Lippo springs at her and says, "Beware lest it be the oil in which the devils roast you." She cowers back, and then he smiles quite beatifically. "And yet, perhaps the power of this relic is such that, despite your ignorance, you sense its nature without knowing it."

"Tell us what it is, Father?" cries one.

"Yes, what is it, Father?" implores the woman he had frightened.

"Ah, but do not think to penetrate this mystery without sacrifice. The saving power of these relics depends on what each individual is prepared to give to see them." At this, Jacopo makes as if to tie the sacks back up. "The

Lord is not profligate. Grace does not come free. There's no salvation without sacrifice."

"But what must we give, Father?" asks an old man who looks a bit more prosperous than the others. "We're just poor farmers." "The Lord asks only what you truly feel that you can give," replies Fra Lippo, clutching the relic to his breast.

At this, several of the peasants break off from the crowd and hurry to their hovels, emerging with trussed chickens, muddy carrots, famished-looking purses and deflated wine-sacks, whatever they can find to offer.

Then others follow suit, till the friar is surrounded with so much shouting, clucking and squawking that it's like a fair or feast day. He points them to where Jacopo is holding out an empty sack, and after most of their donations have been safely placed within, displays once more the little phial of oil.

"Indeed, this woman knew more than she suspected, for here - " and he holds the fluid up to catch the light of the low sun - "is a portion of that oil in which the emperor Domitian attempted to boil Saint John the

Evangelist." The crowd steps cautiously forward, peering hard into the fluid's depths, as if they might witness some bit of John within. "And just as the saint was saved from those cruel fires, so those who sacrifice some earthly thing to see this relic have made more certain their salvation from the flames of Hell." A murmur passes through the crowd, and Lippo smiles to hear the satisfaction in it. 'But...but how can you be certain it's that oil?" ventures one. "It was so long ago."

"Do you think the Father does not hear your doubts?" roars Lippo, peering fearfully at the sky; then adds more gently, "Poor fellow, don't you realise how exact the

Church's records are in accounting for its holy objects?

This oil - blessed by God Himself in the salvation of His saint, and thus more full of virtue than the holiest of chrisms - has come down to us from the early Church of

Rome, through the Holy Fathers, to Constantine's

Byzantium, to Antioch, where it fell into the hands of infidels, only to be rescued by the Knights Templars, who, to save it from their enemy, King Philip, presented it to our order. Does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you want yet further detail?"

"Uh, no," says the man dully, shaking his head, while the crowd casts disapproving looks his way.

"But, please," Lippo implores them, "can't we take the word of God on faith?"

The crowd nods emphatically, and aims more vicious glances still toward the doubter. Then, with the eyes of an eager monkey, a tiny woman looks at Lippo, saying, "Do you have any more such holy items with you, Father?" The friar smiles benevolently down on her. "Yes, my child, I do. But surely you have given all you can. And besides, it might seem unfair that the people of this village should get so great a start on Heaven's stairway, when other villages may have no chance to see these relics. "

But they protest so pitifully, and rush so quickly to their shanties to find yet further donations, that Fra Lippo simply can't refuse them.

"Don't forget that coins are preferable," he calls after them. "Bulky objects, such as hens and wine-sacks, are difficult to carry for lone pilgrims like ourselves."

Now Jacopo's sack is bulging fit to burst, and he must stuff some of the heavier items - loaves and cheeses, pullets and turnips - in amongst the sacred objects. But the friar has now found his stride, snatching relics from anywhere he can as quickly as the villagers can find donations. And they too seem to have reached some sort of rhythm, darting here and there, laughing out loud, oohing and aahing, competing with their neighbours, while Fra

Lippo displays - with no apparent schema - the handle of the windlass round which Saint Elmo's viscera were wound; a feather plucked by Jacob from the angel's wing; three hairs cut from the beard of that chaste maiden,

Wilgefortis; and, torn out of the Cross itself, a nail which suddenly appears in his hand as if he, Fra Lippo, had been stigmatised. Perhaps the most amazing object of them all, remarkable for both its preservation and its power, which, as Lippo says, "Contains the surest remedy for sin because it's nearest to the source of sin itself," is the core of the very fruit that Adam ate. And after the crowd has stood about, staring at this final revelation, some shaking their heads in wonderment, others gazing at the friar with beatific smiles upon their faqes, he thrusts the Holy Core with all its

Blessed Pips back into the sack, while Jacopo gathers up the other relics.

At last, as darkness falls, Fra Lippo holds out his hands in benediction. "May each and every one of you, when your time comes, be lifted up to Heaven by the faith you've shown today," and then he blesses them amidst much cheering, while the children dance about like Carnival has come and one old lady grabs his hand to kiss it. Most are speaking in hushed, excited tones of the marvels they have seen, as if these things had passed already into village lore, and one man now emerges from his cottage with a drum, another with a flute, and yet another with some pipes, so that the friar, his assistant and their overloaded donkey are paraded from the village with a makeshift band, while the people wave farewell beneath the now-fortuitous stars. Later, sitting by their fire in the woods, they tally the donations - those they do not eat. They now have provisions enough to last them for a well-fed week, and the bags of silver grossi and denari come to almost three florins. Jacopo sits with Scimmi in his lap, thoughtfully stroking her silky fur, watching as Fra Lippo beams above the booty.

"A village of the faithful, Jacopo," he says at last.

"Salt of the earth and pillars of Heaven."

Jacopo looks down at his hand as it strokes the cat.

"Then how can you lie to them like that?" he says. "And you a holy man."

"Lie to them?" the friar rumbles threateningly, trying one of his fearful glances at the heavens. "Are you saying that there's something doubtful about these holy relics?"

Then Jacopo laughs out loud. "Doubtful?" he chuckles, recovering his breath. "If that stuff's holy we'd better give up going to church and start praying at the scrap heap. Besides, I know for a fact that the feather of

Jacob's angel was one of those chicken feathers you had stuck on you." For the first time that day, Fra Lippo's briefly speechless.

"Well," he says finally, giving his companion an unctuous, slow smile, "you're a clever lad, Jacopo. I knew that from the moment I saw you. That's why I chose you to be my assistant."

"Then don't take me for a fool, like you did those peasants."

The friar glances up more sharply, his gaze falling solemnly on his assistant. "I don't take them for fools

Jacopo, at least, not for greater fools than anybody else. They had a day that'll last for years in their memories." Then he turns away and stares thoughtfully into the fire. "And don't let your cleverness rob you o understanding. It doesn't matter whether the relics are true or not - what counts is whether these people believe. We're giving them the opportunity to prove the faith, and thus, just as I assured them, to save their souls . "

Jacopo stares at him, taking his turn at speechlessness while the friar stares at Scimmi.

"And on this notion of saving souls," says Lippo slyly,

"I have a proposition to make to you concerning this beautiful creature of yours..." *

Jacopo and Fra Lippo are rummaging through their belongings in the centre of Santa Rocca. It is a moonless, starry night, and a great bonfire is raging at the top of the bare hill on which the village stands.

People gather as close as they dare to the orange blaze, which throws their shadows on the muddy streets and the walls of their houses, so that - although they wait there motionless - they seem surrounded by a host of spectral dancers. Scimmi is nowhere to be seen, and the donkey stands off to the side, free of his sacks full of miracles, while Fra Lippo and his assistant prepare for their performance. A small, elaborate platform stands to the left of the friar, and to his right is a yet smaller table on which there sits a statue of the Virgin. These two pieces of equipment had monopolised the whole of the previous day, while he'd fiddled and fussed at the platform in particular, making sure that the collapsible joints are firm enough to hold, testing the trap, increasing the size of the concealed compartment in its base. He has also spent some time that morning apprising

Jacopo of the relics' various natures, so that now, standing just below the rise that the friar has chosen for his sermon, Jacopo feels decidedly more confident than he did before. "Good people of Santa Rocca," Fra Lippo commences mildly,

"this is indeed a perilous time, a time of the Great

Adversary and his legions, and of the Antichrist already rising in the west." He lets a silence fall upon the crowd, during which nothing is heard but the hellish crackling of the fire. "It is a time when all those great in pride and power fall, when the shepherds desert their flocks and the farmer leaves his crops to rot upon the earth. Has not the Pope abandoned the throne of Saint

Peter and gone to live in luxury at Avignon? Does not

Philip of France expose his people to the depredations of invaders? And does not Edward of England reduce his subjects to penury to pay for his vainglorious war?" And here he pauses to let his eye fall pityingly upon the crowd. "And do they not, these great ones in their folly, like men who teeter on the brink of an abyss, send all those nearer to the edge careening down before them? For it is you who lose all when they increase their rents to ward off bankruptcy, and it is you who suffer the depredations of their armies when they are not paid, and you who starve when they hoard grain within their granaries to push the prices up." He stares slowly round the ragged crowd and the crumbling houses of their village. "So is it not the wealthy and the great who must answer to God for that vast rioting of sins throughout the world?" And here he stares more deeply still into the crowd, as if he would read the answer in their eyes. 236

"Oh, madmen and sinners all!" he suddenly bellows with such fury that many of his audience lurch back. "Oh, yes,

I can read it in your faces - others are to blame, others are the sinners, others it is who must receive the Lord's eternal punishment upon the Day of Wrath." He leans forward, face contorted in a mask of anger. "But do not think your follies can delude the Lord. For He sees all, and can see the sins that lodge like worms within your heart, sins which your resentments make you blind to, sins which even now, while I am speaking, grow fat upon your rancour. For is not that humility which takes solace in itself another form of pride? Is not that hunger which thinks of naught but food another form of gluttony? Is not...? Is not..." And so he continues to batter them with questions to which they have no answers, forcing them to face the sins they'd half-suspected in themselves, yet never found the words to formulate, until at last their eyes are begging him to offer some solution, some means by which they might cleanse themselves and face their judgement unafraid. And just when it seems that Fra Lippo has given them up for lost, has proved the irredeemable nature of their wickedness, he finds a possibility, a tiny pathway through the swamp of their sins by which they might achieve salvation. Then

Jacopo is rifling through the pile of relics, discovering the oil, the hairs, the feather by which they might reach

Paradise. Yet now Fra Lippo hints that here, this very night, for offerings of coin alone, they might see not only the sublime, but something drawn up from the depths of Hell.

There are cries of interest and eager, muttered wonderings from the crowd as they guess at what the friar might mean. Indeed, they had not realised that remission of their sins could be such fun, and some discover tiny piles of worn denari, while one or two come bearing single, tarnished grossi in their hands. Only then does

Fra Lippo reveal to them the suffering stone that was taken from amongst those used to lapidate the deacon,

Stephen, and which, even in the shifting shadows of the bonfire, appears to weep red blood-drops for the crime.

And so impressed with their donations is the statue of the Virgin that - despite Fra Lippo's grip upon the table where it stands - it consents to crumble before their very eyes when he utters the word "Cross".

Yet only when he steps behind the carven platform, ornamented with elaborate angels - their gilt paint peeling like some celestial skin disease - does his audience go silent with expectant relish. Then the friar begins to rave. "Oh people of...this village," he intones, gripping the platform's sides as if it were a pulpit, "do not let yourselves imagine that the Devil has abandoned you. For there is no-one who is safe. Not the

Pope or the Emperor or the least significant of serfs. I have performed the rite of exorcism upon the twitching body of a lofty podesta. I have drawn an imp of gluttony - like a coiling, scarlet worm - from the rear end of a gluttonous nun. And there was once a newborn babe I had to free from the grip of a demon, which had passed to it from its adulterous mother."

The crowd stares, mesmerised by Lippo's rhetoric. Looks of horror alternate with fascinated smiles and indrawn breaths, while the sudden silence he now keeps begins to spread above the crowd like slow hysteria. "And now," he pounces, "I will reveal to you, the people of Santa

Rocca, the demon I have captured from the soul of a fratricidal miller." And in a puff of saffron smoke, as bright as a powder-flash from the mouth of a bombard, a creature abruptly appears on the platform before him, a bearded demon red as fire, hissing and spitting in the burst of light. Its fangs flash like silver, its eyes glitter crimson in the bonfire's glare, and at every sweep of its lashing tail the crowd backs off with a gasp. Jacopo stands there, suffused with doubt, watching the demon chained to its ring, fangs tied to its teeth, horns on its head, a chicken's wattle stuck to its chin like a little red beard, and wonders if he hasn't made a mistake by letting Fra Lippo talk him into this. After all, they'd never used flashes and smoke in rehearsals - the friar was all too sparing with his props - and now

Scimmi looks frightened. The air about her is thick with the scarlet that powders her fur, and suddenly she seems to sneeze - and once again - then vanishes from sight in a saffron flash, while the friar delivers an arm-waving speech, an impassioned plea beseeching the crowd to give him the means, the rude coin, to travel the land saving souls from such horrors. And somehow, as Jacopo loads up the sacks and the donkey, the villagers find still further donations - small tarnished denari from long-ago harvests - and come stumbling to Lippo, their treasures in hand.

* * * Cardinal Rollo da Parma has unpleasant dreams

The cardinal's palace, hunched under hills in the middle of the night, had grown invisible despite its size. It might almost have presented a demonstration of the vastness of those spirit-worlds hidden from the human eye, were it not for the sudden eruptions of light that blazed from its casements at irregular intervals. Hours of darkness separated these outbursts, which would suddenly ignite where they had previously died, and proceed from window to window at a speedy pace, as if some spasmodic, rushed parade were now in progress. Yet, since no-one in the countryside was near enough to see, it was a mystery that remained unwitnessed, if hardly unexplained. For the only ones who saw it were those who knew its meaning, or at least, had some small part to play in it. Perhaps its one true witness, hiding in an upper chamber presently unused, leering through the doorway's narrow crack and raddled with foul unguents, was Brother Corvo. For, indeed, he played no part in its performance, yet understood it with a greater clarity than anyone who did.

At that very moment he crouched beside the doorjamb, watching, chuckling to himself till he almost tumbled to the floor. A short way down the corridor, two guards now stood with halberds outside the cardinal's room. They wore breastplates and morions, and their weapons were hung with Rollo's colours. Dream warriors, he snickered, to frighten off the cardinal's bad dreams. The unguent glistened in his pores and sang inside his blood. Oh yes, he understood His Eminence's dreams alright. In fact, he crafted them like artists crafted paintings, as if the herbs he crushed and mixed in Rollo's food were the pigments that made nightmares. And like all true terrors of the night, they left their traces upon waking, so that

Rollo knew no respite from the figments of his fear, sensing plots in every half-heard conversation and assassins at each door. There might well be killers sent by Topomagro's Priors, or hired by his enemies among the French at Avignon. And killers, as any child would tell you, strike in darkness.

Suddenly Rollo's door burst open in a blaze of torchlight, and the cardinal came rushing out surrounded by his servants. Almost immediately, the doors that flanked it, and those directly opposite, swung open to admit yet further companies to the hall, each waving torches in the air like banners of bright flame. One of

Rollo's deacons, swathed in a rumpled white almuce, hastened to his side; while a chaplain, whipping his nightcap off his head, came stumbling through the crowd of servants forming into ranks. Barely had the armed guard taken their positions, than their captain bellowed

Balthazar!" and they all marched down the passage glazed with light, like some procession for a feast which none of them could name. Brother Corvo had no idea which bedchamber was Balthazar, since the guard changed code- words every night, but he waited till the glow had faded round a corner and then came creeping after them. The oil felt warm upon his skin, and shadows swam like fish about the walls. He giggled, stumbling in the dark. Poor Rollo, he mouthed, poor Cardinal da Parma, reduced to wandering his nighthalls in a luminous congress. For His Eminence must change rooms, since demons and succubi hide in his sheets, and murderers haunt his cupboards. Poor Rollo, running a gamut of bedchambers to baffle his phantoms.

Brother Corvo slid round a corner and hid in an alcove.

The torches seemed wreathed in circular rainbows.

Soldiers and servants, groggy with sleep, collided. The deacon scolded while they tried to untangle their halberds, and Rollo watched, disdainful. At last the captain unlocked Balthazar, the guards stood with their weapons at the open door, and the others adjourned to their adjoining chambers. The cardinal's servants went in before him, lighting the room with torches, and it was only then, when everything was still that Rollo crossed the threshold. Yet even so, as if he sensed some other presence, he swung abruptly round and stared into the hallway. Brother Corvo almost laughed out loud, yet cleaved to the shadowy recess, his long white gaze unblinking. And then he saw, standing at the cardinal's left shoulder, in the instant that he shut the door, a thin black devil with eyes as bright as rubies and bifurcated tongue. Jacopo and Fra Lippo discuss religion, then meet some unbelievers

The inn appears round a bend in the road like an answer to a prayer. Though what God would provide them with such an answer remains obscure. Certainly, a light snow has begun to fall, hazing the ground about their feet; and the sight of that inn, sprawled across the frosty fields and billowing smoke like some hoary old dragon, is something that makes them grin at each other through the steam of their breath. Fra Lippo ties the donkey to a pole in the rickety stables, where it noses moodily at a manger of mushy hay while they head for the door. They open up and stumble in, aware of little at first but the fire at the heart of the room and the heat that catches them up like a great warm hug. Jacopo closes the door behind him, beginning to notice the numerous groups that huddle together beneath the low roof. Then, passing the hearth, he turns aside - the heat of the fire hurting his eyes - and bustles toward a low table.

The innkeeper strolls across and takes their order of wine, bread and cheese. He's a surly fellow, and goes off grumbling when Jacopo reveals the sleeping Scimmi, saying, "And some milk as well, for the cat." Nor is he in any hurry to return, trudging slowly back, still muttering, and shamelessly overcharging them. But Fra

Lippo, in a generous frame of mind after their good work amongst the villagers, seems happy enough to pay for the 244 lot, doling out coins and dismissing their host with a nod.

Once they've drunk some bitter red wine and fed the now wide-awake Scimmi, they relax amid the heat and hubbub of the smoky room.

"Tell me, Friar," yawns Jacopo at last, leaning confidentially across the table, "how is it that a man like you, learned and clever with his words - or so it seems to me - can end up flogging fake relics to poor villagers?"

Fra Lippo looks up sharply, casting a judicious eye over his companion, as if wondering whether he might be one who grows belligerent with wine. "That's a rather unflattering way to put it, Jacopo," he finally says.

"But true," the thief insists, "isn't it? I mean, I'm not trying to insult you or anything. It's simply how it is.

And I'm curious to know."

"Well, I have explained to you that the true nature of the relics is irrelevant to their virtue as a test of faith. Indeed, to insist on their genuineness is, perhaps, to fall into the trap that such literal-minded peasants are apt to stumble into, and that some unscrupulous souls can - " "Lippo!" And the cry brings a halt to the torrent of words. "I'm not an inquisitor. I'm sorry if I put it bluntly. I simply want to know how one who speaks like a scholar can be living like a vagabond."

Once again the friar observes him coolly, though this time with a glint of irony in his gaze. Then he leans forward and fills up both their cups, draining the pottery ,jug of its last drops. He waves his hand at the innkeeper, but the man looks away as if he hadn't seen.

"He seems to resent making money," he says, sipping at his wine, but Jacopo will not be tempted to another subject, and raises his eyebrows in anticipation. "Oh, well," the friar sighs, "it's not a very salutary story, nor even particularly interesting. Just the tale of a man whose learning led him to reject the path he'd taken, and who, many years later, rejected that for which he had rejected it, only to find that there was no place for him but the road."

"These are riddles, Friar. What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Fra Lippo looks into his cup as if to find his meaning there. "I mean that I spent a decade of my youth in a monastery of Conventuals, who believed that men could own in common, where the things of greatest value that we owned were books, and where, through books,

I came to believe that the Spirituals were right, that nothing may be owned, and even, eventually, that the

Spirituals themselves were wrong to countenance the wealth of the Holy Father." He swills the wine around his cup, then stops before it spills. "So I joined a group of

Fraticelli who were wandering through the country."

"But they were declared heretics and sorcerers," says Jacopo, "and burned as such."

y "You're not wrong there," the friar nods, gazing down into his wine. A man leaves the dice game over by the door and saunters past their table. He glances quickly at

Lippo as he passes and, for a moment, Jacopo feels certain that he's seen him once before. He thinks of the villages they've passed through, Civitavecchia, the boat,

Amalfi, but cannot seem to place him, and besides, he's already gone.

"The Fraticelli," he pursues, "were said to have looted churches, to have induced peasants to burn castles and kill their landlords."

"Oh yes, they were said to have done that, and more besides. Preaching Christ's poverty and the avarice of the Church...well, let's say they made some enemies. I spent a number of... interesting years...you know, wandering the forests like a vagrant, preaching in towns and villages where I lived by begging, condemning the corruption of the pope and the cruelty of the lords, 247 until we were declared anathema and hounded from town to town by the agents of the Inquisition." He pauses, searching Jacopo's gaze with eyes that now, instead of humour or feigned anger, hold the kind of pain the thief remembers having seen in Laura's eyes as her children died of plague. "I saw three of my brethren burned alive in Rome, and my closest friend drowned by thugs in a lake near Perugia." He waves once more at their host. "Ah, he's coming," he smiles joylessly, then adds, "I fled all contact with the Fraticelli from then on."

"You want something?" the man inquires. Jacopo notes the fat purse that peeps from under his smock.

"Some more wine," says the friar, indicating the empty jug, which the man snatches up, grunting, and carries off toward the barrels on the far side of the room.

Jacopo watches his retreating back, and runs his fingers absently over the sheathed blade of his knife. "You know, now that I think of it, I could almost have guessed from what you were saying at Santa Rocca. Your past, I mean.

All that stuff about the sins of the great - I was wondering where that was heading."

"Yes, well, not where I would have taken it when I was a

Fraticello. Not that there's much danger in it now.

Clement the Sixth has other fish to fry." He glances up as an argument erupts at the dicers' table, then turns back, smiling. No, it's just a means to an end with me now. I know how some of those people feel, especially in times such as these, when the wealth of the towns is waning and taking the peasants with it. To them, such sentiments make all I say seem true. But I can't really preach them with much conviction. I used to believe in the God of the Fraticelli - the simple Christ who lived in the hearts of ordinary people and wandered the roads like a pauper. I'm not sure that I do any more." Then he stops talking, as if from a habit of secrecy, while the taverner thumps the jug down before them.

"Why?" says Jacopo, when he's taken his turn to pay for the wine and the man's left the table. "What do you believe?"

"That each day follows the next - at least, if you're lucky. To stay sharp and you might stay alive." He smile ruefully, leaning closer over the table. "Sometimes I could almost give credence to the Catharist heresy, or something like it, anyway. I mean...when you look around you, doesn't it seem like the Devil's more than some fallen lieutenant, a flunkey no longer in Heaven's favour?"

Jacopo had known a Catharist contortionist in Alfredo's circus, who'd maintained that Satan is God's twin, His evil opposite. And indeed, when he thinks of Laura and her children shrivelling with sickness he begins to understand. Yet he simply says: "You'd know more about that than I would, Friar. Like you, I get by day to day."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," puts in Fra Lippo, glancing narrowly at his companion. "My own beliefs have grown far closer to the pope's than they once were. As I said, I can no longer believe in a pauper Christ." He gazes absently at Scimmi, who purrs beneath his fingers. "If He were a patuper, could He really be so heartless to His fellows? No, like the greatest of popes or emperors, God lives far away in heavenly splendour, and will only descend to assert His might when He has to. So now, in my own humble fashion, 1 seek to emulate His spendour by selling - as you say - fake relics to peasants."

And so the conversation goes, trailing off into a discussion of their tactics for the next village, until they finish their wine and Jacopo coaxes Scimmi back into her pouch. They get up to leave, the innkeeper scurrying across, collecting the leftovers with his back toward them, as if afraid that someone who hasn't paid might wolf down the last scraps of cheese or finish the dregs of the wine.

"Excellent meal," says Fra Lippo, while he busies himself getting his paunch out from under the table.

The man just grunts and doesn't turn round, as a sudden blur of movement has the friar peering at his friend. But Jacopo s simply standing behind the taverner, making Scimmi snug inside her pouch.

They head for the door, passing the hearth and the dicers, so that Jacopo glances through the smoky air, seeking the face he thought he'd recognised, wondering if one last look might solve the small puzzle. And as he does so, he sees not only this man, but his runtish companion,, whose face too seems strangely, even threateningly, familiar. They nudge and mutter as the friar goes by, yet Jacopo still can't place them.

Outside, the cold air hits him with a moment of exhilaration, then starts settling down into his bones. A light snow is falling, but they decide to keep going.

"After all, we've got money enough to satisfy the greed of any peasant farmer," says Jacopo, comfortably patting the innkeeper's purse under Scimmi's curled purring.

Then, just as he's grinning with self-satisfaction, he knows where he's seen those faces before - in the gang from which he'd rescued Fra Lippo.

The next village they reach seems very poor, a mere huddle of shacks under scrub oaks and pine trees. One of the hovels lies broken in two where a big old cypress has plunged through its roof, and not a single fire appears to be lit. Indeed, the place looks so unprepossessing that Fra Lippo almost keeps going, just giving the bell a tinkle or two for no other reason than to warm up his arm, when, hey presto! the people are there, expecting a show. So he gives it to them, Heaven and Hell, sin and salvation, two sacks full of relics, even resolving to drop his demand for hard cash, since it seems fairly clear that, in a place like this, such demands will gain nothing but anger.

y There is a curious fact, however. Where their initial audience numbered no more than a dozen, as Fra Lippo proceeds it appears to grow, until there are twenty - perhaps even thirty - people gathered about him. Nor do they seem to come from the houses, but drift through the trees, each hooded so carefully against the cold as to be almost unrecognisable, apart from the fact that they are all, without exception, men. Indeed, there seem to be at least five times as many men as women in this village.

Jacopo is feeling decidedly uneasy, and he can see, from the way Fra Lippo keeps casting quick glances at the donkey, that he's uneasy too. Nevertheless, the friar goes dutifully through his medley of relics - Elmo's windlass, Saint John's cooking oil, the hairs of

Wilgefortis, the collapsible Madonna, Adam's apple core,

Saint Barbara's gallstones, the feather of Jacob's angel

- until he gets to the bit about demons and exorcism. He leans at them across his flaking pulpit, caught up in his own rhetoric, unaware of the pair of figures emerging through the trees. But Jacopo sees them and, despite their deep hoods, knows who they are. One, thin as a weasel and carrying a sack, is the first man he'd recognised back at the inn. The other, big, with stumpy legs and a barrel chest, was the leader -he's certain it's him - of the men who'd been pursuing Lippo, the fellow on the ass.

But Fra Lippo tears right on, caught up in the stream of his eloquence. "And now my good people," he cries, "I will reveal to you the demon I snared in the soul of a fratricidal miller." At which there's a flash of saffron smoke, and Scimmi appears on the platform before him, crimson and spitting. For a moment she stands at the end of her chain, chicken wattle swinging on her chin, when a sudden shriek erupts from the crowd, which frolics and leaps as a mass of black rats goes panicking through it, darting in all directions from the sack held open by the weaselly man. Scimmi pulls frantically at her chain, slipping free of the collar, dragging off the false beard and horns in the process, while Lippo gapes at the mayhem. Then, gathering his wits, he makes a grab for the cat, but she's already off the pulpit, leaping for the nearest rat, which she bites with her fake fangs, breaking them off as the creature escapes with half a bone fang in its fur. But, lunging, she catches another, snapping its neck with her own pointed teeth.

"He's the one!" the big man's roaring through the chaos, pointing his finger at Fra Lippo. "He's the false preacher, the one who came to Sottile and seduced my poor neice, saying he'd show her the Virgin's girdle." But already, even as the crowd closes in, Jacopo snatches the friar by the elbow and drags him to the donkey, trying to heave him up the beast's pinched flank. But Fra Lippo can't do it. He's too heavy, too scared, so that Jacopo pulls him away, flinging him backward between the hovels, pushing him on through the trees. Meanwhile, the gang from Sottile gets tangled up with the villagers, who are racing to ransack the preacher's baggage, tripping over the fleeing rats and abusing each other, until no-one's quite sure which way the pair went. Fra Lippo pauses just for a moment, glancing back at his things, while Jacopo tries to see Scimmi, but can't - not in that melee - and wrenches the friar up through the pines.

* * * 254

A shopping expedition, an assault and a most peculiar pledge

They came to a halt in the narrow street outside the apothecary's. The white mare seemed restless, pulling fretfully at the reins gripped tight in the hands of a groom, while Baldassare helped Gaia to dismount. Bernardo

Cuorevero helped Monna Beatrice from her gelding, while

Marina, quick as a cat in her boyish hose and doublet, leapt from her bay before the other groom could reach her.

"I don't want much," said Monna Beatrice, smoothing down her monkish cloak of rough brown monachino. "Just some saffron and, perhaps, a little box of - "

"Comfits," laughed Marina, taking her mother's arm, "some fresh pinocchiati or - "

"Jelly," put in Gaia, not to be outbid. "Why don't we get some quince jelly? Gianno's often got some, and it's almost always nice and pink, and firm enough to slice with a knife."

"Ugh! Quinces! Who likes quinces?" Marina wheeled on

Baldassare. "Do you like quinces, Baldassare?"

He glanced at Gaia, who looked exquisite in her purple cloak and gown of emerald velvet, the hem of which, he saw, was trailing wetly through the sludge. She didn't look at him, and yet - it was the first thing he'd noticed when he'd greeted her that morning - she was wearing the brooch of amethyst and jasper which he'd given her. "Yes," he said, smiling at Bernardo Cuorevero, who pulled a humorous face and nodded his agreement. "I'm afraid I do, Marina. But why not get something for everyone?"

y "Oh, that's the kind of thing my father says." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder as they stepped across the threshold. "Tuccio the diplomat."

"That's enough, Marina," said Monna Beatrice, though the admonition was unnecessary, since her daughter's attention was now distracted by the goods that lined the walls about them, or, more precisely, by the effort to discern them in the gloomy light. For, though it was late afternoon and heavily overcast, the dim interior of the shop seemed, for a moment, as dark as a dungeon after their ride through the streets. Indeed, once their eyes had adjusted, they realised that lamps were burning in two corners of the room, and that a dull grey light was seeping through the doorway to glisten in the oils and glazed majolica pots. Further in, beneath one of the lamps and a mirror for reflecting the daylight, they could see Gianno Benini's accountant scribbling in his ledger, his counting-board beside him, and a young apprentice handing him coloured counters from a number of small bowls. Old Gianno himself, as insubstantial as a shadow in that gloom, was rearranging some jars on a long trestle table, a huge, squat mortar on the floor beside him, and high above his head, like some instrument of execution, a massive pestle dangled from the roofbeams.

"Monna Beatrice," he said, looking up from his jars with a lop-sided smile, "a pleasure to see you." Then he greeted the others with a nod of his head.

"Good afternoon, Gianno." She glanced at the tall, studded cupboard behind him. "We've just called in for one or two little things."

"Do you have any pinocchiati?" blurted Marina.

Once again Gianno's smile dripped oil, and he gazed around his shop, shrugging his shoulders and opening wide his arms, as if to say that there was almost nothing that he did not have. And following his gaze, Marina could well believe that this was true. For the walls were lined with every sort of vessel - pewter jars, pots of painted majolica, tiny crystal phials, stoppered amphoras, caskets with intricate brass hinges, heavy wooden chests, pottery ampoules - all storing contents of still greater strangeness and variety. Amongst the shadows of these shelves were galinga roots brought all the way from

Cathay by the Arabs, and vouched for by Tuccio as a stimulant and curative for humid stomachs; from Alexandria there was ginger for cooking, as well as aromatic wines and jams that fortified the memory. There were cloves for relieving coughs and asthma; saffron from

Iberia and the East, for paints, dyes, cosmetics and cooking, for curing meat and fish, deafness and dropsy and those of cold complexion; there was pepper from

Cyprus, liquorice for laxatives, cassia for clysters, nutmeg for nightmares, sugar for affections of the chest, aquavitae. for longevity, honeycomb for myopia; there was rosewater for scents, electuaries and tisanes; senna for purges, cathartics and enemas; from Cathay and Ceylon, there was cinnamon to cure cold livers, to encourage urine and menstruation, and dispel the humours of the stomach.

"Yes, we'll have eight ounces of saffron," Monna Beatrice was saying, "a pound of quince jelly, and...oh yes,

Marina, a small box of pinocchiati."

Marina nodded, content, turning to watch Bernardo

Cuorevero who stood among the paints, parchment, rat poison and church wafers. He was examining one of the patented amulets - a spider enclosed in a hazelnut to allay quartan fever - and seemed oblivious to everyone.

As they were turning to go, he said, "You all go ahead. I just want to get a present for my uncle."

"Oh, no," said Monna Beatrice, "we'll wait for you." "No, really," he protested, scratching at his hair, which was springy and loose as a pile of wood shavings. "I'll probably be slower if you stand around waiting for me.

You'll be heading back by the Via Gentili, past the Arte dei Medici?"

The group looked at each other, and Baldassare nodded.

"Then I'll catch up with you. I won't be long."

They agreed, took their leave of Bernardo and the apothecary, and went out of the shop, where the groom who was holding the comfits and spices deposited half the load on his companion, who'd been minding the horses.

After the warmth from the furnaces, the wind was bitter as they rode through the streets, so that Marina felt like nothing more than getting home. She watched her sister ahead of her, as proud and erect on her milky white mare as some equestrian statue, barely deigning to glance at Baldassare while he chattered away to her.

Marina certainly wouldn't be so aloof. He'd be better off talking to her. And yet she was sure that Gaia liked him, since you could aways trust her sister to act the opposite of what she felt. There was the time with their toy monkey, for instance, when they were both young. How they'd argued over that bit of stuffing and cloth, until at last - though she'd wanted it every bit as much as

Marina - Gaia had cut it to pieces and left its remains on her sister's pillow. Or that time with their mother's pearl earrings, when...But her thoughts were interrupted as the horses before her came to a halt.

"Would you mind, Baldassare?" Gaia was saying, while he drew in his reins, looking eager for any command. "He mentioned it specially to me before we went out."

Then he gave the sky an anxious glance. "It is getting dark," he said softly.

"Oh, Gaia, you should have remembered while we were there," scolded Monna Beatrice. "But you'd better go back, Baldassare...you know Tuccio. He'll be annoyed if we don't get his cassia."

"And besides, Piero and Enzo are with us," Gaia added, giving him a warm, sudden smile, so that - despite his misgivings - he nodded, wheeling about and cantering back up the narrow street, his hair a blond, bobbing brightness against his dark cloak.

They rode a little way on, till they'd almost reached the

Casa Morelli, when Gaia turned to her mother. "Franca was saying that there's a fascinating little shop in the Via dei Speziali." She reined in her mare, inclining its head to a street on their left. "She says they make some interesting jewellery, as well as some strange little statues from the teeth of that whale that died on the beach. " From the whale?" said Marina, excited. "But I heard it didn't have any teeth."

"Well, from the bones of its mouth or something. I don't know. You probably heard wrong." Then she smiled at Monna Beatrice. "Why don't we go and have a look, Mamma? It would only take a few minutes."

But Monna Beatrice was looking doubtful. "Oh, I don't know, Gaia. They said they'd catch up. We don't want them to lose us."

"We won't be lost," Gaia laughed, "and neither will they. Besides, even if they do miss us, they're big enough boys to get home by themselves."

"Well, it seems bad manners to - "

"But Baldassare won't take offence. He isn't a child."

"Yes, come on, Mamma," put in Marina. "Let's go and look at the carvings."

Well, they might get anxious... and ride back to worry Tuccio."

"It'll only take a minute," said Gaia, putting her hand on her mother's arm. "It's just down here." And with the help of her sister, she persuaded Beatrice to make a detour of, at most, five minutes in search of the shop.

They proceeded down the sidestreet, and then turned right into the Via dei Speziali, little more than a laneway overshadowed by buildings. The light here was as dim as that very last moment of dusk before nightfall, while the clouds weighed heavy and low on the houses. The air itself seemed to hang round their heads like a threat, and they rode along the deserted street between shuttered windows, hearing only the echo of their horses hooves in the silence. For a while, Gaia attempted to keep up the banter with her mother, as if oblivious to the dark, bolted doorways and the absence of shops, yet even she fell under the spell of that heaviness, her words flying up between the high walls till they vanished completely, leaving only a sense of their absence. They came to a massive stone arch, which filled the air overhead like a sky of black stone, sides pocked with barred windows. An alley abutted the street just beyond it. "We'll go back now," said Monna Beatrice, "since this shop is clearly..." But her words trailed off as a figure emerged from the alley.

At first they weren't sure what they were seeing, the thing was so white - perhaps a knight in polished armour, or a statue of the Virgin in transit from plasterer to painter, or some ectoplasmic spirit suspended there before them. It came slowly round the corner, shimmering, pale and gauzy, in a gown that flowed in silken folds down the flanks of the snowy mare with its harness of scarlet. Even through the shadow of the arch, they could see the red lips on its waxen face, and the long black hair from which rose a crown of white lilies. It was a bride, come riding there alone, and for a moment in that deathly silence, Gaia felt as if she were seeing herself on her wedding day, or rather, the bride she would never be at the wedding she'd never have. She felt such sudden, unaccustomed grief that tears came to her eyes. Then the vision changed completely, since other figures now came wheeling into view - a pair of splendidly dressed servants on bay ponies, and before them, a fair-haired fellow on a big black stallion, a falcon on his arm.

"Gaia - " said her mother, and it was unclear whether she was addressing her daughter or the figure that rode toward them.

"It's like you," Marina breathed, as the wedding party began to emerge from beneath the shadow of the arch.

But it was now, as these images of Baldassare and herself grew more distinct, that the differences appeared. The dress which, in the shadows, had seemed to shimmer, was neither taffeta nor silk, but some far cheaper material.

The mane of flowing hair - from a distance, so like

Gaia's - looked more like strands of blackened jute, while the face itself no longer shone with a pallid, soft complexion, but was coarse-skinned and dark, plastered with powder and smeared with grease. Baldassare too wore some kind of wig, and his features were all wrong, and the bird on his wrist was no more than some poor stuffed creature from a Carnival procession.

"Gaia," he said, almost swooning with passion as he peered at the bride, "my darling..." But she raised her nose in fhe air and looked away haughtily, while they came riding on and Gaia saw, beneath the clothes and make-up, that these were no spirits or hired clowns, but the sons of Frederico dalla Montagna come to play some hideous joke. Then the bride, opening her arms like some nightmare lover, turned leering to Gaia and sighed, "My darling ..."

But suddenly Enzo, the groom who had carried the parcels out to the horses, flew past from the rear, spurring his pony toward the party, now almost upon them. The other groom too plunged after him, and Gaia thought she heard horses behind, but none appeared, even as Enzo, sword drawn, fronted the bride and commanded - in his boy's breaking voice - "Don't come any nearer!"

The bride's thick lips twisted, and out of her gown flashed a blade, just a quick little flicker of light that stabbed through the groom's blue doublet. He shrieked once - blood spattered the bride's white lap - then folded and fell from his pony. The second groom propped, uncertain, while the one dressed as Baldassare drew out his sword and came forward. Then, confused by the speed with which everything happened, she saw their attackers wheel round and flee, the bride's train whipping behind as she rode, their servants galloping after, all vanished from sight in an instant. Now a thunder of hooves came up from the rear, and Bernardo flew suddenly past, and then Baldassare - the real

Baldassare - hurtling behind him into the alley. Gaia felt stunned, struck dumb by the speed of it all. Fear knotted the pit of her stomach, bewilderment buzzed in her head, and a slow, cold fury arose at these men who'd attacked them for no clear reason. Her father, as Prior, could do something to them. Or, even now, Baldassare might catch them. She felt a welling up of relief and respect, and then, quite unbidden, a sudden disgust that his feelings for her should provoke their scorn. And yet, when she thought of him hurtling behind them, sword drawn on his stallion...

She saw him emerge from the alley with Bernardo, both shaking their heads. "We lost them," he cried, like a crestfallen child. "But don't worry, they won't get away with it." And he slowly approached her, eyes hollow with outrage.

* Later that night, Baldassare went to see Gaia. As the servant, Lucia, ushered him into the room where she sat, his thoughts were a barely controllable swarm of emotions, confused with Tuccio's words of just moments before, divulging his plans for the renegade nobles. But now, past the threshold, with the door already closing behind him, these words disappeared and nothing was left but his heart, disturbing the hush of the room with its pounding v

It was a small sitting room beyond the long reception hall, almost a chapel, with its crucifix and holy pictures and the flimsy prie-dieu holding its bible. For a moment, his gaze flitted from wall to wall like a panicky bird, afraid to alight on the one thing that drew it. Then, nervous and flighty, it settled an instant on

Gaia's pale hand, then her shoulder, her cheek and, lastly, her eyes. She was dressed in a plain white gown, a black surcoat - for the room was ill-heated - and an old-fashioned wimple, as if the afternoon's terrors were born of some crime for which she did penance.

"Are - are you alright now?" His voice felt thick in his throat as he sat in the chair at her side.

"Yes," she replied. "Are you?"

Her words were as careful and calm as her clothes, and the question surprised him. After all, it was he her attackers had fled. "Oh...yes...I just thought you might still feel shaken."

"No," she said, and then watched him, face framed in the wimple like its own prim portrait. Yet her eyes seemed to shine and her lips looked so full in that mask of composure that he sensed something hidden, like a tension awaiting some promised moment. Of course, her father had told her,what he had said, yet there was no hint of scorn as she waited in silence, refusing to speak; just this curious, highly strung calm as if, beneath her still skin, there were tremulous bones.

"I don't know why they - " he began mechanically, then faltered. "But what I was meaning...what I wanted to say..." He lurched up like a great clumsy puppet. "Your father will have said what I asked him." But still she said nothing, simply leaning more closely toward him, as if he delivered his words from a distance. "I asked him to give his consent to our marriage... but he said it was you I should ask and not him."

Her lips seemed to toy with a smile, and yet still she said nothing.

"Of course, I know it's all...that it's not how I might have done it myself, approaching you so... crudely.. .with no-one else to speak for me." He sat slowly back down in his chair. "But our wedding itself would be perfect, and...well, will you marry me, Gaia?"

She watched him silently, almost with pity, and for a

moment he felt light-headed, as if the very core of his

life were laid bare and she waited, poised, with a blade.

Perhaps it was all wrong after the masked farce of just a

few hours before. Or then again, perhaps his first

thoughts were right, and she'd feel grateful for her y rescue. Then the memory of that recent evening came

suddenly to mind, when Fiera had frightened her, and she'd appeared almost to hate him.

"If I am to marry you," she said slowly, and his heart

went thrashing like a devil in his chest, "then I want a

pledge, such as those that are given by great knights to

their ladies." Her words were clear and deliberate, the

words of a litany. "For devotion's only true measure is

sacrifice . "

He nodded, sensing fulfillment now in his grasp. "What is the pledge?" he asked. "What sort of sacrifice do you mean?"

"A dish," she replied, "for our wedding. A food it may cost you much to obtain."

"A dish? For our wedding?" he chuckled. "Of course, I'll get you whatever you want. What sort of food is it?" "A bird," she said softly. "Your falcon, Fiera, in the centre of the table at the feast's main course."

He started to speak, yet stood mouth agape, finding nothing to say to such a demand, while she watched him coolly, reserving her judgement, and proffered no explanations. It was ridiculous, mad, barely possible, yet undeniably what she had said. She wanted Fiera killed and served as a dish at their wedding... But why? Was she jealous of his affection? Did she hate the bird so much for exposing her fear? As a pledge of devotion, she'd said. But no, it was absurd, he just couldn't do it. He thought of Fiera soaring to the sun, then stooping from the air. He loved her too much to kill her for anyone.

Then he glared into Gaia's dark eyes. In these clothes she seemed austere as a nun or a warrior. He watched her pale hands, and saw them controlling her big white mare, her black hair blown back with the speed of her riding.

To kiss that hair, to be touched by those hands... he couldn't let her refuse him. Yet to sacrifice his falcon.

To betray the bird's trust. Then he met her black gaze and entered its darkness.

"Yes," he said, nodding, eyes wide with amazement.

* * * Jacopo and the friar encounter Wolf Schwanhals

Time is lost amid the rush of blood and breath, the pulse-thumping panic, the cries, the crash of branches, the thud of boots and crackle of pine-needles. Jacopo ducks and darts and dodges, while Fra Lippo plunges amongst trunks with surprising speed, a legged keg careening over pinecones, his habit aswirl. They turn themselves to branches, saplings, humps or tussocks, as their hunters fade to phantoms in the tangled skeins of their own shouting.

"I'll have to go back," pants Jacopo, when the cries have vanished to some far part of the forest.

"Why?" hisses Lippo, incredulous behind his tree.

"I can't leave Scimmi." He peers back among the crazy colonnade of trunks, uncertain now of which way they have come. "She's probably still chasing rats around the village. They might take it out on her."

"We can't go back. I'm not even sure which way it is now." The friar stands there, red and sweaty, his habit littered with needles like a crude attempt at camouflage.

"She's a clever cat, she'll find us." 270

"She's clever alright. But she gets carried away when she's ratting." He gives Fra Lippo a crafty look. "And what about your relics? What'11 you do without them?"

"Oh, well," sighs Lippo, then seems to cheer up. "It won't be hard to get some more. Any boneyard will do."

They stand there for a while in silence, peering about them, Fra Lippo wondering which direction leads away from the village, Jacopo pondering which leads back. Would it be possible for them to flee straight into the arms of their pursuers? Then Jacopo comes to a decision, wheels about, and, without another word, strides off the way he thinks he's come. He's no more than half-a-dozen paces off when there's a sudden crash amongst the bushes to their right. In an instant - dagger in hand - he's at the side of Lippo, who's wrestling a long misericord out from under his robes. There's a rustle of mulch behind them, then the leaves of a blighted balsam thrash wildly at knee-height, as if they were besieged by midgets, and something bursts into the clearing. It's sleek, sinewy, silver and...Scimmi, trotting toward them like a small, clawed pony, her muzzle bloody and a rat's paw still between her teeth. She drops it on the ground, bats at it half-heartedly, then nuzzles her clotted whiskers against

Jacopo's leg.

"You villain!" he says, rubbing the top of her head with his fingers, then drawing them back stained red with rat's blood. "That wasn't a time to go mucking about." He picks her up and scratches at her ears despite the gore. "We might have lost you."

"Yes," says the friar darkly, "and we might have been alright if she hadn't gone after those rats."

"Well, whose idea was it to use her in the first place?"

And even,the cat seems to peer up at him accusingly, so that they remain there at an angry, silent impasse, until

Fra Lippo jerks his thumb at the slope before them, saying, "I think this is the way to go."

And go they do, trudging on into the forest and the night, their blankets, cloaks, even their tinderbox left behind them with the donkey. Luckily, it doesn't snow, but the night is nonetheless cold as they huddle together in a hollow of stone, Scimmi purring away between them.

Nor does it get much warmer the next morning, and they walk as briskly as they can amongst the wooded hills, slapping at themselves like flagellants, breath steaming up into the air as if their mouths were stewpots. Tempted though they are to go down into the villages below them, they remain upon their high, secluded trails for another day and night, afraid that their pursuers, zealous as they seem to be, might inveigle others into their pursuit. Then they descend from pines to elm trees to thickets of birch and alder, hot with their exertions and the sun's return. It's after some time in this terrain, when they come upon stumps bearing signs of the axe, that they hear a cry whose pain and terror cut straight into their hearts.

Jacopo stares at Fra Lippo, who is gaping back at him, each almost as frightened by the look upon the other's face as by the sound itself. Then, somewhere ahead of them, a woman screams, and almost before they realise what they're doing, they've crept to a place where the light seems less obstructed by the trees, and are peering up into an open stretch of sky as a second scream now splinters round their ears. They tiptoe forward, then peep out through the foliage onto a broad, bright clearing.

They see a rundown farmhouse and a field. In this field are three cows and a man, the cows fallen to the ground, and the man beside them with his guts splayed out. At the doorway of the farmhouse an infant lies face down, as if he'd tripped upon the step, and blood spreads out beneath him like a deepening shadow. The screams have not come from these still figures, but from the woman who lies sprawled upon her back beside the pigpen. She is no longer screaming, but merely whimpers, perhaps because of the soldier in the leather helm and armour who is kneeling at her head, one hand wound tightly in her hair, the other with a knife against her throat. He stares in febrile concentration at his fellow, also in a leather breastplate, who grunts above the woman as he thrusts inside her, his buttocks pale and smeared with dark mud.

Jacopo glances at Fra Lippo, who doesn't notice his attention, caught up by the scene as he is, eyes avid and exhausted as he watches, fingers tight about his blade.

"Soldiers," Jacopo hisses in his ear. "Who do you think they are?"

But the friar, leaning forward on a branch, intent, fails to answer, mesmerised perhaps by the rhythmic, joyless grunting of the soldier, which is the only sound beneath that bright blue sky, until the woman's voice breaks once again like glass upon the air. The kneeling figure tightens his grip, and seems about to use his knife, when a third man ambles through the farmhouse doorway. He has a crossbow strapped on his back and, like the others, is clad in leather armour, but takes no notice of his fellows, concentrating on the flask of wine and great round cheese he carries in his hands. He stumbles on the child, looks down, then marches on.

"You'd better hurry," he calls. "We're too close to camp.

We can't risk staying here too long."

His companions appear not to hear him, but everything changes when the branch, where Lippo has been leaning, gives way beneath his weight, cracking like a whip and plunging him forward into the clearing. The kneeling man glares round. His grunting companion raises his head and squints up at the sound. The third man rips the crossbow from his back and wheels about, fitting a bolt into its chamber, while Lippo, winded, slowly clambers to his feet. Jacopo too stands staring, exposed by the broken branch.

"Don't move!" shrieks the archer, his wine flask emptying its contents in a puddle at his feet. Fra Lippo gropes a little at the space before him, hissing something back at

Jacopo, but, "Don't say a fucking word," the man bellows, and, "Come forward," adding with a tone of infinite menace, "as slowly as you can."

The friar tiptoes forward, his plump body trembling, hands plucking at the air, and moving with such slow and timid steps that he might be sending up the archer's order. "Where..." he moans, "where are you?" He fingers at the breeze before him as if at some frail face.

"Please, I can't see. Don't hurt a poor blind friar."

"Gur wah dar!" says Jacopo emphatically, nodding his head and pointing at Fra Lippo.

"Aaahhhh..." says the mud-spattered soldier, collapsing on the woman, whose body starts to heave and wrench with hacking, bitter sobs.

The friar goes stumbling off toward the trees at the rear of the farmhouse, hands flailing in the air. You!' the archer screams to Jacopo, and like some lethal fiddler, tucks the crossbow at his chin. "Lead him over here if he can't see."

"Gah wur dah?" he says, confused.

As if he were the object of her passion, the sated soldier bounces with the woman's every sob.

"He can't hear you, sir. He's deaf," moans Lippo, flapping his arms at the dead child. "We are the poor of God, sir, a blind friar and his mute."

Suddenly the soldier with the knife heaves upright, laughing. "A blindman and a mute!" he cries. "Oh, Christ, our only witnesses."

Then the bowman too begins to laugh, letting his arm drop, as the soldier on the ground snarls, "Kill them," rolling slowly off the woman's chest, "the mute saw it and the monk heard it."

"I - I heard a pig grunting," says Fra Lippo.

"Wuh," nods Jacopo.

"Kill them!" cries the soldier, and the archer lifts his bow as the pair begin to run, the friar moving with amazing speed for a blindman, and Jacopo edging past him.

They've almost made it to the trees, Jacopo sensing, at every moment of their flight, the arrow closing with a hiss toward his back, waiting to be pierced, skewered, split, even as he stumbles through into the foliage, turning for the briefest possible moment to see the archer, not standing, taking aim, but running them down, hurtling through the bushes at their heels, already on them, yet not stopping, barely glancing, just flashing past as if he did not chase, but fled.

As he peers through the screen of leaves, however, it's not the bowman that holds Jacopo's attention. For there upon the clearing, as if they'd ridden up out of the earth, are three tall knights in armour, their horses masked in metal. One gleams white, and with such a neck and long, beaked visor that he's like some mounted swan that brandishes its broadsword in the sun. The soldier with the naked, splattered arse now stands beneath this horseman, trembling, as the sword glints skyward, swooping in a gleaming arc, unhindered by his neck, and lobs the leathered head a distance through the air. Then the body falls, still trembling, beside the sobbing woman, while the others ride the second soldier down, one

- his helm a boar's tusked head - spitting him upon his lance, the other carving through his neck.

"Take their horses and their heads," says the leader, hinging back his visor's pointed beak. "This commune's paid for order, and they'll get it." He swings his horse's head toward the north, then turns back for a moment, shouting, as if for the woman's benefit, "I won't be disobeyed in this."

Then all three ride into the north, leading the riderless horses after them, the dead men's saddlebags now swollen with their swords and leaking heads.

"Oh, Jesus," says Jacopo at last, letting out a sigh. "Maybe we should go and help the woman."

"No, wait." The friar's hand is shaking on his shoulder.

"Give them more time. I don't want to meet them coming back."

They pause for some minutes, listening, until Jacopo says, "Come on, we ought to go and help her. The man or the child might still be alive."

"Oh, yes. Those soldiers might be too."

"Well, there's no point sitting here." He looks at Lippo slantwise. "Besides, who knows what booty those men might have on them?"

* The following day the clouds draw in and the wind grows bitterly cold. Light rain has begun to fall, turning to sleet, then a soft, steady snow. They trudge up a long incline, glad to be using a road once again, yet eager for some place to shelter.

"We should have at least taken some coats from the house," growls Fra Lippo, shivering in his wet, smelly habit. ,

"Well, how was I to know it was going to turn out like this? It was sunny yesterday morning."

"I said, didn't I - "

"Yes, yes, you did. You're a soothsayer... worthy to mount any inquisitorial pyre in the country." And he walks more quickly up the steepening hill, so that the friar has to scurry to keep pace. After a climb of some minutes they come to an inn, perched on the brink of a steep descent, smoke twirling from its roof and streaming south through the smoke-coloured sky.

"Let's get a drink!" calls the friar, who has visions of

Jacopo's not even stopping, but continuing down with the road. He thinks he gets a nod, since his companion veers from the path and heads for the door. Once inside, they move through the smoky air toward the kegs and hogsheads by the counter - no more than a flimsy table with beads and counting-board and pitchers for the wine - where the innkeeper eyes their approach.

"Good afternoon," says Jacopo.

"If you like trudging about in the snow," the man replies, then chuckles to himself as at some subtle masterstroke of wit. "If you like your balls turning blue and dropping off."

Jacopo glances sideways at the friar, saying, "Yes, you're right, it's lousy weather," and goes on to order drinks for Lippo and himself, as well as cheese for

Scimmi, discussing the foulness of the day still further with the innkeeper, who seems a big, bluff, voluble man, eager for any excuse to have a laugh. They give an abridged account of their travels, discussing the advantages and otherwise of cats compared with dogs, until at last Fra Lippo, leaning earnestly toward their host, says in a quieter, more confidential tone, "You know, we had a funny thing happen to us yesterday morning," and goes on to describe what they'd witnessed at the farmhouse. When he comes to the bit about the horsemen, or more especially, describes the leader's curious armour, the taverner too leans forward, muttering, "Schwanhals," in a tone of some surprise.

"I beg your pardon," says the friar. Schwanhals," he repeats, "Baron Schwanhals, the condottiere. They say he's in the pay of Cardinal da

Parma of Boccaperta. You were lucky you were hidden."

"A condottiere?" says Jacopo. "But we're a long way south of Boccaperta."

"Don't ask me what's going on," says the innkeeper, flinging,up his hands. "Some say he's gathering up an army to do the cardinal's bidding further north. Some say he's simply wintering here, since the famine hasn't hit us quite so hard. Others reckon him to be taking payment from as many as half-a-dozen communes, each vying with the others to keep him off their territory."

"But he killed his own soldiers," says Jacopo, "and took their heads back to his camp as an example."

"Yes, well, that's because he's involved in a struggle with Count Montefeltro, one of the most powerful landholders in these parts. He doesn't want more enemies than he needs, so he's trying to keep his men in check."

He gives them a crafty look, and jerks his thumb in the direction of the northern wall. "You'll see what I mean right now, if you open that window. We need a bit of fresh air in here anyway." He nods his head and jerks his thumb once more toward the wall. "Go on, take a look." They cast puzzled glances at each other, but Fra Lippo ambles over, followed by Jacopo, and unlatches the shutter. He raises it just a small way, though it's enough for a blast of cold air and snowflakes to enter the room. They stand together at the window and peer out into the cold, seeing little at first but a grey blur of snow. "What are we supposed see?" Fra Lippo calls across his shoulder, but receives no answer from the innkeeper. Instead,,his arm is jostled by Jacopo, saying, "Look."

And he does, till his eyes too become accustomed to the feathery indistinctness of the gulf beyond the window, and he sees the shadows of the far, dark armies wheeling there below them in that pallid void, tiny, slow and circling. There are horses and their horsemen, and crawling after them across the fractured air, the pitiful homunculi of foot-soldiers. He sees horsemen merge, men fall and vanish in the whiteness, as if they themselves were made of snow, while cavalries clash and troops outflank each other, swirling in the wind, in a vast and icy silence, like companies of cloud.

They stare at this mimed slaughter for some minutes, until Fra Lippo shivers, turning back toward the fire, and Jacopo wonders for a moment if this might be the way a god sees people suffer. Then he too gives a shiver, rubbing at his arms and saying, "Let's shut the window, eh?" He pulls the shutter down and fixes the latch tight. "It's just too cold."

* & #. The fall of Frederico dalla Montagna

Baldassare stood amongst the blaze of torches before the

Montagna tower. The militiamen of the Porta San Stefano milled below its walls, some swinging the great battering ram on its rusty chains that creaked and grated in the cold, damp air. He watched Donato Spini, their castellano, dart from one group to the next, occasionally checking,the weapons - even the uniforms - of his men, as if they were about to go on parade instead of storming the tower of Frederico dalla Montagna. He did not entirely trust this castellano. Nor, for that matter, did he entirely trust the others whom the Signoria had ordered to capture the main strongholds in their quarters of the town. Agnolo del Leone himself had been unable to vouch for the loyalty of all the militia, yet as he had said, if the Signoria moved quickly enough, the waverers would be taken by surprise and forced to follow orders by the momentum of events. Indeed, when they'd entered the palazzo itself they'd all seemed keen enough, smashing benches, chairs, tables against the locked doors, until

Baldassare had advised Donato Spini that they'd find less difficulty breaking through the tower's outer door, heavy though it was, than struggling with an endless succession of barricaded rooms.

So here they were in the piazza, wielding the communal battering ram, the same one that had been used against these very towers before his father's exile. They should 283 have dismantled them then, like so many communes had, but instead they had procrastinated. He glanced over at their banner propped against the wall, only the mouth and forepaw of the great Guelph lion now visible, and for a moment had the curious sense that he was fighting the wrong side, that some perversity of fate had placed him behind this lion, when, by every logic of his birth and nature, he should be hurling himself headlong at its claws. It was not unlike the way he'd felt when they had first come bursting into the palazzo, smashing through the bolted doorway only to find that they were standing in an empty building, the lofty entrance hall echoing about them. It was then that he had seen the massive shield upon the wall - emblazoned with the outlawed eagle of the Ghibellines - and felt the strange conviction that, at any other time, with any other chain of circumstance, he would have stood with Montagna and the others against merchants such as Tuccio. It was the way in which, for a moment, he'd identified that eagle with

Fiera, his own falcon, and his betrayal of her to Gaia - yes, it was this that had caused his hesitation...

"Get back!" cried the lookout, and Baldassare instinctively recoiled, glancing quickly up to where the lip of a bulky cauldron appeared at a window, which suddenly disgorged a steaming sheet of water while the soldiers scattered, letting go the ram. Cheers cascaded from the tower, and two or three cried out as they were caught upon the legs and back; but for the most part, the 284

deluge was expended on the square's cold stones, where it

settled into puddles, briefly steaming in the glow of the

reflected torchlight. Then the militia raced once more to work, wielding the ram with doubled vigour, until the

hinges of the iron door began to groan beneath the

onslaught, then suddenly gave way in a welter of wood and men

Donato Spini went rushing in with the foremost of his soldiers, and Baldassare, eager not to lag behind, lunged after him as best he could. But the battering ram, and those who'd used it, blocked the doorway, so that he had to shoulder a path through his fellow militiamen, past the hacked and bleeding bodies of the household's servants, until he reached the stairs. These were ridiculously narrow, and clogged with further bodies which he jerked aside. Some groaned as they rolled back down behind him, but he didn't even think of stopping, gripped as he was by the need to catch the castellano. He passed through a room where there was still some fighting. A child shrieked; then he thought he saw one of the militia, at the blurred edge of his sight, draw a blade across a woman's throat. But the real struggle was somewhere overhead, and he leapt toward the stairs, now so littered with the dying and the dead that they seemed constructed not of stone, but flesh. He came upon a second room, where the fighting was more fierce. Here too he would have hurried on, since there were only two men of the household and three of the militia. Yet, as he passed, he glimpsed the larger of Montagna's men dispatch the first of his opponents, then start in on the other, who seemed no match for him. But it wasn't any wish to save his ally that made him pause, since the militiaman was already crumpling to the ground, blood jetting from his neck.

"Stoldo!" he cried, holding his sword ready. "The last time thaf I saw you was when you were a bride."

Stoldo dalla Montagna swung round on his heel, a look of shock upon his face. He drew a shaky sigh, then grinned, recovering. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong,

Baldassare. This is the last time you will see me." And without another word he flung himself at his opponent, as if hoping to profit from the suddenness of his attack.

Indeed, Baldassare was pushed back on his heels, fighting to maintain his balance, making a shield out of his sword, till Stoldo's blade rang like a tocsin in the narrow room. Baldassare glanced sideways - where Stoldo's companion seemed to be getting the better of the third militiaman - and decided that it might be safest to let himself fall back toward the wall. His sword inverted in the air before him, he crashed against the stones while

Stoldo battered him with blacksmith's blows, blade sparking like a giant flint beside his ear. It suddenly seemed that he might die, here, against this wall, in a room he'd never seen, at the hand of a man who'd dressed as a bride and fled him in the street. His wrists ached from holding back the blows, his head rang from the din of the blade, and his breath was dry and raucous in his throat. Then, over-confident, or possibly just tired,

Stoldo paused at the height of a thrust, as if to gain some added leverage, some final extra strength to break through Baldassare's guard, giving him one brief moment to flick his blade in a quick, short, upward arc, slicing

Stoldo's arm. It seemed a slight wound, yet it made him drop his /guard just long enough for Baldassare to lunge, thrust, push him back across the room. He collided with his fellow in his reeling, and Baldassare heard a cry, yet paid it no attention, chasing his opponent to the wall, where the man stood, wild-eyed, trying to lift his sword. But his arm seemed useless, and he made a futile effort to hold the heavy weapon steady with the other.

"What's the matter, Stoldo?" sneered Baldassare, knocking the sword away, "I thought you wanted to marry me," and drove the blade so deep into his chest that he staggered sideways down the wall, grunting and coughing, dragging

Baldassare onto him. For a moment, they might almost have been bride and groom in their embrace, till Baldassare struggled up, wrenching the blade from Stoldo's body.

He glanced round hastily. The militiaman sat panting on the floor, grinning vaguely up at him, his opponent prone and seeping. The noise of battle still echoed down the stairway. Barely pausing to return the grin, he hurried for the stairs, taking them two at a time, until he had 287 to stop and clamber over other bodies. At the next landing he found two women and a child, butchered in a wash of blood. For a moment he could not continue. This seemed too bloody, too scrupulously cruel, as if every member of the family must be slaughtered. Tuccio's words repeated themselves in his memory - "Keep a watch on the militia. There may be traitors." No room he'd passed contained a living member of the household. They'd all been murdered outright. But was this the militia's zeal, or the work of some faction amongst it that wanted no-one left who might give evidence of treason? He rushed upward to the fighting.

Cries echoed from the tower's topmost room. Here, the shouts and clash of blades, now muted and spasmodic, had more the sound of single combat than of massed attack.

And the voices were not those of men in battle, but the mocking cheers of an audience at some low comedy. He reached the door and found it crammed with milling bodies, no longer fighting, but merely jostling upon tiptoe, as if a show were happening within. He too stood on his toes and craned his neck to see, peering over shoulders and helmed heads, across a charnel house of corpses, toward a corner of the dingy room where

Frederico dalla Montagna - his retainers dead - held his broadsword at the ready. Blood oozed from a cut beneath his hair, and his face was smeared with gore, yet there was nothing beaten in his posture as he faced his foes. Well, come on," he muttered, his voice shaky and his tone defiant, but neither Donato Spini, the castellano, nor the militiaman who prowled with him before Montagna seemed eager to accept the invitation. Then he snorted with contempt, "You cowards," which caused the crowd to laugh and jeer, as Spini feinted with his sword. Montagna turned to parry, and the militiaman thrust forward with his spear, slipping through his guard, his robe, his skin, pinning him to the wall as Spini, slicing through the air in one long sweep, lopped off his head. It bounced upon the stones. Then what a cheer went up, while Baldassare shouldered past the crowd to reach the castellano, till nothing stood between them but that floor of bloodied limbs, like a butchery for anthropophagi. Donato Spini gave a smirk, cocking a conspiratorial eyebrow as if to include him in the carnage, or perhaps to say that there was now no difference - at least, that anyone could ascertain - between their motives.

It was only later, as he stood alone beneath the eagle on its shield in the palazzo's entrance hall, that he realised that such bloodshed had probably occurred all over town. He stood there, gazing up at the old symbol, surprised to find himself beset with doubts about his dealings with the merchants, and about the nature of his love for Gaia.

* * * 289

In which Fra Lippo makes an unpalatable suggestion

It is cold, so cold that moving is painful, as if splinters of frost had lodged in the joints. Jacopo and

Fra Lippo trudge down the hillside, a hearty breakfast doing its best to warm their bellies, although its heat is quickly lost. There's been a heavy snowfall overnight, leaving great white empty nests among the branches of the trees, and covering the ground with such a universal whiteness that the landscape looks like an abandoned room draped out with dust sheets. Jacopo gazes at the valley that stretches to the north before them. It was here that the silent battle of the previous day had taken place.

Now, from what he can make out across that distance, there are no more than scattered groups with an occasional cart, and fires burning in the cold.

As they make their way across the fields, he sees that numerous of the shadows in the snow - shapes he'd passed off as rocks or hummocks - are actually dead soldiers half-submerged beneath the whiteness. The groups that move amongst the dead seem divided into those who scavenge there for weapons, and those collecting corpses for burial elsewhere. He sees carts full of spears, pikes, swords, saddles and entire suits of armour; while others are piled with bodies, the remains, he presumes, of Count Montefeltro's forces. These, it would appear, were defeated with severe losses, and as he observes one such cart heaped high with corpses, he notes how awkward and angular they seem, not laid out neatly, but scraping together like great lumps of stone, victims of a premature rigor mortis. The driver and his mate have stopped at a large, half-buried mound of bodies, and have just leant three of them against the side of their cart.

All had fallen with their arms out before them, and now, propped upright as they are, appear caught in the throes of some wild emotion, arms flung heavenward in ecstasy or anguish.,Already stowed in the bed of the cart are a group of foot soldiers, each frozen like an armoured foetus round an arrow, while the driver tries to heave a pair of figures from the snow, two archers curled together, flesh pierced like a carapace by each other's daggers. His mate comes sidling across, and together they lift the twinned corpses and hurl them, clattering, info the cart.

Everywhere there are these human logs, stones, statues, horizontal snowmen. Toward the centre of the field they come across a frozen horse, skewered by a pike, half- kneeling in the snow as if in supplication to some equine god. Still further lie the cavalry, frozen where they've fallen, each knight bound to his mount by an icy umbilicus, while peasants stoke great conflagrations to set their masters free. Slowly they begin to thaw, flesh wet and blue and drowned, stretched out upon the field like the amputated organs of a herd of centaurs. Yet all remain as rigid as they were; nor can the horses be coaxed from their death, not even by the men who heave 291 them up onto the fires, which hiss and steam, then curl with oily smoke into the air, as thief and friar trudge past, intent, their faces turned already to the north.

As the weeks go by, the weather remains cold, slicing through the woods with bitter northern winds, drowning the sown,seeds in icy showers, smothering each village under snowfalls. Beasts die upon the fields of derelict farms, or huddle under roofs of hut and byre. The friar buys his donkey, a stubborn, sullen creature, raddled with cankers and foundering under Lippo's weight. He accumulates new relics - a piece of Saint Stephen at a boneyard, Nicasius at a tannery, Veronica at an abattoirs

- and houses each in its own ad hoc phylactery. But though he may ring his bell till his knuckles whiten, such crowds as they once had no longer gather. Baron

Hunger rules this countryside, and signs of his power - emaciated men whose skins seem black with bruises, skeletal mothers with babies like starved monkeys, children like miniatures of Death itself - may be seen throughout the land.

Such a country hides its victims, who huddle in the darkness of their huts, and it's only rarely that the famine's true extremity may be seen, as when Jacopo, driven by his own sharp hunger, batters at the door of a hovel in the fields. There's no reply, but he thinks he hears a moan within, and thrusts his weight against the bolted door, revealing three small children locked inside, abandoned by their parents. Two of them are dead, and a third lies dying, mouth filled with sodden straw, while a pot of grasses boils above a smouldering fire. Of course, there are the tales that spread of people eating dung or pigeon droppings, each other or themselves, and the pair once come across a figure prone upon the road, skin thin, almost transparent, like a shroud to hold his bones. At first they think he's dead, but some slight stir or sound provokes their curiosity, so that they kneel and find that he has hollowed out a recess in the dirt with teeth and nose. On peering closer, they see his jaws are moving, grinding weakly with his last reserves of strength upon some tiny blades of grass.

Through the quickness of Jacopo's fingers and the friar's wits they survive the winter famine, thinner perhaps, and afflicted with fevers and hacking coughs, yet surprisingly sturdy for all that. And when spring arrives, it finds them marching still toward the north, their arthritic donkey between them. Fra Lippo grows expansive and Jacopo whistles a tune, since the snows and icy winds are gone at last, and the sun comes shining through. Everywhere they look, each field and hedgerow, wood and roadside, is lush with growth. The oaks and elms and beeches soften with leaves, cloaking the roads in shifting webs of light, and great white briar roses flood the woods with scent like slow explosions. Yet now, along those green roadways and fields all flecked with poppies, comes a humble, sullen army. Out of the huts and sillage pits emerge the hungry. They scour the ripening woods, traipsing in tattered bands amongst the meadows, stuffing their round mouths with the fruits of hawthorn and hornbeam, plucking cress and nasturtium, crocus and lily in great dripping handfuls. Across the web of roads, lanes, tracks and pathways spread the spiderfolk - limbs long and tremulous, joints swollen with scrofula - devouring whatever they find that's edible, and much that isn't. Once, Scimmi has a wren torn from her claws by a boy whose skin is flaking from his bones like parchment; and later, skirting a green meadow, they see a group of women and children trudge amongst the grass, gathering roses, thistles, poppies and rape leaves, stirring all together with salt and water in a rusty pot, then squatting down to eat.

These people grind flour out of anything. They eat breads made from vetch, dog grass, lupins and the bitter wild arum. Once, and once only, Jacopo tries a loaf ground from cyclamen roots, and though he spits it out instantly, is unable to rid himself of the horrible taste for a day and a night. They find one village stupified with a desperate bread made from darnel, and in another the people are ill from flour made with bay leaves. And everywhere there is talk of summer and the great golden harvest. Yet few are they who choose to remember - let alone mention - how much seed they devoured before sewing, or how much the rains have destroyed. This hope is a habit, the millenium that comes every year, and no- one dares doubt it.

Neither Fra Lippo nor Jacopo proposes to do so. Yet, though the weather is fine and their colds disappear, spring has failed to live up to their expectations. If anything,, the preoccupation with scrounging food from the greening countryside has left the peasants with even less time for the friar's preaching. Indeed, the only one who seems genuinely content is Scimmi, forever darting off into the fields to gobble up mice and small birds, squirrels and moles, shrews and warm lizards. Her coat looks more lustrous, her lithe body sleeker, than they have for some time. Perhaps it is this which provokes Fra Lippo to say: "You know, my boy, it's said that no-one in this country is buried whole any more. The best bits are always saved for the pot."

Jacopo stares blankly at him, absently stroking Scimmi, who thunders away beneath his hand.

"Yes, and I think it's true," the friar continues, answering her purr with his snarling stomach. "There's only one of us here gets enough to eat." He leers pointedly at Scimmi, then sidles closer, hissing confidentially, "What say we eat the cat?" Jacopo pulls her closer into his lap, where she interrupts her purring and stares sleepily about her.

"I don't mean to sound blunt," Lippo hastens to add, "and

I know she means something to you. But we no longer use her in the act, and she's grown so...plump." He looks pleadingly at Jacopo, then suddenly blurts out, "And we've been eating stewed brambles for the last two days."

Jacopo gives him a long, slow gaze, and his eyes are as cold as the blade at his belt. "If you just think about eating her," he says, so slowly that he might be talking to a child, "I'll cut you up and eat you whole."

The friar looks at him, then turns away, embarrassed; and though he might normally have been expected to proffer some theological argument, he says no more, and the night relapses into a silence broken only by the sound of purring.

No further mention is made of this disagreement. Once or twice Jacopo notices Fra Lippo casting covetous glances in Scimmi's direction, but with time he puts the incident from his mind, seeing it as a momentary aberration brought on by hunger. So it comes as a surprise to Jacopo

- after a fruitless search for a brook that Lippo had assured him would be there - to discover that both Scimmi and the friar have vanished from their camp. He goes hunting through the trees, increasingly plagued by the conviction that he will find her dead, or that Lippo has already eaten all the evidence of murder. Then he hears a cry, and rushes through the woods, emerging at a clearing where Lippo stands beneath a tree, one hand brandishing his dagger, the other in his mouth, now pink with dribbled blood. Unaware of Jacopo's presence, he shouts,

"Come down, you vicious thing," glaring up into the leaves, where Scimmi hisses from a branch, back arched in spiky hackles.

"Lippo, you bastard!" snarls Jacopo, springing forward, knocking the knife out of his hand and kicking him in the stomach, so that he grunts and sits down heavily, unable to catch his breath. Meanwhile, Jacopo sticks the dagger in his belt and scales the tree, where Scimmi, after a little coaxing, consents to climb into his arms. Then he rounds upon the friar, who's still sucking at the air like some great baby. "You...you can't be trusted. I don't want any more to do with you."

"H-h-how dare you hit a man of God?" says Lippo feebly.

"A man of God? And what God's that? The God of greed?" He clutches Scimmi closer to him. "You think of nothing but yourself."

"And who do you think of, Sir Thief?" Jacopo makes to lunge forward, but thinking better of it, turns instead, and strides into the woods.

Thus they part, and Jacopo is glad of it. He continues on into the north, making faster progress than he did with

Lippo and his aging donkey. And now, as summer quickens, the wheat and rye and millet grow lush within the fields, not golden yet or plentiful, but promising a modest crop and some,abatement of their hunger. Yet, so famished are the farmers, that they reap their fields still green, the harvest bearing little grain and fewer seeds for sowing.

But the people eat better than they have in months, and Jacopo eats with them.

Further north, he comes upon the blackened ruins of a village, men lying in dried pools of blood, and women with their clothes torn off, their stomachs opened. He's told that the Swabian, Schwanhals, has a contract from

Cardinal da Parma against the commune of Topomagro, and that this is the path of his army on its way toward the town. Yet he continues on until, one morning, he climbs a steep hill and finds a shepherd sitting at the top, peering out across the backs of his scattered flock toward a vista of flat hills and a valley with a river.

At the end of this valley are a series of shallow gorges, where a town slopes to the sea. "What town is that?" he asks, sure that the other must have heard his approach.

But the man swings round, surprised, then nods a greeting, muttering, "Topomagro." And it's only then that 298

Jacopo notices, on the far side of the valley, the tents and pennants of the encamped army.

^ *f* *p Tuccio parleys with Wolf Schwanhals

Tuccio rode through the Porta del Colombo, still bemused by his position. Perhaps it was the great Guelph flag flapping on the Torre del Colombo, or the pennants whipping back and forth above the gates, or the uniformed militia that lined both sides of the Via della Lana - but whatever might be the cause, he now felt less at ease with his position on the war council than he had at any time since his appointment. For no sooner had his term expired as a Prior than he'd found himself elected by the new Signoria as one of "God's Eight Good Men", the council chosen to organise the town's resistance to Wolf

Schwanhals. He rode out across the causeway above the rocky gullies abutting the eastern walls. He heard the clink of arms and harness from the company behind, and glanced at his companions - among them, Francesco Morelli and Agnolo del Leone - then squinted through the sunlight at the army on the plain.

It looked to be between two and three thousand strong, with many horsemen and the huge dark skeletons of siege machines for smashing down their walls. He saw the riders coming slowly through the haze, and wondered once again at his usefulness in dealing with such men. They would know him for what he plainly was - a merchant and a trader, a man of money, not of war. So was it really wise for the Signoria to have chosen him to confront this condottiere, this Swabian, whose advance from the south had provided clear and vivid proof of his barbaric nature? What they really needed were the services of some kindred monster. But none of proven mettle had been able to respond in time. So, their champions were men like

Tuccio and old Agnolo del Leone - God's Eight Good Men - to fight the swords and axes of the German with abacus and ledger. For him they would be eight fat moneybags to slit wide open.

y Yet they'd worked their hearts out in the last few weeks, these moneybags. The calling in of debts to the commune, the tax levies, the forced loans, the arm-twisting and bitterness, and in such straitened times...no, it had not been easy, perhaps as brutal in its way as any military campaign. How the Signoria had fought itself, and then the notaries, not to mention that great stumbling block, the Council of the People, two hundred strong, and every one opposed on principle to new taxes and forced loans.

And God knew how many friends he'd lost amongst the merchants hardest hit. Not that he himself had stinted.

No, for once he'd run the risk of future impositions, and made quite public the massive levies that he'd paid. As had Agnolo and the others. So that was what they were indeed - fat moneybags, full to the tune of thirty thousand florins, offering themselves to the condottiere.

He reined nearer to Agnolo, who stared staight ahead at the approaching riders. "I'm still not confident," he muttered through the clatter of the hooves, "despite all our efforts."

"Oh, Tuccio, you never are," smiled the Gonfaloniere, eyes crinkled up against the sun. "And I've never seen you less confident than just before you make a killing."

"Perhaps," Tuccio frowned, "but I don't like that word killing. tAfter all, we're dealing with soldiers, not merchants."

"I'm not so sure." Agnolo raised his voice above the noise of the horses. "Remember, these aren't warriors in the old sense. They're mercenaries out to make a profit.

Something like ourselves. Give them money and they're happy."

"Well, if this condottiere's a merchant in disguise, then he's not going to want to damage the reputation of his business."

"What, by breaking his contract with the cardinal and accepting our offer?" Agnolo paused for an instant, then smiled. "He might just look on this exercise as establishing his true market value."

"Yes, and I wonder what he sees that value as being. If

Pope Clement's behind the cardinal..." But his words trailed away, since the riders were drawing nearer by the 302 second. Above the dust of their progress, Tuccio could make out their standard, a white swan breathing fire from its beak like a dragon. If this were merely a parley, then he would have been loathe to meet them in battle, for they thundered down the road on huge armoured horses, riding the dust like a white, roiling cloud, each man a mythical beast brought to life - metal bear, steel boar, gleaming swan - as if they came, not from the tents on the plain, but out of some crack in the air, from a world as crude as it was resplendent. Nor did they slacken their pace, but seemed to move faster the nearer they came, so that Tuccio had a sudden vision of that party riding straight through them, leaving arms, hands, heads in the wake of their axes, never pausing, never slowing, but flying right on to the town. And for a moment, as he slowed to a standstill, he tensed for the blow, felt the leap of his heart, only to find himself still on his horse, cloaked in white dust, with hard metal faces before him. The men at his back were coughing softly, while the horses of the mercenaries snorted and ducked their spiked heads. One of these riders, a fraction in front of the others, drew off his helm. Tuccio observed his great neck and knew who he was. The others, too, either took off their helms or flicked up their visors, revealing faces little softer than these blunt metal masks.

"Baron Schwanhals?" said Agnolo straight off, addressing the man who appeared to be their leader. "That is correct," he replied in a Tuscan clotted with consonants.

"I am Agnolo del Leone, Gonfaloniere of Topomagro. And this is Tuccio di Piero Landucci, elected spokesman of the council - "

"Yes, yes, very pleased to make your acquaintance." The condottiere's smile was brisk and impatient. His horse gave a snort of contempt. "But my men are eager for this campaign, and I'm no diplomat. So let's get to the point, shall we?"

Even the usually resilient Agnolo seemed taken aback. He stared at the man, as if groping for some form by which to continue.

"Well, gentlemen, if you don't know what the point is - " And he made to turn away.

"Presumably the point is money," said Tuccio quickly, and sensed the unease of the soldiers behind him. "There's no enmity between us, Baron. Why else would you march against us?"

"Now that's much better. Directness is easier." Then he shifted his gaze on his rubber neck from one man to the next among them. "So then, what is your offer?" 304

Agnolo glanced edgily from Tuccio to Francesco, then back to Wolf Schwanhals. "We'd thought that perhaps fifteen thousand florins, with the saving you'd make in men and arms - "

But he was interrupted by a sudden uproar as the baron threw back his head and laughed, eliciting yet further guffaws from his knights.

"And we thought to give you free passage through the commune, with provisions to last for a week," he persisted, succeeding only in provoking more outbursts of mirth.

At last, when the laughter had finally died, Schwanhals levelled a solemn gaze on the old Gonfaloniere. "I'd thought you might have been serious. But I see that you're wasting our time. So, really, there's nothing more to say..."

Again, Agnolo glanced at the others, turning back to the mercenary as if at some secret signal between them.

"Well, we were prepared to go as high as - and this includes safe access to the town and up to a month's provisioning - as high as twenty thousand - " But this time the guffaws exploded before he'd even finished, leaving him red-faced and puffing with humiliation. "Really, old man," said the condottiere, wiping his eyes.

"It would have been better not to have bothered. My men are eager to get paid and move on." Then he looked at

Francesco and Tuccio behind him, voice edged with anger.

"Why should I break a contract, signed with my good name, for so little advantage over what the cardinal's already offered?"

"Wait then!" urged Tuccio, holding up his hand and taking counsel with God's Eight Good Men, cajoling and remonstrating, until further offers were made - twenty- five thousand, twenty-seven with one month's provisions - each eliciting less mirth and more huddled discussion amongst the mercenaries.

"Name your price then," cried Tuccio in frustration, attempting to force some commitment. "Perhaps we can meet it."

"I put no price on the breaking of contracts," announced the baron with a smile.

Tuccio glared, but said only, "Thirty thousand. We can offer no more. Either accept it or attack us. It's all that we have."

This time there was no laughter at all, not even a smile, but only a hushed and lengthy debate. Finally Schwanhals turned to the burghers. "Thirty thousand," he demanded, "with unlimited provisions and access to the town."

God's Eight Good Men now muttered and squabbled, until Agnolo poked up his head and said firmly, "Thirty thousand with six weeks' provisions, and access to the town for no more than twenty men at a time."

Wolf Schwanhals gazed slowly round at his captains, raising his eyebrows.

* * * 307

The cardinal hears bad news and Corvo confronts the cook

On the evening after the Eight Good Men had parleyed with

Wolf Schwanhals, the plains to the north of the cardinal's palace seemed bathed in green light. The trees which, all winter, had risen from the fields like huge frozen bloodstreams now rustled in the warm dusk breeze.

Beneath their leaves, a pair of oxen in ornamental yokes came straining down two pathways, their bright gilt harness tinkling in the air, while their crimson caparisons and red felt hats gave them the look of

Spanish cardinals. Nostrils steaming, shoulders working, each heaved at its towline as Rollo's barge slid down the canal like a big toy palazzo. Banners bearing the

Madonna, Saint Margaret and Saint Lucy fluttered at its sides, while a carven Christopher, larger than a man, seemed to rise out of the water with the bow on his back.

Lanterns glowed on the afterdeck, and the smoky smells of cooking meats mingled with soft music, for Rollo never travelled light.

The last rays of the sun lit the cabin's slatted window, where a group of silent deacons sat perched on narrow chairs. The cardinal lolled upon a throne of cushions, face tiger-striped with shadows. "Dim those lights," he muttered, and a deacon scurried out, for Rollo was nervous tonight, alternating between elation and anxiety as he awaited news of Topomagro. He placed his wine on a low table and peered through the shutters, but there was 308 only the stillness of the failing twilight. He turned to face the doorway of his private chamber, from which Tozzo was emerging in a rich crimson gown, stepping from the dark like Rollo's own stretched bones. The cope, which trailed upon the floor when Rollo wore it, barely reached the jester's knees, and he slid about the room with slow, disjointed strides, like some parody of holy ritual. He could have had him whipped. Yet now, from a hidden inner pocket, the clown produced a string of objects, each hurled into the air before he drew forth another. There was a golden sun with an open mouth, a glittering orb, a carven sheaf of wheat, a bishop's mitre, a garnet-crusted sword, the Ghibelline eagle and the lion of the Guelphs, all wrought in miniature, all shining in the light. And as he watched them spin in their swift circle, propelled, not by a jester's dextrous fingers, but by a cardinal robed in all his power, towering almost to the ceiling, he realised that Tozzo was paying tribute to his triumph.

He felt a sudden lump form in his throat, and unexpected tears in his eyes. For a moment, as he watched this mute performance, he bathed in pure pleasure. Then the barge came to a standstill.

He heard footsteps on the gangway, the sound of voices on the afterdeck, then a man he knew from his palace guard was ushered in. Rollo leaned a little forward, felt his heart beat faster. This was it - the news of Topomagro's downfall. Yet the man looked solemn, almost unwilling to approach. Meanwhile, Tozzo caught each golden object in his pocket, listening on one leg like some ungainly crane, while the deacons angled forward in their chairs, eyes bulging with the effort, as if they might read the messenger's lips. There was the man's muttered voice, the deliquescent patterns of reflected torchlight on the ceiling, then the unmistakable phrases, "the condottiere", "bought off", "by the commune", and the cardinal's face aghast. "Bought off?" he cried, skin sweating^ sheen of watery lights. The messenger, uneasy, faced the silent room. "Not a single blow was struck."

Then the jester disappeared, though no-one noticed in the din of protestations, until one turned, and then another, as the whole room slowly sensed his presence at their backs, where, by some actor's trick he'd somehow hitched himself up off the floor in Rollo's doorway, a cardinal in crimson samite hanging by the neck.

Rollo uttered an animal snarl. "Too far, Tozzo. This time too far." Then he beckoned the guards who stood at the entrance. "Since he likes to get out of his depth, we'll throw the fool overboard." And they came bustling through, tearing the jester down from his perch and dragging him out to the deck. The cardinal swayed to his feet, upsetting his wine, lunging after them to see how

Tozzo wriggled as they flung him at the water. For a moment he almost reclined on the surface, his robe flowing out like a bright red lily, till suddenly this mute - who'd climbed curtains, walls, the very air - went 310 scrabbling in panic at the indifferent foam and was gone with a gurgle.

When the cardinal was away, the servants became masters of his palace. While some revelled in this freedom, others saw it as their mission to ferret out those miscreants who took advantage of his absence. One such crusader was Strappo the cook. Not that this cramped

Brother Corvo's style, or that of several others on the kitchen staff. For here they were - Corvo, Fiducia and

Speranza - reeling after dinner by the blazing oven.

Strappo had gone with one of the swineherds to examine a sick boar that he'd been fattening for a banquet, and was not expected back for some time. Meanwhile, Corvo had conscripted some bottles from the cellar, until, tired of wine, they'd opened a Jeroboam of aqua vitae. Now they sprawled as near to the oven as they could - having devoured a whole hare between them - and stared into the dying fire as if cajoling divinations from the embers.

Fiducia started chuckling, and tumbled off her stool.

"Ooh, I feel so light, like I could swirl up to the ceiling." She waved a hand before her eyes and watched her twirling fingers, as if they carried her aloft.

"It's not the aqua vitae," said Speranza. "It's this grease of Naso's. It makes you feel light-headed." "The drink, the oil," he said softly. "They don't make you feel any way at all. They just allow it."

Fiducia made no effort to get up off the floor, but simply flopped against the stones. "If I was the cardinal," she smiled, "I'd drink my cellars dry within the week." Then she gazed down, frowning at the flagstones. "I'd make a mess of my religion."

"Well, if wine's the blood of Christ then it's a holy thing to do." Brother Corvo raised the jeroboam like a monstrance in the air. "And aqua vitae is the Holy Spirit."

"Oh, Naso, you say the wickedest things," Speranza giggled, and the ointment on her pale skin glistened in the blaze. "Such wine must be blessed by a priest."

"I am your priest, Speranza, and the wine is blessed by me." He made a ragged cross in the air. "The Church says mortify the flesh and glorify the soul, yet it does nothing but deny the flesh. Wine, herbs and voluptuousness - these lay bare the spirit through subversion of the body."

"Well then, Naso, I want to bare my soul." And Speranza stretched toward him, while Fiducia, cackling, drained her cup. 'The body is a fortress with five portals," he continued, paying her no mind, "each leading down a separate pathway. Only when we have besieged that fortress, torn down the walls and made the pathways one will we find the single spirit that resides within."

She reached inside his spattered tunic and gripped his narrow pizzle. "Is this the way, Naso?" she said softly, as he took a great mouthful of the fiery liquor, chuckling all the while, at the very moment that the cook came through the door.

Strappo didn't waste a second, stumping down between the benches, bellowing, "I've got you now, you lechers!" He pulled a cleaver off the wall without pausing in his stride, coming straight for Brother Corvo. "Trouble,"

Strappo cried, "nothing but trouble. I knew it the minute

I set eyes on you," while Corvo slipped out of Speranza's grip, drawing a blade from under his tunic as he darted round the fire to the far side of the oven. "Well, Naso,

I'll give it to you now." Fiducia scrambled to her feet, and Speranza tried to grab the cook's thick arm, but he flung her aside and bustled forward. He snatched a brand from the fire, rushing at the scullion with the cleaver raised, the flame held out before him. But Corvo stood his ground, spitting like a cat, showering the cook with aqua vitae. The brand flared blue, and Strappo shouted as flames snaked up his sleeve. He jerked his arm away, but Corvo was already brandishing the Jeroboam, basting the cook with brandy till his clothes ignited. He twirled before the oven like a fat blue flame, then rolled along the floor. "Like roasted pig," snapped Corvo, taking hold of both the women, while the cook writhed, squealing, and they reeled into the starry night out through the rear door.

* * * In which Jacopo comes to Topomagro

It's after two nights of sleeping out on the hills that

Jacopo comes down to Topomagro. He wends his way up the dusty south road, approaching the squalid camps that have infested the ravines beneath the walls since the vagrants' expulsion from the town. The warm sun, the green hills at his back, the towers, domes and campanili all induce him to ignore the pauper encampments and march on, regardless. The tents of the army are still pitched to the east, and he has seen the parley on the plain, and heard of the peace between Schwanhals and the commune.

The condottiere is now a guest of the Priors, who have given him a lavish reception to honour the truce.

Jacopo smiles at the thought of this feast, and Scimmi stirs in her pouch, one paw emerging, her small claws extended. He nuzzles her neck with his fingers, which she grips softly and then releases, beginning to purr. If he didn't have Scimmi... then he glances behind him at the low green hills, sheep dotting their summits like clover.

He thinks back to his time as a shepherd, then shakes his head clear of the memory. He seems to be suffering a plague of such memories - scraping salt in Hyeres, the circus in Sicily, even those wormy conversations in Kaffa with Lapo Tromba - as if so much travelling and so many strangers meant peopling his world with phantoms. Then there are thoughts which he cannot resist, yet regrets when they come, like his friendship with Laura and the games with her children, and how it might all have turned out if they'd reached port together. But such thoughts are now pointless, so he puts them quickly aside. He thinks often too of Fra Lippo, chuckling over the friar's cheap miracles, and his talent for turning junk into wonders and then into cash. The man was a rogue, and indeed, if he'd eaten the cat he wouldn't have scrupled to open his gizzard. Yet, as time has gone by, he's come to regard him with humour, not anger, and even to view his techniques and speeches as possible sidelines of his own. Perhaps Topomagro, compared with the poorer lands to the south, might be the place to test his new skills.

He nears the Porta Santa Maria, where there's a great clamouring of peasants and merchants, paupers and soldiers, all crowded together in a yammering melee.

Jacopo has heard that, with their replenished granaries and the greater certainty of peace and order, the Priors have eased the restrictions on entry to the town, thus creating false hopes in the hearts of those paupers expelled during winter. He walks past the lean-tos lining the road, squeezing his way through the tight crush of bodies, caressing a purse or two as he goes.

A peasant with a barrow full of turnips and a merchant on a tall, covered cart are allowed to pass through. The throng surges forward, carrying with it a small group of beggars who stand before the gatekeepers. Their spokesman, a large-framed man with a tumour on his neck, mutters something to the nearest of the six soldiers. "Surely you've heard the answer already," the gateman replies, raising his voice as if to inform whole tribes of the deaf. "Unless you can find a land-holding patron to vouch for you, you can't get in without showing evidence of business in the city."

One of the beggars holds out his bowl like a business card. "Go on, get off!" shouts the soldier, at which the start to protest, only to be shoved aside by the rest of the crowd, which brays its derision. There's a general pushing and jostling, out of which, almost to his surprise, Jacopo emerges before the guards. "Well?" the soldier demands with a grunt of incredulity. But Jacopo has not thought this through. "Well - " he says, but the guard looks him insolently up and down, saying, "You don't look like you've got any business in town, or anywhere else for that matter." Then he makes to thrust him aside, stopped only by a sudden cry from above.

"Ser Jacopo!" says the voice, "Ser Jacopo!"

All peer up at the wall's castellations, where the soldiery share the parapet with well-attired merchants and a smattering of clerics, each apparently hoping to usher some acquaintance through the fray.

"Ser Jacopo, you're here at last." And this time Jacopo catches sight of the speaker, as does everybody else, since he's leaning down over the parapet, shouting at the gatekeepers, "No, no, signori, do not turn that man away. He's a most important visitor to the city," at which the big soldier, looking nonplussed, glances sideways at Jacopo. "Wait," cries the voice, "I'll come down," and it's no time at all before

Fra Lippo appears at the gate, throwing wide his arms, murmuring, "Ser Jacopo," as he totters forward to embrace him.

The friar looks well, as if he's been eating heartily for quite a while, and Jacopo must do his utmost to restrain his amazement as Lippo grips his shoulders and says,

"You're looking thin, Ser Jacopo. All that fasting, I suppose."

"Ah, yes, indeed," he replies, feeling his way. "It's been quite ... well... rigorous."

"Excuse me, friar," interposes the soldier, "but what is this man's business..." Then he swings round on Jacopo.

"Just what is your business in Topomagro?"

"Well - "

"He's on a pilgrimage," Lippo answers, as if stunned by the soldier's ignorance. "Surely you can see that." And when the man stares at him blankly, he continues: "He's Ser Jacopo Passero, one-time notary to the Signoria of Arezzo, now one of the most powerful merchants in

Civitavecchia. He owns any number of the ships used by men like, well...Tuccio di Piero Landucci, to name just one . "

The soldier stares at the ragged man, dumbfounded.

"I was given this penance of fasting and pilgrimage by the bishop," says Jacopo, head bowed as if in shame. "If you require further explanation than this, then you'll simply have to turn me away. For I would never sully a lady's name."

"Turn you away? Ser Jacopo Passero turned away? Just think of the Priors' reaction." And Fra Lippo gives an incredulous giggle. "Of course they wouldn't turn you away."

He peers sharply at the gatekeepers, who shuffle uncertainly.

"Come, good sir," he continues, throwing an arm round

Jacopo's shoulder and drawing him on to the gateway. "The bishop's penance might be a hard one, yet it would surely not preclude your staying with our brethren at the Abbey

San Francesco. We have old times to discuss... and new ones as well." 319

And with one quick, rueful glance at Scimmi in her pouch, he gives Jacopo a grin, leading him on past the guards at the gate and into the town.

* * * Please see print copy for article

WIDDERSHINS

PART TWO: A SPORT OF KINGS Guido Cupa takes the fleece in the carders' secret chapel

"Ceppo Castracani," announces Geri Pinza, running his finger down the register of misdemeanours, "for brawling with your fellow carders, five grossi."

"I wouldn't brawl if they didn't provoke me," Ceppo protests, an accusatory hand flung out in the direction y of the others seated round the big table.

There are bleatings, catcalls and neighings. Fists, cups, the hilts of knives pound the table. "Come on, Ceppo, pay up!" "No welching, Ceppo!" "Five grossi, there's a good lad!" "Increase the fine, Geri!" But Ceppo shakes his head and digs the silver coins out of his purse, then reaches across the table to drop them in the box before the shop's three ancients. Alfredo Crostadura, playing the court tipstaff, leads him solemnly back to his seat amongst a madhouse of shouts and whistles. Geri looks up sternly.

"Nofri Pasquini," he says slowly. "For insulting the good name of the cappella, seven grossi."

"Seven grossi?" cries Nofri, wrenching his arm from

Alfredo's grip. "I appeal against the severity of the fine." A riot of banging and bleating greets his protest. "Pay up, for Christ's sake!" "We're getting thirsty, Nofri!"

Like a stout black ram with his curly hair and beard,

Geri observes the scene impassively, then simply nods his head. Nofri turns to face Ciuto di Dino and the other two ancients, all seated on Geri's right.

"I have never insulted the good name of the cappella," he cries, arms flung theatrically wide. y

"It's said you told a pair of dyers from the shop of

Bernardo Zoppo that you could outdrink any dyer in

Topomagro." There is a chorus of agreement round the table, but Geri folds his arms and proceeds, unmoved.

"You were also said to add that this was more than you could say for most of your fellow carders."

Now all hell breaks loose, cries of outrage, howlings, death threats. Geri looks on, poker-faced, watching Nofri

Pasquini and thinking of their tiny cappella. What else can they do but keep it as small and secret as possible, forbidden as they are to join a guild, to hold office, even to form a poor man's confraternity? So here is their little chapel of St Blaise, which no man may insult with impunity, whether in jest or in his cups.

"I was talking about the carders of Siena, where I worked for a few years. You should know that, Geri." Yet he doesn't look at Geri Pinza, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ancients, who are conferring together in a huddle. At last, Ciuto di Dino pokes up his head: "It is the considered opinion of this appeals tribunal, Nofri, that you pay the fine with a surcharge of one grosso for taking up the court's time." He bangs his hand down on the table amidst cheering and guffaws. "Eight grossi."

Muttering, Nofri flings the coins into the box, returning to his seat through volleys of backslapping, as Geri sits solemnly at the head of the table and calculates how much their treasury must now contain. Yes, almost fifty grossi, just about enough for a decent sort of banquet after Guido's contribution. He knows how important all this is, these rough feasts, the laughter, and above all? the ceremony - perhaps it is their only means of strength. But^ first and foremost", there is Guido's taking of the fleece. He stands and nods to Alfredo

Crostadura, who walks slowly round the table till he's at young Guido's side. For the first time that afternoon, silence falls upon the carders, and Geri can briefly hear the hubbub from the ground floor of the tavern down below. Then Ciuto di Dino is placing the fleece in his arms, and Alfredo is leading the boy toward him.

Now the silence is shattered once more by hoots and bleating. "Make it a black one, Geri!" "He likes black ewes!" "Especially when they belong to Signor Tuccio!"

But Geri raises his arms with their burden of wool, and the room goes quiet once again. They're speaking of Lucia, one of Tuccio di Piero Landucci's black slaves. He

looks at Guido Cupa as he saunters toward him. The boy is

certainly well made - pale, handsome, robust, one of

those who looks like a noble even in carder's clogs. He's popular, too, for one so junior, and his grin keeps

flashing through his attempted severity as he passes each muttered jibe. Perhaps, as they say, the slave is

besotted, though it's more likely carders' gossip.

y With the fleece draped over his forearms, Geri holds out

both his hands. The tipstaff urges the boy forward, until

he stands before the fleece and allows his own hands to be taken. Geri looks steadily into his eyes. "Guido

Cupa," he intones, "it has been decided by those most

senior in this cappella that you are now ready to take

the fleece." Yet he makes no effort to release the boy.

"But, firstly, you must strengthen that allegiance you

swore when you first entered our membership. Will you do so r

"I will," says Guido slowly, while Geri holds both his

hands and his eyes, almost daring him to smile at these

echoes of marriage. Indeed, it is the cappella he will wed.

"Do you swear never to reveal the nature of this

brotherhood to anyone outside it, nor to betray any of

its members in word or deed, nor to accept less for your work than others at your level in the shed? Do you swear by Saint Blaise, who was torn apart by the metal teeth of combs and cards which are the tools of our labour?"

"I swear by Saint Blaise."

"Do you swear to support all actions agreed to by your brothers to improve the lot of the cappella, to do all you can to subvert those injunctions of merchants and foremen which will harm your brothers, and to do your y best to support any brother unfairly dismissed from the shed? Do you swear by Saint Blaise, who was torn apart by the metal teeth of combs and cards which are the tools of our labour?"

"I swear by Saint Blaise."

And so the litany proceeds, while the carders look on dreamily, some remembering when they too took the fleece, some considering Guido and the beautiful Lucia, all growing thirsty and thinking of the feast to follow. At last they hear Geri saying, "And do you swear to join your brothers in whatever brawls they meet, to outdrink the members of any other craft in Topomagro, and to fuck whatever women, fair or foul, that you are able? Do you so swear?"

And amid a sudden shouting uproar, Guido smiles and cries, "I swear!" while Geri drapes the fleece across his shoulders, and old Ciuto di Dino puts a card with teeth of metal in each hand. Alfredo opens the cupboard at Geri's back, producing a jug of wine, with which he charges - in fact, barely moistens - the vessels of all present. They cheer and toast the boy, draining their cups at a sip. Then Geri lifts one eyebrow, so that

Guido, suddenly remembering, digs three days' pay out of his purse and drops it in the box, while the others lumber forward to make some minor contribution of their own. y

"Alfredo, Luca, Guccio," cries Geri. "Food and drink for the feast." And he hands the box to Alfredo, who sweeps down the stairs to the tavern, followed by Luca and

Guccio and half-a-dozen others.

Later, when the ground floor of the tavern has grown quiet, the carders are still roistering. To be sure, some lie sprawled in corners, and Nofri Pasquini - king of the drinkers - has flung his head back on his chair as if he'd bring down the ceiling with his snoring. Remnants of roast mutton are dispersed about the room like some puzzle to be reconstructed; and a pair of cats have leapt up on the table, where chicken bones, picked clean, lie scattered. Guido, who had sat for a time in honour with the ancients, now sits among the younger carders, the fleece packed safely away. "You know," says Luca Peroni, "when we went down to get the food - "

"Thank you, Luca," puts in Guido, and everybody laughs, since Luca has already mentioned this point several times .

"No, really," he insists, "you should have seen the withered-up old bleater they tried to sell us as mutton. y And the chickens? Talk about boilers. I'd rather try to eat old Ciuto."

"So what did you do?"

"Oh, well," says Luca, lifting himself up a little in his chair, "Alfredo just told them they could save stuff like that for the dyers. He said we weren't washers or scourers, that carders ate the finest cuts, and that we'd go somewhere else if they couldn't do any better. So the butcher says, as meek and mild as anything, 'Oh, I didn't realise you were carders. We get a lot of teazlers here.'

Then Alfredo says, 'Yeah, I hear they like it raw,' and the butcher scurries off to find the best cuts in the shop."

"Raw," laughs Ceppo Castracani, "that's a good one." He turns a sly eye toward Guido. "Not like Guido. He likes his mutton well done." "That's right," smirks another, "very well done. Sort of charred."

"Black, you might say."

Guido once again attempts to make light of the reference to Lucia, but this time his smile seems cool with boredom or fatigue, and silence falls upon the group.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Alfredo

Crostadura pokes his thin, bent beak at Geri Pinza's ear:

"How much longer do you think we can afford these feasts,

Geri? Some of their objections to the fines seemed only half playful."

"And yet they found the money." Geri watches the figure that his finger's tracing from a pool of wine. "They sense as well as we do that the feasts are necessary."

"Perhaps. But necessary or not, you can't get water when the well is dry." His long mouth turns downward in a frown. "Our money buys a little less each month. And these taxes for the loans the Priors borrowed to bribe the condottiere...To support the feast, some men have to starve."

"I know that too, Alfredo." "Even the fishermen complain," the man is muttering, "as if the famine extended to the sea itself. And rumour says the Red Company's not far north of here."

"Yes, yes...we've talked about it many times." Geri places a hand on his companion's arm. "Things will have to change. But the only way for us to play our part is for the cappella to keep going as it is."

y "Well, that's true enough. But it won't keep going unless something happens fast."

Geri sighs and rolls his eyes up at the ceiling.

"Something will happen, Alfredo," he says slowly.

"Believe me, something will."

The bells of compline are ringing in the squat campanile of Santa Maria delle Ruote. The small, slim figure in the cloak of coarse romagnolo slips like a wraith across the old bridge toward the dyers' quarter, the face a shadow beneath the rough wool, so that only the eyes gleam whitely in the darkness. The five great gates have long been shut, enclosing the town in its nightly prison, while the curfew, so much more strictly enforced since the trouble with the nobles, has forbidden trespass on the streets since vespers. Lucia pulls the fabric tight about her, and darts into the gloom beneath the dyers' shops. If she were caught by the watch she would be birched, and Tuccio, embarrassed by her actions, would punish her as well. So why is she taking such a risk, sneaking from her master's house, abandoning her duties, roaming through forbidden streets? Why, of course, for

Guido Cupa. The very mention of his name, the merest thought of him, makes something in her stomach twist and turn, her heart leap up, as if it were some creature not her own that would escape into the air. He is so beautiful with his loose black curls and pearly skin, so hard and lithe, that she wants, even now, in the middle of these fearsome streets, to wind about his body like a cat.

Yet she is unhappy. Where, before, he made a show of the dangers he would face to meet her - sometimes at the merchant's house itself - now it's always she who takes the risks, who has to make the effort to find times that will suit him. She peers round her at the houses, which rise out of the street like crooked teeth, the gaps between them exhaling the breath of foul latrines and rotting food. The Borgo Santa Caterina is not a quarter that she's used to; and whereas, once, he tried to keep his poverty concealed as much as possible, now he doesn't seem to care. It's not that he is cruel or brutal, just indifferent - which, in its way, is worse. She hurries on toward the carding shed, convinced that nothing seems to work for her at present. She has made an image of his heart from wax, thinking of him as she melted it. She has killed one of Tuccio's doves, and touched its blood to

Guido's chest as she embraced him. Now she's paid more than she can sensibly afford for a consecrated host - stolen from a church and inscribed with her name - which she must somehow have him eat. But her faith in such methods has been shaken, since he continues to grow distant.

At last she reaches the long, low carding shed beside the y river. She skirts the wet stairways where the scouring and the washing of the wool is done, passes the spare stretching frames against the wooden walls, and enters the far courtyard where Guido's hut abuts the shed's south-eastern end. It's little more than a lean-to in the mud-rutted yard, a place where the poorest, least senior of the carders can be on hand each morning to unlock the doors for his fellow-workers. She raps the dry planks, fumbles nervously beneath her robes at the small cloth pouch that holds the wafer, then knocks again. For a moment she panics, as the thought occurs to her that

Guido might be there with someone else. Then the door jerks open, and he stands there, peering at her in surprise. "Lucia!" he says, and then, as if remembering, "Yes, you said you'd come."

"Well, give me a warmer greeting than that," she laughs, falling over the threshold and surprising his arms into catching her. "I've braved the watch for you." "Oh, what a heart!" he says, while she wets his face with kisses. "I've never known a braver - " but she stops him with her mouth, wriggling her fingers up beneath his shirt until he leaps back, laughing, "Stop it, Lucia, your hands are cold."

"But not my heart." She looks at him, smiling a rueful, almost accusatory smile, until he comes forward once again, as if to take her in his arms, but taking off her y cloak instead.

"No, not that," he says softly, touching his lips to her neck, so that she shivers a little, and holds him once again. Slowly he draws away, watching as she stands there in her clogs and long, loose shift. He looks at her dark throat and arms, smiling to himself.

"What?" she asks.

"Oh, nothing," he just smiles.

"What?" she demands, arms akimbo, play-acting now - the role she knows he likes.

"Well, I'm not really sure how brave it is for you to dodge the watch."

"You do it, then." "But in the night, Lucia, when there isn't any moon.

Blink and close your mouth, and hup! you're gone. Open up again, and there we have the moon and two big stars." She smiles a long soft smile. "There, just like now, you see. "

"Well, you should talk," she says, running a finger up his arm. "You could vanish too, in the right situation."

She traces the light blue vein at his biceps. "Say, in y marble."

"Flatterer," he grins, pulling away to close the door, then skipping past her to light a second candle from the one already lit upon the table.

"You're always slipping away from me!" she cries, smiling broadly, as if to say that it's a joke, yet thrusting her hands behind her back to hide their trembling.

"Slipping away from you?"

"Yes," she ventures. "It's got so hard to see you. And when I do, you always... slip away. Just like then."

"Ooooh..." and he comes toward her, holding out his arms.

"No, I mean it, Guido." She pushes him from her.

"Now who's trying to slip away?" "No, I'm not. I just want you to tell me if you're sick of me."

"Sick of you?" He makes to hold her once again, then stops, letting his arms drop to his sides. He watches her for a moment, as if weighing something up, and slowly shakes his head. "No, I'm not sick of you. It's just that everything's so hard now." He leans back against the y table. "I'm up so early every morning to let the carders in. Then I work all day till late...but I just don't get enough any more. Maybe if I didn't have to rent the combs. Everybody's trying to get a bit of extra money."

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders, then glances at her sidelong. "That master of yours really wants his pound of flesh."

She comes over to him, squeezes him tight. "I'm sorry," she says, voice muffled in his shoulder. "Tuccio's such an old miser."

Then he pulls away and grins. "Well...he treats you well enough."

"Just see what'd happen if he found I wasn't sleeping in the kitchen with Ambra and the others."

"Oh," and he traces the outline of her fingers with his own, "you make me feel like a coward. I'll come to you next time, like we've done before, in the cellar of the storehouse."

"It's too risky, too easy to get caught." He couldn't have chosen a less inviting option. "It's better in the cloisters of Santa Maria dei Poveri."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." He suddenly seems bored with the whole thing. "We wouldn't want to be caught by y Signor Tuccio." Then he looks up quickly. "Or that daughter of his, the one who told you off when I was there to get those bales the other day...Gaia, isn't it? She seems like a real bitch."

"Guido," she chuckles, surprised by his vehemence. "She hasn't done anything to you."

"No, but I hate the ones like her. You'd think they were the Mother of God the way they look down on everybody else, sitting up in their loggias on their fat arses." He stares Lucia in the eyes, his perfect features twisted in a perfect sneer. "I mean it, I can't stand them."

"I know," she laughs, then seeing a chance to gain his favour, adds, "And guess what Ambra heard at Gaia's door."

"What?" he says, half smiling. And she goes on to tell him as much as the slave had heard of Baldassare's pledge to sacrifice his falcon.

Guido listens closely while she speaks, and when she's finished, brushes her cheek and grins. "There, a real bitch like I said. Just wait till the others hear your story."

"No, Guido," she protests. "If it gets back we'll all be punished." y

"What, is my brave one getting scared?"

"Don't be stupid, Guido."

And seeing the fear in her eyes, he holds her close and whispers in her ear, "I won't tell, not if you don't want me to," then runs his hands beneath her cotton shift, along her smooth, slim thighs, while she blows both candles out and throws the shift onto the floor.

"Not fair, Lucia. Open your eyes, I can't see you." Then she bites him on the chest - "Ow! Not your mouth, your eyes - " as she tears away his shirt and falls across him on the table, pressing her mouth to his. "Mmmpf...what's that, Lucia?"

"A piece of bread that I was chewing," she hisses in his ear. "Now eat it up like a good little boy."

Ff> fl* ?B In which Brother Corvo finds disciples

Dusk seeped faintly from the leaves. Brother Corvo sailed through the tunnelled dark with Speranza and Fiducia in his wake, and a light breeze brushed the upper branches like the passing of a spirit. Speranza smiled and Fiducia whimpered faintly, while Corvo, with his greasy smock and hair, seemed like a pauper wizard marching through the night. He had gathered purslane, the roots and berries of y black nightshade, foxglove leaves and other weeds he had not named, as both the women - apprentices attentive to his every move - watched him crush and sift and macerate his gleanings by a brook. Some he kept entire, and others cast aside but for a few small fragments, then mixed them with a paste he kept within a pouch beneath his robes. At his urging, they had licked the bitter mixture from his fingers, while he himself had sucked away the final smearings. And now the forest came and went in long, slow breaths, swirling by like centuries of silent rain, then fixing in a moment as a leaf, a stone, a twisted root of startling clarity. At times the air above them seemed to roar like some great force, yet when they looked, there were the steady branches and the frozen sky.

Brother Corvo said nothing as they went, but hummed a tuneless monotone, till the first pale stars that shone amongst the leaves now seemed to shimmer with his voice.

They came into a clearing, and at its centre was a tree.

The women reeled beneath it, staring up into its branches where strange white flowers bloomed. And as they watched, they saw that these weren't blossoms but countless pallid hands, punctured through their centre like the hands of

Christ, each holding in its palm a drop of blood. Then - though it was difficult to say just when - he thrust his knife into the tree-trunk's side, and after seconds long enough for darkness to have fallen, they saw the hands close tight as if they withered. Then Corvo urged them on. y

At last they left the blackness of the forest for the dark of moonless fields. Here, everything seemed devastation, for the condottiere's foof-soldiers had received their pay and left his service, scavenging the countryside in roaming bands. Crops trodden underfoot, dead animals, a smouldering barn, rose in silhouette beside the road. Speranza and Fiducia hesitated, huddled at the centre of the open fields; but Corvo marched right on, and they made haste to follow. At one point, they came upon a copse of trees as bulky as a castle in the dark. He stopped there as if listening, then darted off into the night, only to return some minutes later wearing a Minorite's long cowl.

"Was - " began Speranza - "was it a dead friar there,

Naso?" He turned slowly, brushing soil from the rough garment. "Not Naso, Speranza. Corvo," he said softly, though somehow she felt frightened. "Brother Corvo."

"Brother Corvo?" Fiducia spluttered - the beginning of a giggle - but now he was approaching, and with each step he seemed to loom until his shadowed face leaned over them. Fiducia gave a queasy smile and said no more.

Speranza took her arm, while Corvo turned and hurried on y as if he had some destination, his habit billowing behind him.

Some time later, as a huge full moon began to lift its broken face above the meadows, Speranza panted at his back: "Hey, Nas...uh, Brother Corvo...have you...taken vows then?" He wheeled round briefly, and she thought she saw a sickle grin within the shadows of the hood. Yet he swung back to the road in silence, and she added, "Or is this some kind of trick? A false identity."

"A false identity?" replied the back, rippling with the moving air. "I was Naso, now I'm Corvo. Neither one is false."

She scurried to catch up, her head now swimming soporifically behind her. "But have you really taken holy orders?" 'Holy?" Brother Corvo chuckled. "Oh no, there's nothing holy about them."

"What do you mean?" puffed Fiducia, striving to keep pace.

"I mean," said Corvo, "that Holy Mother Church is just like any other mother. Part saint, part whore, part fool, and her goodness springs mostly from her moments of self- y forgetfulness."

"Now that's the old Naso," laughed Speranza, then glanced up sharply. "That is, I mean - "

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean," and as if in punishment, he made his stride still longer. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that sounded muffled up in thoughts. "The Church teaches of an endless war for power between good and evil, light and dark, God and Lucifer.

The Cathars, reviled and now destroyed, spoke more coherently of that conflict as a struggle between spirit and gross matter, God and Antigod. Unfortunately, neither

Church nor Catharists are right, for both have chosen the wrong side."

Speranza stared at him as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. "You mean," she said, half in horror and half in fascination, "to choose the Devil?" 'In a sense," he chuckled, slowing his pace a little and gazing sideways down at her. "For weren't the Cathars right to deem the spirit good and matter evil, since all our ills, including death itself, arise from that gross stuff? It is the God of the Jews and the Church, this maker and taker of the flesh, who creates the world's evil. It is His adversary - the Cathar's Antigod - who is

Lord of goodness and the spirit. Mother Church, who thinks she worships the face of God upon His Cross, has got it wrong. Indeed, she worships His arse, and your

Devil is quite other than you think."

"I don't understand you," sighed Fiducia, stifling a yawn.

"No," Speranza added. "When we were working for the cardinal, you said that we should take the ways of the flesh."

"Urge them to exhaustion," leered Fiducia.

"I did," he grinned, moving along more spryly now. "And I still do. The only means to overcome the carnal is to know it, and revile the God who took its form. For we are tied inexorably to the flesh, and only through its bewilderment will we find the true path to the spirit and the Antigod." He stopped abruptly, neither talking nor moving, but staring at the moon above the fields. Speranza felt awhirl with all these words and herbs. She gazed at

Brother Corvo, whose head seemed lost within a pockmarked lunar halo. She had never known another like him.

"Come on," he said, and marched off once again, as if he led some grand crusade as yet inchoate, to a place still unrevealed. His muddled conscripts stumbled after him y through field and woodland, coppice and embankment, until they came upon a broken, harsh terrain where men had quarried deep for metal. The moon reflected green in pools among the rocks, covering the ditches and the stony outcrops with a patina of verdigris. The ground was littered with a scree of stones over which they picked their way, the women's minds still swimming with his words, when suddenly a double roaring erupted from a ditch below the road. Two great black dogs, eyes whiter than the moon, maws red and torn with snarls, came leaping up the rocks toward them.

"Bulfas! Moloch!" cried a high, thin voice. "Get here, you mongrels!"

The creatures skittered sideways at its sound, their growling turned to whines of protest. Yet "here" was almost where they stood, for a figure was emerging from that pit of shadow, face illumined by the moonlight. And if Speranza could have thrust it back she would have done so, since, for a moment, it seemed to her that she was witnessing some imp come up from Hell. It was the face of a grotesque crone - as pocked and pallid as the moon - with a cobweb of deep lines cast over it, where two black spiders sat. She watched those eyes as they scuttled toward Corvo, while the dogs came cringing round. He, however, said nothing for some moments, gazing downward at the ditch with a small abstracted smile. The woman knotted and reknotted the opening of a sack which she y thrust beneath her clothes, while Speranza followed

Corvo's gaze into the pit, her heart now knocking at her ribs. For deep within that dark the shadows coalesced, and there she seemed to see the outline of a woman, her outspread legs unravelling a cord that twisted round the neck of her dead baby. Neither moved, yet suddenly the shadows shifted once again, becoming formless as they'd been. Then the voice of Corvo said, "Your name... what is it?"

"Maria," the woman answered, bending a little beneath his gaze, then said no more.

"Maria," he repeated, savouring the name, "would you join us? We are looking for the spirit's kingdom." And when she cocked an ear, yet still said nothing, added, "We can always find a place for someone of your skills."

She smiled coquettishly, then said, "Why not? I've naught else planned," so that Speranza shivered and Fiducia 343 coughed till Corvo waved them on. And the dogs - tall Bulfas and black Moloch - raced out into the night as if at his command.

It was at dusk a few days later that they came upon the group of wanderers. There were perhaps twenty of them seated in a clearing, some muttering to each other, most y staring at the ground or air before them, as if into some private desolation. All were thin, a number barely more than skull and limbs and ribcage with a tissue of grey skin, so that it seemed to Speranza that some graveyard might have been dug up there, and its whispering citizens made to mimic life by the play of leaves and light. There was a sluggish stirring in their ranks, however, when

Corvo strode amongst them, followed by Maria and the two great dogs. He waited at the centre of the clearing, where Bulfas sniffed and Moloch snarled till the bones flinched back, afraid. He lowered his hood, and his long, lank hair streamed down his shoulders. "Look at you, all lying there like corpses!" he bellowed, so that both the beasts, excited by his tone, began to bark and bite the air. "What has brought you to this hopelessness?" he asked the nearest, softening his tone as they cringed back from the dogs. At first there was no response at all, and he leant a little closer down amongst them, saying, "I mean it. Why such misery when the Kingdom is at hand?" Again there were the rows of lowered eyes, until someone at the far edge of the crowd said, "Kingdom?" looking round at his companions for support. "What bloody kingdom? Unless you call getting chased from every town iri Tuscany a kingdom. You'd be hopeless too if you were poor like us."

"Poor?" roared Brother Corvo, and again the dogs went mad. "It's the poverty of our thoughts that makes us poor." And suddenly a brilliant stone appeared in his hand, some kind of ruby or carnelian of enormous size, palmed at the cardinal's palace. "There is a kingdom in the west where I plucked this up out of a stream."

The setting sun blazed in its heart, and the crowd seemed dumbfounded at the sight. "What?" said one. "What kingdom?"

"The Kingdom of the Spirit," he murmured, turning the stone so it glinted in the light. " A kingdom whose riches are as great as the wealth that we hold in us. And

I want you to follow me there out of this deathly place."

"Of the spirit?" said the one who'd spoken first, his voice, though cowed, betraying the first signs of mockery. "Yes, the spirit," Corvo cried, hurling the jewel away into the air - or at least they saw the glitter of its path toward the sun - while Bulfas chased beneath it. "A place of fleshly plenitude where the loaves are white as clouds, and the sea so full of food that no-one swims there, but simply lies upon the water and rides the backs of fish." There were chuckles from the crowd, and hints of interest kindled in their eyes. "This is no story.

There is a kingdom to the west - I have been there y numerous times - where the pigs are so glutted with fine truffles that they turn their snouts up at an apple. And as for the people... their hearts are so generous that they make their gnocchi out of butter and tie their vines with sausage." His audience now had dreamy looks upon their faces, attempting to remember or imagine how these foods might taste. "It is a place worth seeking. And I would lead you there to help you find such riches."

And as he spoke this final word he held his hand aloft, displaying the very jewel he'd cast away. The crowd gasped its amazement.

"I - I've been to the west," said the sceptic at the rear, a little hesitant. "There are farmers there, like elsewhere, to chase you off their lands."

"No-one will dare chase you now!" cried Corvo in a voice that brooked no doubt. "Who would deny the riches of the earth to the people of the earth? Come, take up sticks

and staffs along the way and follow me."

For a moment he stood before them, watching carefully as

they muttered - "He might be right," and "Well, it can't

do any harm," and "What have we got to lose?" - then

swung upon his heel, almost with contempt, marching off

toward the west with Maria, Moloch, the returning Bulfas, Speranza and Fiducia, until the crowd lurched stiffly to y their feet in threes and fours to trail along behind.

As luck would have it, after they had travelled for some time beneath the trees, following the road into the hills, they came upon an isolated farmhouse in the midst of sloping fields. The light had all but vanished from the sky, and a purple-coloured dusk remained to show them a small orchard, where the apples appeared only as pale globes beneath the leaves. Higher in the hills there were the bushy silhouettes of olive trees and a slope of leafy vines, while, down below the road, and cutting close beside the lamplit windows of the farmhouse, was a field of hemp.

"Well, come on, don't be afraid," laughed Brother Corvo, pointing at the apples with his stave. "The earth was made to feed its people." And, as if they'd lacked for nothing else but a command, the crowd surged forward over the stone fence and down into the orchard, where they fell like locusts on the trees. At first they were a little circumspect, each taking an apple, maybe two, muttering and munching as if in secret. But soon they grew more bold, clambering in the treetops, shaking the branches, laughing and shouting to each other in the dark, while Corvo cried, "Go on, eat up, there's lots for all." Then lights - a trinity of lanterns - came drifting y from the farmhouse. First one and then another of the crowd began to notice, till each stopped eating, some half turning to the road as if to run. But Corvo burst out laughing. "Go on, keep eating. No man of God prohibits eating to the hungry." Yet they paused, the apples' broken globes still in their hands, the unchewed fragments in their mouths, as the farmer and his sons came bustling up. He was a wealthy peasant by the look of him, who'd somehow saved enough to buy his own proud plot of land.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he bellowed, almost weeping in his rage, his two stout sons beside him. "Get on your way or I'll run you through." He was brandishing a pitchfork, while one son held a flail and the other a long scythe. "Quick, piss off!" he spat, jabbing his fork toward them.

Most flinched back, but Corvo and Maria stood their ground. "Do you really think you own this earth?" said Corvo. Or the air, or stars above it?" Then he turned to address the others, while the peasant's mouth hung open. "Only the true God owns the earth, and you are God's deserving poor." But the farmer, recovering from his shock, lunged forward with the pitchfork, bellowing

"You'll see who owns this land alright," the long robe torn by muddy tines as Corvo dodged aside, grasping the weapon with his unencumbered hand and bringing his stave down on the old man's shoulder. One son attacked him with y the scythe, but Moloch fell upon him, while Bulfas hurtled headlong at the farmer. And this was like a signal to the cowering crowd, one of whom - the sceptic of some time before - came charging down against the son who held the flail, a great stone in his hands. This boy, who'd seemed paralysed till then, turned on his heels and ran, making for the house, while the father too now scrambled to his feet and hobbled back the way he'd come, with Bulfas on his tail. Only the youth with the scythe, torn about by Moloch and battered with a club, failed to get up. The mob, inured to defeat, began to giggle with amazement, and then to laugh, and finally to cheer, delighted with the taste of conquest. Yet Brother Corvo did not allow this luxury for long, gathering up the farmer's fallen torch and leading, them toward the hemp field.

Here, without delay, he flung the burning thing among the plants, where the fire smouldered briefly, while he told his people of those mysteries he felt them ready to receive. He spoke to them of good and evil, light and dark, of the spirit and the flesh. He spoke of God and Antigod, YHWH and Lucifer, as the fire built behind him, eating at the hemp and crackling as it ate. Shadowed by the blaze, unmindful of its heat, he battered at their ears with complicated words. "There is a dark star coming," he cried, his people breathing the blue smoke, their shapes confused with burning plants. "A thing devoid of matter, invisible to our gross eyes. And like that star that heralded the birth of God as flesh, it rises from the east." Some began to spin, some danced, all drunk on hemp and hunger. And it seemed that others danced among them in the shadows - dark, groping molemen whose eyes streamed tears, the vipers of the field that writhed upon their tails, or weevil-demons fleeing from the leaves, sucking at the air with elongated snouts and wringing all their hands.

"Yet this dark star brings not the reign of YHWH, creato of gross matter, but the destruction of our fleshly selves in vast confusion, where all of uncorrupted faith may find perfection of their spirit." He raised his arms toward the heavens, while redolent hemp-devils blazed in ranks behind him. "And then the God of Light will be at hand, and a sun of pure spirit will rise out of the night. "

They did not listen to his words, much less comprehend them, yet seemed to breathe them in, while some went ambling to the farmhouse - where cries were heard - and others wandered off among the flames, then wandered back again. Embers fell like incandescent rain, smoking in the hair of Speranza and Fiducia, and Maria tumbled on the grass with Bulfas and black Moloch. And then the group came up out of the farmhouse, carrying with them a great tun of wine which they mounted upon stones, till some sprawled, gulping, all but drowned beneath its spigot, and Corvo stood there, smiling.

* * * Jacopo Passero meets Lucia

"He says that I've let water leak into the verjuice.

Every day it's a new complaint. I say that it's the rotten barrel, but he won't hear of it."

"Husbands, Genoveva, they get mean and finicky when thei blood's full of bile."

y "Maybe I should let a little water into his liver,"

giggled Genoveva, craning over the heads of the crowd to watch Fra Lippo's preparations.

But Jacopo'd heard all he needed, sinking further into

the shadows of his cloak and raked hat as he sauntered

through the crowd. Over the hubbub of voices, the market resounded to the ringing of a bell.

"The discomfort, Gugli. I can hardly sleep." The small,

squeaky voice belied the bulk of the speaker, who

completely blocked the friar from Jacopo's view. "Tell

people and they're apt to laugh, but there's nothing worse than wind." And, indeed, the air behind him was

witness to his suffering.

"I know, Gianni, I know."

"Sometimes I feel as if my guts might burst." "I think I know the prayer to help you, Gianni. I'll write it out on a square of vellum, which you must wear about you. It's a prayer to Saint Elizabeth, who is said to have suffered cruelly from the curse. I've heard it never fails."

And in his gratitude, Gianni once again gave fulsome proof of his complaint, so that Jacopo was forced to hurry on, while the bell clanged through the air and Fra y Lippo's voice was heard to cry, "Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord. Hear all you sinners the word of the

Lord." He stopped behind a pair of servants, one a stocky

Mongolian girl in a cotton smock, the other a lean

African. This latter, in a shapeless, humble dress, made

Jacopo falter with her loveliness.

"Those charms that you and Nicoletta recommended," the black girl was saying, "they've worked no better than my own. At least, as far as I can see."

"Give it time, Lucia. You're too impatient. These things don't happen overnight."

"But if anything, he's grown more distant." Her voice was soft and slightly husky. "There's something going on which he won't talk about. With him and the other carders, I mean." "Well," said her companion, "at least it's not another girl."

"No, but - here, wait, he's starting." And, in fact, apparently satisfied with the size of the crowd, Fra

Lippo had begun to preach, already waving his arms and bobbing on his toes. Yet Jacopo heard nothing - he'd heard it all before - and was, instead, preoccupied with the black girl's words. Clearly there was someone she y sought to win with love-charms, and who was fool enough to keep himself immune. Well, who could tell? Such charms might miss their mark and find another. But before he scurried off, there was something that he wanted from her, some little token. So, without a moment's hesitation, he slipped a hand amongst the bags of fruit that lay behind her feet. Yet he found nothing of interest but a tiny slip of paper, which he filched in almost the same movement with which he drew his knife to cut, from her string bracelet, a dangling, cheap, straw trinket.

And then he'd gone, slipping from the rear of the crowd while Lippo roared. He disappeared in a laneway, where he shrugged off cloak and hat to reveal black hose and brilliant doublet, darting round a circuit of dark alleys, then waiting behind the friar in the wings of the marketplace. Is this not the time," the man was crying, "for all to seek repentance? Now that stories reach us of a plague that's in the south..." But Jacopo paid no attention to his words, thinking of what he himself would say. He went back over what he'd heard amongst the crowd, of old

Alfreda with her warts and loneliness, of Gianni with his wind, of Lucia...yes, Lucia, and the fool who wouldn't want her.

y Now Lippo was reminding them that the surest form of

repentance was donation, just before he introduced him.

Yes, here it was, the formula: "And now, good citizens of

Topomagro, as a sign of God's benevolence amidst the

thunder of His wrath, I present to you my assistant,

Jacopo Passero, blessed by the Lord with special vision."

And without further ado, Jacopo came bowling on in tights and harlequin doublet, plucking from its sconce one of

the torches that Fra Lippo had used to light his sermon despite the summer sun. He thrust it into his mouth, like he'd learnt as a jongleur, then hauled it out and held it up for all to see, expelling puffs of smoke. "I used to eat fire," he cried, "till I felt it singe my soul."

He put it back into its bracket, drawing a greased sword from his belt. "Many times I swallowed swords like this."

He stabbed the blade straight down his throat, then slid it carefully out. "But I soon saw that I was piercing

Christ within me." And even as he sheathed the weapon, he came careening forward - with cartwheels, twists and somersaults - down into the crowd, where he bounced upon his toes, proclaiming, "And how I used to tumble, till I knew that I was tumbling straight to Hell."

Having obtained their attention, he proceeded to tell them a lurid version of his travels with Alfredo the Great, full of textbook sins, and culminating in a dark night of the soul before an unresponsive audience in Syracuse. He recounted his topple from the tightrope, his y long unconsciousness, the following black melancholy, and the dream wherein the angel Michael held a fiery sword against his brow. "And from that moment there were things that I could see, things beyond my understanding, yet undeniably true." Here, he felt a moment's hesitation, for it was now that Lippo's written speech ran dry, forcing him to improvise. He stared amongst his audience, as if seeking further words, peering deep into each face, until his eyes lit on an ancient woman, skin puckered up with warts. "I see Alfreda, with her painful rheumatism, bedevilled by some quack who treats her warts with human excrement and the bodies of dead ringworms." He looked with infinite compassion on her verrucose amazement.

"But, Alfreda, let me tell you now, the remedy is prayer."

"Oh, Alfreda," cried her crony, "how could he have known?" But Jacopo s gaze had shifted from the blushing gargoyle, seeking those whose conversations he remembered. There were numerous others whom he chose, some cringing as his eyes drew near them, some beaming to attract his interest. To one of the last he said, "And you, Gianni, poor sufferer from colic," having no trouble in discovering the massive man, round whom a vacant moat had formed. "Distress yourself no longer, for Saint

Elizabeth, earnestly besought, will undoubtedly dispel y your anguish."

And now his eyes raked past the gaping mouths, seeking out the morning's final choice. At last he fixed upon the one he had avoided until now, the negro slave, Lucia. She seemed innocent of his attention, turning to mutter something to her companion, until he said, "And you,

Lucia, who make charms to fire the heart of a lover.

Surely the charm of your beauty is enough to fire any heart." Then he turned his eyes aside and said no more, wishing no-one else to know the object of his words. Nor did Lucia - or the Tartar slave beside her - give anything away, except perhaps for the bemused and dazzling smile that briefly lit her face. But he knew nothing of it, dragging his eyes toward the middle distance, as he intoned the final litany about the blessings of the Lord. Yet, while Lippo made impassioned pleas for donations worthy of the Saviour, and even as some among the crowd came forward, Jacopo's gaze kept slipping to that place where she had been, hoping not to lose her.

There were those who stared at him in silent awe, and one or two who came across to ask just how he'd done it. "I am the ignorant vessel of the Lord," he said. "You must ask Him." He turned distractedly away, as if the one he'd sought had gone, then found her face before him.

y "How did you know?" she asked him softly, a smile, both quizzical and radiant, playing at her lips.

"I just did," he said, drawing her away from those who, moments before, had asked him the same question. "I don't know how. It simply... happens."

"But about the charms, they..." Then she stopped, and his heart leapt at her black eyes, the quivering confusion of her smile, her dark, lithe body.

"Come on, hurry," said the other girl, "we've stopped too long already. Monna Beatrice will be angry." And in the absence of any further answer to her questions, she let herself be drawn away.

"But I meant that," he called behind her, grinning,

"...what I said about your beauty," though she was vanishing amongst the crowd already. He unfolded the slip of paper that he'd stolen from her bag, finding it to be nothing more than a receipt to one

Tuccio di Piero Landucci, presumably her master. If he was as wealthy as the possession of such a handsome slave suggested, then his house should not be hard to find.

Jacopo felt the small straw charm between his fingers, and the conviction grew within him - perhaps he really had the gift of vision - that he would meet her once again. y

Jacopo waited, amongst the shadows of the late afternoon, in the portico opposite Tuccio's house. He watched its dark facade as if his famous second sight might penetrate its stones. Yet not once did he catch a glimpse of the one he was looking for. Business associates and clients of her master, workmen, servants, women he assumed were members of the family, all came and went through the archways of the shop or the deeply recessed street-door.

But he saw no sign of the slave, Lucia. Indeed, he was somewhat puzzled by his own reactions. When he wasn't actually thinking about her, she seemed to hover at the edge of thought, and when he tried to ignore her, even shoo her away, she kept drifting back, part angel, part mosquito. He'd held out for no more than a day, and now, much to his own amazement and the amusement of Fra Lippo, was keeping vigil at the portal of this African slave as if she were a princess. He waited while the shadows lengthened, and felt increasingly a fool. Even Scimmi deserted him, skulking off into a nearby alley. Then, as annoyance turned slowly to dejection, Lucia emerged out of the street-door, carrying a pair of bags, one made of cloth and one of straw. She was wearing a cotton shift, identical to the one he'd seen her wearing at the markets, though perhaps a little longer. He felt a curious relief, as if he y hadn't been quite sure till now that she was real. He wanted to run across and touch her. Instead, he waited till she'd crossed the street, entering the lane that led toward the Via della Lana, then left the portico and followed her.

"Scimmi," he hissed, making kissing noises with his lips.

But the cat gave him a level look and would not budge out of the alley. So, shrugging, he too ducked down the laneway, casting back a single glance across his shoulder, and seeing the creature dart behind him through the shadows.

Lucia walked quickly down the Via della Lana, almost as far as the podesta's palazzo, then crossed into the Via di Calimala, heading south toward the bread shops and the butcheries. Once or twice she swung abruptly on her heel, but Jacopo was nothing if not agile, and easily ducked aside. At last, just when he caught sight of the carcase of an ox hung out above the street, and guessed that she was making for the butcher's, she vanished in a laneway full of bread shops, cakes and bakeries. He darted after

her as quickly as he could, peering first into the depths

of one dim shop and then another. The air inside the lane

was redolent of baking bread, like the innards of an

oven, and for a moment he just stood there, snuffling up

the warmth. Then he saw her in a shop across the street. Her bags already full of loaves, she was on the verge of

leaving; and he scuttled quickly over, strolling past the

door as she came out. Then: a near collision, bags

jostled, loaves spilt upon the stones but for his quick

thinking. "I'm sorry," he's saying. "No, no," she shrugs, a little briskly, hugging the load to her.

"Really, let me - " a dawning smile - "but isn't it?...yes, Lucia."

"You remember...with the friar, preaching in the markets." He extends a tentative hand. "Here, let me..."

"No, that's alright." She looks at him, and smiles with slow astonishment. "Yes, of course I remember. You told me...Well, you look different with those clothes."

He stood back a little, raising an eyebrow and making a slight bow. She looked at him more closely, observing his wry smile and agile movements. He wasn't handsome, as her Guido was, but somehow interesting to look at, since each feature - the corners of his eyes and lips, his narrow nose, his eyebrows - seemed twisted slightly upwards, as if mischief played behind them. His face was like a statue's in her master's study, one of the old gods with little wings that sprouted from his feet.

"Here, I found this," he said abruptly, holding up the small straw charm he'd taken from her bracelet. "It was on the ground where we'd been speaking. I thought it might be yours."

"Oh, yes," she laughed, holding up the string of dangling gewgaws on her wrist. "I noticed it was gone."

"Then wasn't it lucky that I met you...it is Lucia, isn't it...your name?" She was smiling as she nodded. "I had a feeling I might meet you."

"Well, you would, wouldn't you?"

"1 - " For a moment he wasn't quite sure what she meant, then, "Oh, yes, of course, I suppose I would."

Taking the charm from his fingers, she laughed once more, her tongue glistening pink behind her dark lips, and he stood for an instant, silent. "Well, it was funny meeting you like this." She turned toward the laneway's entrance. "I suppose I'd better go.

The cook throws tantrums if I get back late."

"Yes," he said, half turning with her, just as a streak of silver flew upward from the stones and landed on his

shoulder. "Oh, Scimmi," he grumbled, while she sat there nonchalantly, licking at her paws.

y "Is that yours?" Lucia cried, staring at the cat.

"Yes." He looked embarrassed. "I'm beginning to wish I'd never taught her that trick. Now she does it all the time."

"What did you say her name was?" And when he repeated it,

she reached her hand out tentatively to touch Scimmi's head. "She's pretty." Scimmi took the tribute with aplomb, not pausing in her licking. "But I'd better go," and she turned toward the Via di Calimala.

Jacopo started after her, taking Scimmi from his shoulder and bundling her into the pouch, but she slipped back out, trotting at his feet like the ghost of some small dog.

"It was strange the other day," he began, "when I saw you in the crowd. Quite different from the others." 'What do you mean?" She turned, inhaling the cool air still heavy with the scent of fresh-baked bread, as if they'd brought the bakery with them.

"Well, usually I see someone and get a sense of who they are. But with you it was confusing."

"Why?"

y "Because I saw both you and an image of you. But the two were completely different."

"Different?" she said doubtfully, shaking her head. "How

could they be different?"

"I - I don't want to sound ill-mannered." He looked at

her uncertainly, and she urged him to continue. "But I

saw you as you are, a slave in slave's clothing. Yet the

image that came into my mind was altogether altered. You

remained a beautiful woman, but no longer a slave. You

wore taffeta and samite, gold jewellery at your throat -

the finest gowns and gems, like some great lady."

At this, Lucia laughed out loud. "I'm not that, as you

can see," she said at last, "so perhaps your skill deceives you." Then she fell silent, as if distracted by her thoughts. "Unless... but it's too stupid."

"What?" "Well, it's just that when I was little - from as far back as I remember, till about when I was five - I lived with a rich family in Boccaperta. I hardly remember anything about it, except that the mistress of the house was very nice. I can't recall any other children, and I think she treated me like a daughter - can you imagine, me, the colour that I am, the daughter of some wealthy merchant?" Jacopo seemed on the point of protest, so she y hurried on, regardless. "At least, I remember her as very kind, and having my hair plaited by the maids, and wearing gowns just like you said, of taffeta and silk. But they were the dresses of a child..."

She paused, breathing quickly, as if she ran instead of walking.

"Yes," he said softly, after waiting for her to continue with the story. "But what happened? I mean, to change the situation."

"Oh, she died, I think. At least, I didn't see her any more. And he started getting rid of everything. The husband, I mean. The clothes, the furniture, the house all went, and I went with them too. He sold me to a woman who lived just off the Via Gentili, near San Stefano."

"And what happened then?" "With Monna Carla Petriboni?' Lucia was staring straight ahead into the shadow-blackened streets. "Well, she didn't spoil her servants. And she had no need for further daughters, so she worked me hard, had her housekeeper give me lessons in how slaves should behave, yet still found fault with me. So it wasn't long before I found myself sold cheap to Signor Tuccio. But it's the sort of story you'll have heard before, and it's hardly worth talking about, and...besides, we're there." y

It was true. They were almost at the corner of the laneway opposite her house. "I think what I saw was real," he blurted, as they both stood puffing, at a standstill.

"What? You mean me as a little girl?"

"No," he said slowly, glancing down into her eyes. "I think I saw you as you really are, in yourself, a beautiful, proud woman who - "

"Oh, that's stupid," she said harshly, and then softening her tone: "I've got to go." But he was staring wild-eyed at the air before him, holding out his hand as if to fend off demons.

"I see something!" he hissed, rubbing at his eyes.

"Quick! Shelter in this doorway!" And he bustled her - bags, loaves, memories, all - into the portal of a narrow house.

"What? What is it that you see?" she breathed, at the very moment that she felt his arms encircle her, his lips upon her face.

"Why, that I would kiss you." And he began to do so once again, but she wriggled free, catching his chest with a y pointed elbow.

"Don't you dare," she said, and stepped into the street. "You are a bold one, aren't you?"

"Only where the prize is worth it. I - " But his eloquence - for this really had the makings of a noble speech - was interrupted by Scimmi's leaping on his shoulder. "Oh, for God's sake, cat!" he cried, which made

Lucia stay to smile at his frustration. "Yes, Lucia, wait, just for a moment." He was struggling to unhook the creature from his doublet. "When - " but the girl was heading for the house - "when can I see you, Lucia?" She kept walking, saying nothing.

"Lucia, when?"

She swung round quickly, a finger to her lips. "I'm supposed to be going to the cobbler's. Tomorrow morning, on the Via Meraviglia." The carders discover an unexpected ally

Now Topomagro broils under hot summer days, the longest of the year. It is the Feast of John the Baptist, and the members of the Arte della Lana march beneath the saint's broad banner with its image of the lamb, his emblem and the guild's. It is a time when day has triumphed over night, when labourer and merchant may put aside their differences to celebrate their common goals in commerce y and religion. Yet the carders from Tuccio di Piero

Landucci's workshops have chosen to remain aloof. Far from the guild's celebrations, they are seated outside their favourite tavern, in the little piazza near Santa

Caterina delle Ruote. Most of them are here - Geri Pinza,

Alfredo Crostadura, Ciuto di Dino, Ceppo Castracani,

Nofri Pasquini, and Guido himself, as well as numerous others - all staring glumly, determinedly, out into the square. Not much is being said at present, and through the silence at the table they can hear the distant sound of drums from the northern end of town. For why should they make merry with a guild which they can't join, yet which imposes its authority over everything they do?

Geri shakes his head and sips his wine. He watches the bonfires that have been lit on the piazza. Some are small, no more than cooking fires for the families gathered round them. Others are quite large, such as that round which a double circle is already dancing, widdershins and clockwise. Nearest to the river, on the 368 far side of the square, is one into whose flames a crowd hurls objects of ill-omen - a knife, a counterfeit coin, a broken spindle, papers of some kind. As he watches, a woman lifts a sack which seems to struggle in her hands, heaving it up into the fire where it howls amongst the flames. He frowns, trying to hear the rhymes which they are chanting, but the dancers' squeals conceal them. He is about to suggest that they might build a fire of their own, using the guildhall of the Arte della Lana for y kindling, when his words are interrupted by the arrival of some newcomers.

Those who can, find places at the only vacant table, while the rest plonk down upon a bench against the wall, or simply stand about. The carders mumble to each other, and Geri nods grimly at Alfredo, surveying this new group. Its members seem perhaps a little older than themselves. Their clothes look better too, yet remain the clothes of workingmen, and some have hands that bear bright stains like multi-coloured birthmarks.

"Dyers," mutters Ceppo Castracani to his neighbour. "What are they doing here?"

Meanwhile, Bernardo Zoppo, the owner of the dye shop they all work for, and a relatively wealthy man, is ordering jugs of wine. Geri and Alfredo nod circumspectly, and

Bernardo makes them a constrained little bow, while the other dyers avert their eyes toward the fires on the square.

"I thought you'd all be at the guild's procession," suggests Geri, and Alfredo raises his eyebrows at Bernardo.

"Yeah," says Ceppo, already in his cups, and perhaps speaking louder than intended. "What's wrong with the taverns in the Borgo Santa Maria?"

The dyers glance in irritation at the question, and before Bernardo can give his answer, one says, "There's nothing wrong with them. You ought to try them sometime, if you can take strong drink, that is."

"Strong drink?" sneers Nofri Pasquini. "Any carder's worth three dyers as far as drink's concerned."

"That's right," adds Ceppo, while the dyers snarl their protests. "Why don't you go back to the Borgo Santa Mari and drink that piss you call wine?"

"Ceppo..." Geri cautions, but he's too late even now, since some of the dyers have already started forward.

"Ha, you carders!" one laughs nastily. "You couldn't pay for more than water coloured with a bit of canaiolo." Just so, says another, a large man whose fingers bear the scarlet stains of grana. "These carders can't drink water and walk straight."

"Piss off to the Borgo Santa Maria!" shouts Ceppo, rising fr'om the table, while Luca and Nofri follow suit.

"Yeah," sniggers Guido, "look at his hands, just like a slaughterman's. Go back and stick some pigs." y

At this, the dyers hurtle forward, clashing with the carders at the doorway of the tavern. "We'll show you what carders are made of," "Think you can insult us dyers, eh?" "Bastards!" "Cretins!" they growl as they push and shove amongst the benches. Hands grapple, fists fly, heads butt, while those not yet involved jump up onto their feet, shouting their support. The scuffle gains momentum while the families stop to watch, until a dyer tumbles back into the dancers' fire. And suddenly the tangled men are separate once again, the dyers on one side of the fire, seeing to their fellow, the carders on the other. The man seems fine, apart from a few singes, and they're up to start again. But it's now that Geri and

Bernardo jump into the fray, knives drawn, each facing their companions.

"So help me, I'll cut the first of you that moves," says

Geri to the carders. "Stand right there!" shouts Bernardo to the dyers, his elegant long dagger flashing with reflected flames.

"We're here to celebrate the feast day, not kill each other."

"Exactly," agrees Geri.

But Bernardo Zoppo hasn't finished yet. "We've stayed clear of the guild's procession to show our solidarity y against the lanaiuoli, not to fight with carders." He puffs out his chest and brandishes his blade. "And wouldn't they just love it, to see us fallen into drunken brawling?"

"He's right," says Geri, nodding to his carders. "You're undermining the whole notion of our being here."

"Go on," Bernardo urges, softening his tone, "embrace your brothers. They're not your enemies. They suffer from the same oppression as yourselves."

At first there's grumbling and conspicuous attention to their wounds, but gradually they sidle over, muttering together, finding places at each other's tables. And it isn't long before the wine begins to flow and the mumbling turns to laughter, as they recall, then re-enact

- still nursing cuts and bruises - the slapstick of the brawl. Yet Geri and Bernardo, now seated together at the table furthest from the door, seem far less sanguine. "I thought that you'd be marching with the merchants," says

Geri at last.

Bernardo runs his finger round his cup and glances up at him. "No, I'm sick of getting screwed. At least I can stop pretending that I like it."

y Geri ponders his wine, but doesn't drink. "But you do well out of your business. You could buy and sell the lot of us."

"Oh, I don't know...I do well enough, I suppose, though probably not nearly as well as you imagine. Expenses keep getting higher all the time." He looks out into the square, where the dancing has resumed, and then turns back to Geri. "It's just that I could be doing a lot better for all the work I do."

"But you're not powerless like us. You've got some influence."

"Well, I wish you'd tell the lanaiuoli." He shakes his head and laughs. "Don't kid yourself, Geri. I'm in the same boat you are. The dyers are kept out of the guild, yet they've got to obey every dot and comma of its statutes." "I know your house, Bernardo, and your workshops. You're a wealthy man by any standards."

"By any standards? Oh, come on, Geri. You work for Tuccio di Piero Landucci, don't you?"

"Well, I didn't mean like him." Geri frowns, peering at

Bernardo as if he were a sum that wouldn't quite add up.

Then a silence forms between them, tense with unvoiced thoughts.

"Look," the dyer sighs at last, "I'm better off than you are. Sure. But what a man like Tuccio does to his carders, he does to me as well. And not just him. All the rest of them - the members of the wool guild, the Guelph

Party, the Confraternity of Saint Mark. All those who keep the seats in the Palazzo dei Dieci warm for each other. Agnolo del Leone, Marco Martello, Bartolomeo

Chiaudano. They charge us, tax us, collect our rents, create the laws and keep us powerless. They've got it all sewn up."

Geri gives him a long, appraising stare. "I didn't know you felt that way as well."

"Well, you do now, Geri. I'm nearly going mad with it.

Just look at that master of yours. For years we've been fighting to break his monopoly on the import of dyes. And every time we start to get somewhere, what happens? He gets himself appointed consul of the Arte della Lana. His recent prices are going to bankrupt me."

"Yes," says Geri softly, nodding. Then he looks up slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Something's got to happen, hasn't it? Prices, taxes, rents... everything goes up and wages stay the same - "

"Well, wages aren't the issue," Bernardo puts in quickly. y "It's taxes - and duties, of course - that are the problem."

"Perhaps," says Geri doubtfully, "perhaps. I've been talking to the peasants in the Chiasso delle Bestie. They complain of the tolls on the produce from their plots outside the town. And the fishermen in the Borgo San

Pietro, too...they fret about the duties at the Porta del Mare, and the rents they have to pay to Agnolo del Leone . "

"To be sure, Geri, to be sure."

"These lanaiuoli." He reaches forward, taking hold upon the dyer's arm. "We could give them a shock, Bernardo.

Carders, peasants, fishermen...and now dyers. Instead of brawling like today, taking out our anger on each other, we could show them how we feel, make them see our strength. We aren't like Montagna and the others." "Yes," says Bernardo, looking edgily around the square.

"What happened to them...that wouldn't have to happen to us, you know." He leans forward, raising his eyebrows at the man. "They need us. They couldn't massacre the town."

He shakes him by the sleeve. "Just a single show of strength might be enough to make them listen."

"Yes," Bernardo mutters once again. "But really, it's y these loans that are the problem. Some say the Priors borrow big because they borrow from themselves... then have the commune pay them back at heavy interest."

"But what do you say, Bernardo? Would you act with us?

There are many who agree." But any answer to his question is interrupted by a sudden howling, as a large emaciated- looking dog, its back and tail ablaze, is chased across the square by a gang of shouting youths. The carder and the dyer watch in silence as they disappear down a laneway. Then Geri shakes his head and chuckles. "Every year it's the same. We must change things now, Bernardo."

He watches the dyer's puzzled frown as the howling dwindles under distant drums. "They must let us form guilds of our own and allow us places in the Signoria.

We'll force them if we have to. What do you say,

Bernardo?"

"Force them, Geri?" "Yes, of course. It's the only way they'd do it." And seeing his companion's perplexity, he makes himself relax a little, dampening the fire of his zeal. "I've spoken with carders in a number of the workshops, and with some of the peasants too. There's general agreement that we should organise a procession for the Feast of Saint Blaise, our patron saint. It's there we'll make our grievances known. And if they fail to acknowledge us, or worse, then we'll put the torch to some carding sheds, and perhaps even one or two palazzi." But he falls abruptly silent, then peers at the dyer and jabs a finger at his chest. "I'm trusting you, Bernardo. If any word of this leaks out - "

"Of course not, Geri. Don't insult me. I - "

"Then will you join with us or not?"

Bernardo turns and glances at the tables, where both carders and dyers, so recently eager to beat each other up, are now drinking and laughing together like the most natural of allies.

"Yes," he says slowly, nodding with conviction. "Yes,

Geri, I think we will."

* * * In which Brother Corvo builds a kingdom and Jacopo steals a gift

While the Red Company pillaged the farms to the north, and the dispersing troops of Wolf Schwanhals preyed on southern villages, Brother Corvo and his followers roame the countryside that summer like some weird scouting party for yet another company of freebooters. With the tall, gaunt form of Corvo striding at their head, they y prowled the flowering highways, taking food where they needed it, collecting tributes of meat and wine for

Corvo's Antigod, and gathering whole pharmacopoeias of herbs for medicinal and religious purposes. This rabble, at first fragmented and directionless, now drew together to become a congregation - almost, though not quite yet, the spirit kingdom of his preaching - attracting to its fold yet other aimless souls who roamed the roads in search of shelter. Under the tutelage of Brother Corvo, spurred by his rhetoric, emboldened by his violence, these vagabonds began to gain a sense of their own strength, to find within themselves a taste for power.

Across the green hillsides rumours spread of peasants murdered, blazing hemp fields, the butchered body of a wealthy landlord. Tales of desecrated churches and lonel villages beset by drunken mobs began to trail within their wake, at times preceding their arrival in some isolated place, though mostly they moved too fast for that. 378

Brother Corvo spoke to them of birthrights, disinheritance, the patrimony of the poor. He spoke of law as theft, and theft as restitution. He had them think how the inheritance willed to them by God had been swindled from their grasp by landlords, prelates, bakers, peasants - anyone, indeed, possessing more than they. And wasn't this anyone at all? He reminded them of how the bishops of Jehovah, Lord of the flesh, now lived in sinful luxury while so many lived as paupers. "And who y then are the children of the God of Light, whose Kingdom is at hand?" Then he would stand upon what ledge or stone or log he'd found to speak from, sweeping them with his gaze and brandishing his staff. "Why, you - the vagabonds, the outcasts, those lost to this corrupted world - you are the chosen of the Lord, none other." Such were his words, and such the effect of the herbs he gave them, that many saw the coming kingdom as he spoke. "The world of flesh and matter, of Jesus and Jehovah, will tear itself apart. The Antigod has little need of us, for such is His subtlety that His enemies destroy themselves.

Yet we may play our part." And throughout those balmy weeks, at lonely farm and hamlet, they did not shirk their duty.

For the most part, such depredations were blamed on soldiers, and not upon the Antigod or his minions. Of course, rumours slowly spread, yet with such wild and curious mutations that they found little credence in those places where the power to send forth troops resided. So Brother Corvo and his kingdom proceeded slowly westward, until at last, in early August, he led them over rolling hills and across a stubble plain, his staff held like a sorcerer's before him as they marched toward a town above the sea. There was no further west for them to go, and, without a moment's hesitation, he led them to the town's great eastern gate. Here, the guards refused them entry, yet Brother Corvo did not argue. Instead, he took them past the paupers who y sheltered near the wall, and tried his luck at the next gate to the north. The guards surveyed the tattered ranks of drabs and ruffians, the two great hounds and other mongrels that trailed along behind. They glanced at old

Maria with the primrose coronet upon her brow, and back once more at Corvo, saturnine and sallow with his tonsured, greasy hair and great hooked nose, then slowly shook their heads, reading the edicts of the Signoria that forbade entrance to all but those with established connections or contractual obligations to the commune.

Brother Corvo simply laughed, a laughter that infected all behind him, and that set the hounds to belling, until the guards placed nervous hands upon their swords and waved the crowd away.

Once again he did not argue, simply beckoning all to follow, his minions muttering their indignation as they wandered south toward the river, watched closely by a host of curious beggars who sheltered in the bare ravines. On a stony bank of the Ombronetto they chased away what vagrant gangs they found there, and took possession of their shelters. And here it was, beside the hissing, swirling waters, that they founded their first kingdom.

That night, while the full moon strangled in a knot of clouds, they held their sabbath. Brother Corvo and Maria took from their caches the herbs they had prepared.

Ointments, oils and unguents were rubbed into the skins of all beside that river. One among them had a wheezy set of bagpipes, another a broken drum, and they started up a music of exhausted cadences that tangled with the waters' purling, till the tired rhythms warmed into a heat, and then a fever and a madness, so that many of their number swirled in circles, or joined arms back to back, spinning till they fell. Powders, tinctures, infusions, inspissations - whatever forms most suited Corvo's purpose - had been cannily prepared. Henbane, foxglove, dragonroot, black nightshade, the roots of mandrake and the fruit of dwale, all mingled in the blood that night.

Some ate darnel mixed with thorn-apple, or the thickened juice of poppies, while others drank infusions of dark ergot. The dancers reeled, the drums were battered, the pipes unravelled their bleak tunes, till the guards upon the wall were peering from their parapet, and the vagrants shambled near.

Speranza felt a savage joy leap through her, as if it cut her heart. Then it seemed the night was breaking down, the sky itself - and not the clouds - fragmenting. The walls and turrets of the town lurched up like hellgates, and Fiducia lay beside her, dead, until she realised it was not Fiducia, but a stone that had somehow taken on her likeness. She saw Maria, her wrinkled, blotched old breasts and belly garlanded with flowers, while she rode astride a drunken youth who heaved as in his death- throes. Her head was spinning, and then - how long she could not say - she flew, wind streaming through her y hair, the stars aswirl about her. Here, beside her for an eyeblink, was a hag so vast that flesh rolled down her sides like cream spilled from a bucket, though she could remember no-one fat amongst them. Then Speranza felt the need to cling, since the sky was falling round her. She was sick, holding tight onto the stones beside the river, which roiled and curled with serpents, some twisting up the bank. But she turned and saw black Moloch writhing from a hole, dragging his dark coils behind him, while

Brother Corvo seemed to hover like a devil on the foam, his skin so pale it sweated quicksilver: and the moon, a spirit thing within the night, was glaring at her sidelong.

All was darkness at the Casa Morelli, and the night was silent, but for the thin skirling of some bagpipes. A silver-plated moon peeked round a rear corner of the house, illumining the window that should not be open. At 382 first this window was an empty shadow in the pallid masonry. Then a tiny face appeared, with thin, stiff whiskers and pointed ears. It turned this way and that, as if to check that there was nothing there, and then the cat's whole silhouette jumped up onto the sill. Next, like some peculiar birth, the head and shoulders of a man emerged out of the shadow, his hand swept up the cat, and he was leaping down the blank face of the moon without a sound, landing on the rooftiles of a lower storey. They picked their way, cat and man, across the coping, then down another wall onto another roofline. And so on, down they went, until they crouched above a rear courtyard, where, as luck would have it, a dog began to bark. The man, legs dangling from a gutter, leapt back onto his feet as the dog snarled just below him. He turned, surveyed the windows overhead, which yet remained in darkness; then, picking up the cat once more, he urged it down the knife-edged iron of the courtyard's fence, where it strolled at ease across each spear-tip, never faltering for a moment, while the dog went mad beneath it. At this, the man jumped down, bounded past the well, the sundial and the foaming dog, leapt up onto the water- trough, and just as the first light came on, vaulted the back fence.

"Got them, Scimmi," he said, as the cat dropped on his shoulder, and he took the gold necklace and the heavy golden earrings from his pouch, admiring their weight upon his palm. Then he spilt them back, bundling Scimmi down above them, and scuttled off into the curfewed silence of the town. "Come on, we're running late."

For tonight, as on other such infrequent nights, he was to meet the slave, Lucia. He dashed amongst the shadows, listening, one hand upon the pouch, where Scimmi squirmed on her golden nest and the earrings rattled under her.

All summer it had been the same, and even now, in August, things seemed little changed. He'd urge, nag, lie in

y wait, until at last, one night, she slipped out of the house to meet him. There were numerous places hidden from the curfew - the cloisters of the poor mens' hospice, the cemetery, even the dark rocks on the beach. For someone

- some carder friend of hers, he thought - had revealed a hidden breach beneath the walls, made there by those peasants who lived within the town. Indeed, this carder was his rival, he felt almost certain of it. At times he could have laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. He, Jacopo Passero, free spirit, the rival of a carder for a slave. Yet, at other times, it pained him badly. She gave her body, her laughter, but he could never lose the sense that she was holding something back; though once she'd said a name - this carder's name - with just that softness he could never find with her. Guido.

She had not said it since.

But why go on like this? It wasn't like him. He snuffled at the balmy air, the dark, warm breeze, quickening his pace. He was going to her now, in the small walled orchard off the cemetery of Santa Maria dei Poveri. The moon flooded the spaces of the town with light, the smell of night-blooms filled the air. She would have him, she would smile. What more could he possibly want? Her soul, perhaps? like he was God Himself. He laughed softly in the silence, which was broken only by the sound of distant pipes and the baying of some dogs.

He climbed the orchard wall, dropped down into the depths y behind the church, wondering if she waited. Scimmi leaped from the pouch as he hit the ground. He peered deep into the blackness that slid and rustled and smelt of oranges. Panic knotted in his gut. Lucia wasn't there, just the indolent sifting of shadows, the acid Spanish smell.

Then, like a spirit from the vaults beyond the gate, her cotton shift came drifting through the trees, worn only by the night. And then a smile, a chuckle, the soft touch of her hand.

"Did I give you a fright?"

"I thought you were a ghost," he murmured, while her arms flowed round him and her body pressed him with a most unghostly presence. Her lips brushed warm and dry against his mouth, then opened, moist, into his own, the scent and taste of, what?... of... bread, as she pushed the mouth-warm wafer with her tongue between his teeth. "Corpus Christi," she whispered, drawing back, while he chewed mechanically and swallowed.

"What - " he said, "what is it?"

"Just a piece of bread," she smiled, knowing that her charms had worked, yet all the more unsure of why they would not work with Guido. "A piece of bread that I was eating." y

"You're mad, Lucia," he cried, coming forward to hold her once again.

"Ssh, you'll wake the sexton." And she was pushing him away.

"I don't care whether - " But seeing the fear on her face he stopped, fumbling at the pouch instead. "Look, look what I've got you," he said softly, drawing forth the long necklace, then the heavy golden earrings. "From a palace which the king keeps only for his jewels."

"Oh, Jacopo," she whispered, half in fear, half in joy, while he wreathed the cold, thick coils about her throat.

She stared at the hooked pendants in her hands. "They're beautiful."

"Gold suits you," he breathed, standing back to admire his creation. "You should be clothed in gold." She smiled a wide, white smile. "I think you're the one who's mad, Jacopo."

"Not in the least," he protested, rolling his eyes. "Your natural element is gold. Your dresses should be sewn from ducats. I could see it straight away. All I've got to do is look at you to know that you're some Barbary princess stolen from the cradle." y

"Like I said, you're the one who's mad." Almost regretfully, she touched the bright metal warming at her throat. "But you know that I can't keep them."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they'd find them and know I'd stolen them." And she was reaching for the clasp already , until he leaned against her, slowly drawing down her arms until they rested round his waist.

"Then I'll keep them," he breathed into her ear, "and you can wear them, and be the Barbary princess that you really are just when you're with me." His lips were nibbling her soft throat, hands plucking at her shift.

"Mad," she mumbled, sighing , while the shadows whispered round them no blacker than her skin, and he entered her 387 as if some gateway opened in the night itself to let him in. Baldassare at the bird markets

The bird markets at Livorno were, as usual, in a state of chaos. Merchants bargained over peacocks, shipped from

India for the garden or the table, while African parrots flashed their wares and squawked. Baldassare, still tired from his journey, almost collided with a small-time vendor who carried his entire stock upon his shoulders, where scruffy birds were twittering in tiny cages y suspended from a wooden frame. "Good price, Signore, good price, better than any other here," he cried, contemptuously indicating the stalls of more established merchants. But Baldassare waved the man away and hurried on. He didn't like to buy his hunting birds in markets, preferring to catch them in the wild. Yet this was different. For now he thought he'd never hunt again, not once Fiera had been sacrificed. As it was, even with some weeks to go, he could barely bring himself to fake her out into the meadows any more. He simply felt too guilty.

No, this purchase was quite different. He was looking for

Fiera's beauty, not her quality, since there would never be another bird like her.

This quarter of the markets, however, was not the place to find her. Here were peacocks, fantails and little gem like finches, their colours woven round with songs of nightingales and warblers. There were even birds to conjure with - small, bent-billed hoopoes, white doves, black bats suspended from their perches upside down - but no hunting birds as yet. And then he saw them on the far side of the markets, a motley lot of ospreys, hawks and falcons, all drooping in the sun.

He blamed Gaia for the fact that he was here. The moment he thought of destroying his falcon, he despised the girl for making her demand. Yet, glinting like a spark at the heart of that killing, was something else which smouldered and then blazed into the heat of his desire to y make this sacrifice to her. It was like a kind of drunkenness that made him want to immolate all things upon her altar. And like a drunk, he somehow knew that he'd regret it, blaming everything upon the wine itself, yet continuing to drink, as if enamoured of intoxication.

He forced his concentration back upon the cages. Here were great gyrfalcons which flinched as he went by, their plumage grey as dirty ice. Goshawks straddled the half- devoured carcases of mice, some tearing with their talons at their wings, where Baldassare could see the hosts of vermin crawling. Further on were coops of nervous-looking falcons, somewhat ruffled and unkempt, while beyond them, toward the rear of this quarter, he glimpsed hawks and peregrines of better quality. There were some well-priced sparrowhawks, some decent kestrels and one extravagant gyrfalcon. But the peregrines held out little hope. There were a number of fine birds amongst them, but none that looked much like Fiera. Some had just her slate-blue shade of plumage, and others her pattern of black bars beneath their eyes. Yet none contained her qualities combined. Nor did any show her peculiar, intense stillness. There were those that dozed and those that sat, while others glared with gleaming eyes at the world outside their prison. But there wasn't one amongst them that could even have begun to take her place upon his wrist. And then, a little further to the back, perched within a corner of its cage, he saw her shadow, what might have been her ghost, her huddled, sullen image. It y was the perfect shape and size, and - as he stepped still nearer - he glimpsed the same slate blue, the same barred eyes. Instinctively, he groped round for his purse, despite the sense that something was quite wrong, some lack of spirit or attention, as if Fiera perched here, broken. Yet had he not believed that falcons had a soul, he might have thought this bird her double.

* * * The King of Cats and plans for a carivari

Late autumn has blown across the town like plague-breath, exhaling its contagion on the leaves until they sallow, as with excess bile, and then flush choleric red and fall, black with melancholic humours. Yet, despite the year's decline, Topomagro is full of laughter and activity, for today is the feast of Saint Martin, and a tournament is being held on the Piazza del Colombo. Geri

Pinza watches the opposing forces of the Porta del

Colombo and the Porta Santa Maria take up their positions, sees the three ladies strewing roses from the summit of the Castle of Love - constructed at the centre of the piazza expressly for the tourney - then hears the trumpets stutter, the drums begin to thunder, and already feels the feast day turning bitter in his heart. The jousting fills him with gloom, and as he hears the splintering lances, the pleasure of the crowd, the metal horsemen tumbling with the sound of broken bells, he is overwhelmed by how easily people's hearts are won by such displays, even though it's they - through their taxes and their hunger - who pay for the prestige of the gates' rich captains. He stays to see the armies battle for the

Castle, their blunted broadswords slicing the sunlight into blinding slivers, but is already walking through the crowd's wild uproar as the forces of Santa Maria storm the ramparts, his back turned to their captain as he waves the Virgin's banner, and has vanished altogether by the time the old podesta rises with the trophy, a helmet heavy with gold wings.

Geri passes a plethora of games and tournaments on his way back to the Borgo Santa Caterina - a pig-run in the

Borgo dei Operai, where men with wooden clubs go charging through the streets in pursuit of a squealing shoat; footraces in the Borgo dei Medici; an archery competition in San Francesco's orchard; while, at the Ospedale degli y Abbandonati, the bishop funds a charitable banquet for the poor. But he stops for none, intent on reaching the square before Santa Caterina delle Ruote, where a number of his fellow carders are taking part in a tournament traditional in that quarter.

He's relieved to greet Alfredo and the others, since, amongst them at least, it's no longer like he's abetting some agenda of the merchants. Yet, even here, he begins to feel strangely out of sorts, cursing himself as a fool and a killjoy. He stands amid the rowdy crush of bodies, seeing the competitors line up with their heads newly shaven, burly Ceppo Castracani and squat Nofri amongst them, their scalps quite white and bald but for a few errant bristles. He notes their hands already tied behind them, watching as the first competitor steps up to have his feet strapped to the planking, hearing the wails of the tomcat nailed to the pole by the skin of its back, even as the man strains forward, thrusting his head against its belly. Then the cat erupts in spitting howls, sinking its teeth into his shaven pate, claws tearing at his skin, so that he loses his nerve and tries to draw back, to ease himself from the needle-hooks, wiggling on the planks with his arse stuck out. But Geri can no longer enjoy it, despite the roars of laughter from the crowd, and when the man jerks back with a sound like ripping silk, blood streaming from his crown, the carder

feels first sickened, then shamed by his disgust.

y Nofri fares no better, head torn and bleeding as he

stumbles, red-faced, to his friends; nor does the one who follows him, nor the next, while the cat itself - though looking battered - still seems full of fight. Geri, on the other hand, has had enough, depressed by the crowd's delight, turning away as Ceppo swaggers to the post and butts his head into the blood-soaked fur. So, while he hears the roar of approbation, he doesn't witness Ceppo's triumph, the way he grinds his great bull head into the tomcat's belly, though it spits and rips and screams. Nor does he see it flagging, tongue stuck out, claws flexing

- not in flesh - but in the air, its hisses fading to a shaking sigh, its body drooping as Ceppo straightens with a grin. All he sees is the broken creature, red mouth seeping, claws dangling shreds of skin, and there beside it the smiling man, awaiting coronation as the King of

Cats, his court already cheering, "Drink, now drink up to the King."

* 394

The Signoria has suspended the curfew for the evening, and later there's a lavish feast provided for the worthies of the town by the Confraternity of Saint Mark.

There, between the twin lions of the saint and the Guelph

Party, the members of the confraternity and their guests all gather at great tables in the Piazza della Signoria, while the usual crowds of oglers watch them from a distance. It is with this spectacle in mind that Guido and a number of the younger carders are rambling through the town, their feet unsteady, their voices loud with wine and the relinquished curfew. Guido leads the troop, a wine jug in his hand, while Luca, Bartolomeo, bloody

Nofri and Vieri di Grazino come weaving in his wake. But their most celebrated member is undoubtedly Ceppo

Castracani, the King of Cats, who, throughout their wanderings in the southern suburbs, received cheers and much back-slapping, though his celebrity has dimmed the further north they've travelled. Nevertheless, he continues to attract attention, insisting upon wearing his gilded wooden crown, which perches on his head at the most peculiar angle in order to avoid the cuts and gashes inflicted by the cat. With his thick neck, broken nose and the streamers of dried blood that trail beneath the crown, he makes a sight worth noting, and the glances they attract grow increasingly sidelong and suspicious the further north they go. He has never been the most benevolent of drunks, and while Guido, Luca and Vieri reel back and forth with boisterous laughter, he simply grows more silent, cleaving a straight path through any revellers they meet, his face the carven prow of a galley trimmed for war, lip curled, eyes sullen, brow caked with cracking blood.

At last, after numerous detours, they reach the Piazza della Signoria. Here, crowds walk by or watch the feast, kept well back among the shadows by a small group of the town militia. The event is taking place before the

Palazzo dei Dieci, a low segment of its walls lit ruddy- gold, its upper reaches wreathed in blackness, but for its topmost tower, which is bright with torches in the dark night sky like a crenellated moon. Guido watches as

Signor Tuccio hoes into a fatted partridge with total concentration, then nudges Luca with a smirk. His gaze slips quickly from the merchant to the pair that sits beside him. For here are Gaia, his daughter, and her fiance, Baldassare d'Aquila. Gaia is barely eating, but turns instead to give a sidelong smile at Baldassare, and in the shifting, golden light her beauty is intense. Yet strangely, perhaps since Baldassare does not see her, or through some trick of moving shadows, Guido thinks he notes a sinister intent behind that smile, and then remembers what Lucia told him of the promise that the man has made. He feels suddenly disgusted by the sumptuous feast, the splendid clothes, the handsome couple, as if the whole thing were a pantomime to mask the town's corruption. In a fortnight they'll be married, and Gaia smiles at the unseeing Baldassare, her fiance, dupe and fool.

"Hmph," snorts Guido, for such is not the way a man should win his bride; and their marriage, no matter how resplendent, should breed nothing but contempt.

"What?" says Luca, already bored.

"This wedding, between Tuccio's daughter and her...clown..."

"What about it?" And now the others, tired of the feast they cannot eat, are also turning round to hear.

"It's a farce," he mutters, "the marriage of a fop to a shrew. Something should be done."

"What?" grunts Ceppo, grinning. "What do you mean something should be done?"

"Yes," nods Guido slowly, "of course," more to himself than his companions, "a carivari..."

Meanwhile, the friars of San Francesco have organised a meal for the deserving poor, those registered as paupers in the parish records. They come on crutches and small trolleys; cripples who walk upon their hands, legs twisted back in baskets; girls drained of flesh by newborn infants; the stumbling, white-eyed blind; all swarm toward the convent, as if it were a lodestone drawing hunger. Here, at trestle tables in the cloisters arid the quadrangle, they struggle for a place upon the tight-packed benches, while the friars dole out loaves and fill the bowls with fish stock. Emaciated children cling about the friars' habits; and the plump figure of y Fra Lippo Peppo, helping out his hosts, is brushing at their fingers as he ladles out the soup. Jacopo Passero is there as well, having given up the chance to pick pockets in the town, and is juggling in the courtyard for his gobbling audience, while Scimmi, long since vanished from the convent's cloisters, has climbed a tree and gone to sleep.

And later that night, across the river, in the square before Santa Caterina delle Ruote - where the tomcat's nailed up still - the drunken crowd has drifted off, leaving only those too drunk to move and some wine in sour puddles. Now the stray cats of the quarter come nosing round like shadows. The famished light of a sickle moon shines weakly down above them, while they start and flinch at every sound, then turn to sniff out food. Some pass beneath the pole, pausing for a moment, to look, to hear, to catch the scent of the dead cat, then bristle and move on, slinking belly to the ground to escape their 398 crucified brother, this Christ of cats, with neither mother nor disciples nor any tomb to rise from.

* * * Tuccio presides at Gaia s wedding feast

Tuccio di Piero Landucci sat at the crowded banquet after his daughter's wedding. He'd already recited his hymeneal in honour of the bride, her groom and all their splendid guests, dispensing with it as early and as briefly as he might, since he'd wished to have done with speech-making and devote himself to feasting. Indeed, at this moment, he did no more than watch his friends, who chattered and y laughed as if they were the Signoria of a land of perfect harmony. He breathed the soft perfumes of Beatrice, Gaia and Marina, all seated on his right, their voices rising and falling beneath the lilt of flute, tabor, rebec and hautboy; and he briefly felt as if he watched his banquet from a distance, as through an open window, hesitant to break the spell by entering.

His thoughts, in fact, were still caught up with the wedding. It had been a triumph, perhaps the most splendid the town had ever seen. He saw Gaia yet, her long train flowing out behind her as she rode the white mare to the

Duomo. Seated there above the crowd, in her gown of crimson samite, she was like a living flame that flared and shimmered in the autumn sun, while Baldassare, in a gold-embroidered vest, rode beside her on his smoky stallion. The townsfolk were agog, no doubt about if, as the procession of friends and dignitaries came trailing after, like some miraculous extension of her wedding gown. He could still see the notary, robed in black beneath the Duomo's white facade, waiting to read the contract aloud to all assembled, while Gaia listened distractedly behind her lacy veil of butterflies, and Baldassare watched her.

"Tuccio!"

It was the voice of the podesta, Sandro della Casa. He nodded slowly at the man, glancing round at all his y smiling guests, and assuring himself that, yes, this wedding would be a model for the town.

"Sandro?" He raised his glass in answer to the podesta's raised glass, and took a sip of the sweet trebbiano. It was good, of course, since it came from one of his own vineyards in the Marches.

"I approve of these," Sandro said, in that supercilious way which Tuccio had slowly grown convinced was quite involuntary. The man was simply too pleasant to be intentionally rude.

"Yes, I had them done by Lionardo Gaddi of Siena." He was smiling with pride at the spun-sugar sculptures that rose from the table. One was the snow-white figure of the lamb with its banner, emblem of the Arte della Lana; the other was the great Guelph lion. Tuccio's favourite, however, was the moulding made from ice created in his cooling tower. It was the statue of a swan, in honour of Wolf Schwanhals, who, unfortunately, had been too busy campaigning in the countryside around Pistoia to be able to attend. He waved his arm at the figures, inclined his head in a deprecatory gesture, and grinned, "Not cheap."

"No, I imagine not," said Sandro, glancing quickly up as an army of servants came marching from the kitchen, bearing the first course.

y Melozzo and Alfonso were struggling with a pot of broth, which exhaled great steamy streamers as they lowered it to the table. Its twin was carried to the far end of the hall, where Lucia and Ambra, never entirely sure of protocol, were already doling out its contents. He'd hired almost a dozen extra servants for the reception, and still wasn't confident there were enough, though only time would tell. But for now he concentrated on the soup, which Domenica was ladling out for him, and snuffled up the thick, hot scent of fish - red mullet, mackerel, sea bass, squid, rascasse, dogfish, sole - their flavours swimming in that salty broth as they'd swum in the sea.

Most had been caught off the town itself, though the year's catch had been so poor that he'd actually imported the red mullet. Some blamed the cold currents, others the sins of the fishermen, and still others the fleets from

Livorno that had sailed further south that year. Whatever the reason, it was not enough to deplete the tables of those with money to pay. And as everybody knew, and would see confirmed today, Tuccio di Piero Landucci possessed nothing if not wealth.

It was no time at all before their bowls were empty, and their majolica plates - made by a Moor in Valencia - piled high with other foods. There were lasagne and ravioli, powdered liberally with sugar. There were pots of rice boiled in honey and milk of almonds; cocks' combs cooked in sweet vin santo and garnished with white y mushrooms; baked figs stuffed with walnuts, and peaches spiked with wine; perhaps fifty dishes in all, but certainly no more, since the sumptuary laws forbade it,

The largest and most popular, however, was the great tub of snowy bramagere, made with sixteen capons, as many pounds of almonds, with handfuls of lard and honey and cloves, white sugar and mixed spices. Oh yes, by the end of the first course, the edge of Tuccio's appetite was perhaps a little blunted.

As he was polishing off his serving of bramagere, he realised that Baldassare had turned from his discussion with Francesco Morelli - something about a robbery at the physician's house - and was plucking at his left sleeve.

He swallowed his mouthful, belched as delicately as he could manage, and turned to his new son-in-law.

Yes, my boy," he murmured, revelling in his own benevolence. After all, he'd wanted a son for so long, and now he had one, a son that he knew and could more or less trust.

"You don't know how much joy it gives me, Tuccio, to be part of your family now." It was a rather formal declaration, and one that he'd made in one form or another a number of times that day.

"Ah, but I do, Baldassare," said Tuccio, commencing his y completion of the formula. "Almost exactly as much joy, I expect, as it gives me to have you as part of my family."

They smiled at each other, and Tuccio couldn't help feeling that, somehow, though the marriage had tightened the ties between them, it had also created a distance, an awkwardness that wasn't there before. Possibly they both felt the pressure of unwonted expectations, uncertainties that would fade away as the new relationship grew older.

Still, here was another of those foolish silences.

"Well, now that the end of the carnival's in sight," he said, nodding at the room in general, "do you have any new projects in mind?"

"Oh, a couple of sons," smiled Baldassare, "followed by a daughter, and then, perhaps... but I haven't thought that far ahead." "Well, of course, of course, we'll be delighted. But don't get Beatrice started up on babies." He took another mouthful of bramagere and chewed it thoughtfully. "And what about business?" he said as casually as he could.

After all, Baldassare had just received a dowry of two thousand florins. "Any hot tips for an old trader?"

Baldassare laughed heartily, then leaned closer to his father-in-law, whispering in a tone of mock-conspiracy, y "I was hoping, now that we are closer, that you might let me in on the secret...you know, of making all that money...secret formulae, magic spells, that sort of thing."

"Oh, I can give you those right now. Hard work, my boy.

Hard work and more hard work. That's the magic formula."

And his own pomposity echoed in his ears, so that he quickly added, "But seriously, Baldassare, you've got some extra money now. I could help you to find constructive areas of investment. We're looking at some

Caledonian wool that could be interesting."

"Yes, well, thanks. I probably need as much advice as I can get." Then he paused, while Tuccio nodded happily and continued with his meal. "Actually, I think I can do rather well on pepper. I've put a deposit down with a merchant in Alexandria for a hundred pounds that's coming on a galley from Cyprus. I think I can probably get more at the same price." "Yes, that does sound good. And the Genoese fleet's still stuck at Rhodes?"

"It is. The area's swarming with Saracen convoys, and the

Grand Master of the Knights of Saint John is in Germany."

He laughed out loud and drank a mouthful of wine. "The price of pepper's going to soar." He leaned back as one of the maids cleared away his plate, then lowered his y voice once more. "And not just that. There's an agent I deal with in Constantinople who says he can get me some azzurro fino at no more than a grosso an ounce, when it's usually almost a florin. It's the real thing, too, the stuff the Orientals call 'the painter's flower', made from lapis lazuli. I can undercut the apothecaries, even the wholesalers, and still make a fortune selling if in

Avignon."

"Yes," said Tuccio, "yes, though you need to know the product well. Some agents can diddle you badly on the quality of pigments... you know, mix them with that cheaper German stuff that's extracted out of copper."

Oh, yes, indeed. Baldassare was always his own man, stubbornly so at times. It would be nice to think he might reinvest the dowry back into the family business.

Nice, but hardly certain. No, he'd want to follow his own

Path. Perhaps it was for the best that a third of the two thousand had gone to pay r'or the trousseau. After all, 406 extravagant dowries often exposed well-meaning fathers to higher taxes. Then again, he had instructed his notary to stipulate that it must be returned if Gaia died within twelve months. It probably wouldn't be wise to restrict

Baldassare further. Besides, those investments, especially the pepper, didn't sound too bad at all.

But now his plate was empty, as indeed was everyone's, and the servants were clearing away the dishes and y refilling all the glasses. He simply must stop talking.

Indeed, Beatrice was already nudging him with a lethal elbow, saying, "You'd better hurry, dear, or they'll be serving while you speak."

"Yes, yes," he muttered, flustered, though God only knew why, since he could buy and sell almost everybody there.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he blurted, rising to his feet, stumbling a little as the chair caught behind his knees.

He eased himself to his full height, waited for the dying conversations to expire completely, then said more softly, "Good ladies and kind gentlemen," pausing once more, with a slow, disgruntled smile. "Friends," he tried, then nodded, "yes, that's better... friends..." He gazed around him, opening out his arms as if to embrace the whole proceedings. "Please, don't be anxious. I've already given one speech tonight, and I'm sure that's more than enough." He raised a hand to quell the mutters of demurral. "Indeed, all I wish to say is that this is a wedding feast at which everyone will give a present, not just the guests, but the hosts as well." And at this he clapped his hands, so that a tribe of slaves came bearing gifts of various kinds. There were combs of ivory, jewelled bracelets, daggers with gilded hilts, rosaries of ebony and coral, every variety of attractive gewgaw that his agents had been able to lay hands on at a good price. There were some extravagant gifts for loftier personages - a Psalter bound in silver and crystal for the podesta's wife, a hound with jewelled collar and gilt y leash for his Florentine client, Doffo Ricci, a fine goshawk hooded like a monk for Agnolo del Leone, and for his good friend, Francesco Morelli, a little ginger monkey dressed in cloth of gold.

A minor pandemonium of oohs and aahs broke out around the table, while presents were distributed with prodigal abandon. Of course, Tuccio knew the risks of such events.

An otherwise contented assembly might be riven with resentments by the injudicious presentation of gifts; though, of course, a certain rivalry amongst one's friends was always beneficial. And now the room became a field of combat between servants bearing gifts and those who had received them, as the latter rose to give their thanks directly. This process was only complicated by the excitement of Doffo's hound, which proceeded to bark and jump about, not to mention the behaviour of the monkey, which was not nearly as well-trained as his agent had led him to believe, and which actually leapt from Francesco's arms, clinging for some time to a tapestry of Tuscan vegetation. There was also a heated discussion between

Marina and her mother about a small white lapdog - the intended present for an absent guest - which it seemed

Marina won, since, when Tuccio peered down the table, he saw it perched upon her lap, sniffing at the air and trembling at the riot all about it.

Eventually, when those gifts which could be placed about the person had been so placed, and the rest removed for y later collection, a sudden barrage of aromas announced the advent of the second course. For here was a huge blue tuna on a silver salver, and piglets basted to a tawny gold with sprigs of rosemary in their mouths. There was a great white goose surrounded by a clutch of agate eggs.

And slow-boiled brill, like gaping, rhomboid plates, were lowered to the table, flanked by exotic monsters created in the kitchen, where a suckling pig and pheasant had been cut in half then stitched, each to the other, like some gourmand's breed of griffin. Steaming veal and mutton, prosciutto, mortadella and quivering pork jellies filled gaps between the dishes, while pigeons, ducks and turtle-doves released their scents like souls. The centre of the second course was almost - but importantly, not quite - the gilded peacock with its fanned-out tail, its head held upright by an iron skewer, throat stuffed with camphor soaked in aqua vitae, so that its beak breathed dragon-fire out into the air. 409

It was this "almost" that Tuccio didn't like, since it proclaimed the day's one sour note, right at the centre of the table. Would it have been possible for Gaia to have given a more public illustration of her own perversity? He hadn't even found out about her absurd demand till well after the impalmatura, when he'd finalised the dowry and committed himself to a marriage bond before a notary on the steps of Santa Trinita. No- one had mentioned anything about the bird. But it was y just like Gala's pride to do something such as this. She simply couldn't resist the temptation to test the man's love and prove her worth. Of course, such behaviour was understandable in someone who'd read that dreamer,

Petrarch, even Dante, let alone some of the courtly drivel she'd been brought up on. Perhaps, like old Agnolo suggested, it was wise to keep your women ignorant. But

Beatrice would never have stood for it. If was just that now...well, it was like a public announcement. These things should be like...sex. They should be personal, private, not flaunted before the world like something to be proud of. She had always lacked discretion.

And what a small display it was for the centre of the table - a falcon on a dish, its plumage placed back on its roasted flesh, head uplifted with a spike and doves between its talons. Who on earth would want to eat it?

But, of course, this wasn't the point. The fact remained that it was Baldassare's bird, and surely everyone would know it. He sneaked a glance at his son-in-law, who seemed not in the least humiliated, but was chattering away quite happily with Agnolo and his wife. Nor did anyone else seem to be taking much notice of the falcon.

Perhaps they simply considered it a peculiar quirk of taste on his part, so that no-one but he and the newlyweds realised its significance.

He took a sip of sweet vernaccia, letting its taste erase these comfortless reflections, then sat back in his chair y and watched the room. How little heed his guests had paid to the sumptuary laws. It was as if the commune's attempts to limit their expenditure were a total waste of time, particularly where the women were concerned. But then, he supposed, these laws were made by men. Why, not too many years ago the Signoria had sent their officers to check the dressers and the wardrobes of the town. But tonight they had no need for such exigencies, since most of the proscribed materials were here, on the backs of their own wives. Marbled silk and samite trimmed with ermine, striped taffeta lined with vair - every trespass of the laws to limit prodigality was here. He, however, was wary of these statutes, since they had been used to damage businessmen of standing, and he made quite sure that the dishes for each course numbered no more than his guests, and that there were just three courses to the banquet.

This was why he'd had the cook resort to the great pie that seven servants were now bringing in. For here, though it counted as one dish, was the equivalent of at least two courses, layered as it was with chickens, dates, spiced sausages, fried almonds and ravioli stuffed with pork, all cooked in red-hot embers. Yet he couldn't really say that he begrudged the sumptuary laws, since Beatrice would have dressed the slaves in ermine if she could, just for the occasion. He took another sip of wine and sighed, observing the pie's descent among the thrushes cooked with truffles. y

"What's that fish?" said Beatrice suddenly. "Marina wants to know."

He turned, glancing at his wife, then at Gaia beside her, and finally along to Marina, who, for once, had allowed herself to be weened from her boyish clothes, and was looking silkily feminine in satin trimmed with miniver.

"Which fish is that, Marina?"

"This one here." She made a face, still clutching the timid dog upon her lap, while she pointed at a plate of shrimp surmounted by a fat black fish with spines upon its fins and nodules on its face.

"Oh," he grinned, "that's a scorfano. An excellent choice, Marina. Here, I'll get it for you." "No," she protested, drawing back her hand. "I don't want to eat it. I was just wondering." And she pulled still further back as he began to reach toward it.

"Stop it, Tuccio," said Beatrice with a smile.

"He's only teasing, Marina," added Gaia. "It's just for decoration."

y "Oh, is it?" chuckled Tuccio, then peered at his younger daughter. "Did you try the soup?"

"Yes," she said suspiciously.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes," more slowly still.

"Then, my little one, you ate scorfano. And you liked it because it's good for flavouring soup."

"Well," she murmured, curling up her lip, "it did have a funny sort of undertaste." Then added hopefully, "I didn't finish it."

Then you'd better have some more." He reached across for the offending dish, but she pushed away his arm and began to protest loudly. 'Oh, really, Marina," Gaia began, but Tuccio wasn't listening. He felt marvellously happy. Perhaps it was the good vernaccia, since everything seemed suddenly so innocent - his laughing, drinking guests, all chattering like children, the servants who performed their work so dutifully, the beasts which gave their lives that they might eat them. He beckoned one of the servants to carve him a great slice of pie, secure in the knowledge that his was perhaps the greatest wedding banquet ever in the y town. And when they saw the sweets, those marzipan castles and coloured ices? They'd think they were in Paradise.

Baldassare had chosen duck to complete his choice of dishes for the second course, but after the first few mouthfuls he could do no more than paddle in the sauce of vinegar and bitter orange juice, his knifeblade stirring sparkles from the sprinklings of fine gold dust. A little pile of garnets lay to one side like miniature crystal giblets, and though, by looking round the room, he could see that some had wrapped them in their handkerchiefs - or, more intrepidly, devoured them with their meal in order to find them later - he had no desire to ruin either his linen or digestion. So he simply paddled, gazing about the table. Tuccio seemed very pleased with himself, he thought, more relaxed than he had seen him look in ages. Spending money usually did not agree with him that well, so perhaps it was the wine. On the other hand, it seemed to him that Gaia's smile was one of fortitude rather than true pleasure, and he could well understand it. He wanted the banquet to be over now, so that she could make her procession back to his house, go through the rituals and, finally, be alone with him.

Nevertheless, though it was what he longed for with every nerve and sinew, it was also something that made him feel y uneasy, so that one small doubting fragment of his mind remained quite happy for the feasting to continue. Of course, it was her demand for the bird that created this ambivalence; and indeed, when he looked at the poor thing, lifeless there upon the table, a bitter anger filled him, a feeling which had deepened as the afternoon progressed. No-one had attempted to carve the falcon. Nor had Gaia shown it the least hint of recognition. It simply stood there, the most beautiful creature in the room, gutted, rigid, lifeless, like some useless exercise in taxidermy. The only conclusion he could draw was that, for Gaia, the entire farce had ended once he'd killed his falcon. Well, perhaps it shouldn't end so easily.

Baldassare excused himself from Agnolo del Leone, who was about to start another conversation, then got up from his chair, walked past Tuccio and Beatrice, and stood at

Gaia's shoulder. "It s a wonderful banquet," he said. "Your father's been generous with his money and imagination."

"Yes, it is wonderful." She gazed up at him dreamily, and he saw that her smile was one of pleasure, not of fortitude. "It's the loveliest day I've ever had."

"And the food," he sighed, spreading his arms wide.

"Well, what more is there to say?" Then he glanced down, y frowning slightly. "But your plate is empty."

"I'm not really very hungry," she laughed, then gazed into his eyes. "I'm far too happy."

"Oh, you must have something." And he stretched across the table, reaching for the tray that bore his falcon, lifting it up until he held it out before her. "In fact," he smiled around the little family group, "I think this dish was your idea."

"Yes."

Then I'll carve it, so that you can try some, just to see if it's well cooked."

Baldassare - " began Monna Beatrice, chin dipping with concern. But, "No," Gaia interrupted, "Baldassare's right. It was my idea, and I should see what it is like." She gazed into his eyes with trustful calm, and, as he started carving, he felt no small sense of triumph to have bought that flawed yet handsome bird at the Livorno markets, and that Stoldo Testafredda, his agent up in

Pisa, had understood so well and agreed to keep Fiera.

* * * Guido leads a carivari

The banquet over, its guests pour out onto the evening streets to accompany Gaia through the town. Baldassare has already left to prepare his house for her arrival, arid the feasters mill about, some unsteady on their feet, some riotous, some drowsy, all joking with each other as she mounts the milky mare and takes its gilded reins in hand. Most of the older guests go no further than the y first few houses, while Tuccio and Beatrice wave to the departing procession, neither one immune to tears, watching the youngsters in their taffetas and silks already fading in the dusky streets. Gaia feels happy, wonderfully so, as if standing at the threshold of another life. Yes, Baldassare had taken his revenge that afternoon, and now she hopes it's all behind them.

In the evening squares, gossipers pause on the fountain steps to watch the bride go by. Youths with nothing better to do come trailing after them, joined by a growing pack of dogs which yelp at the musicians, or erupt in snarling fights until the music goes awry. Some neighbourhoods come out en masse, and the local limelighters perform their clumsy sleight-of-hand, or tunes upon the fiddle, or virile somersaults, turning the sleepy evening into a kind of minor carnival. Indeed, by the time they get to Baldassare's, there's quite a crowd of people, and Gaia's friends all gather round her, leading her to the door of her husband's house while the 418 onlookers nudge and mutter. It is here that Guido and his colleagues - Ceppo, Nofri, Luca, Vieri, Rocco and

Bartolomeo - are waiting with the donkey they have borrowed from a miller friend of theirs. It's a sorry beast, this donkey, more like a construction of galls and cysts and fistulas than a living creature, and so old that it's wheezing like a broken bellows and urinating constantly.

y "Oh, you revolting thing," says Nofri, wiping his arm with his smock where he's brushed against a wen that weeps upon the creature's neck.

"Yes, but it'll serve our purpose," Guido grins, while he watches the bride approaching the half-open door. "In fact, the uglier the better."

There are shouts among the people as she pushes on the handle. "Watch out, he's hiding in the bedroom!" cries one, leering at his companions. "There's a thief who wants to snatch your purse," laughs another. "And he's got a long sword," suggests yet another. "Prick-eater!" growls Ceppo, and for a moment there are whispers and looks of disapproval, until, once more, the conventional obscenities resume.

Sweet Jesus, Ceppo," hisses Guido, "do you want to give the thing away?" But Ceppo simply stands and glares defiantly about him, crowned now with nothing more than a 419 ring of flaking scabs. "Anyway, she's gone inside, so we might as well wait somewhere comfortable." And as Gaia vanishes into her husband's house, the carders retire to a tavern, the old donkey clopping off behind them with its load of sacks and cankers.

Inside, there appears to be no-one home, and Marina can't help giggling, "Is anybody here?"

y She's immediately shushed by Gaia and the older women, who end up giggling too.

"He's gone," suggests Alberta. "I heard someone say he rode away."

And Monna Francesca, the oldest of them all, smiles reassuringly, "Then you're safe, my dear. He isn't here any longer."

'I'll find him," Marina announces, setting off along the hall, while half-a-dozen arms lunge after her, and

Alberta hisses, "No!" then adds, in a tone more dignified, "We must all proceed together."

And so they do, walking in a group along the corridor, looking in each room, yet finding neither Baldassare nor his servant. Then they reach the narrow stairs. Gaia, against tradition, takes the lead up to the bedchamber.

But it is empty too. She peers round the dim-lit room, which seems almost filled by the great bed with its embroidered curtains, and feels a sudden thrill of fear and delight.

"Well, it seems that it was true. He isn't here." And

Alberta pats her arm, as if to say, "A lucky thing for you. "

"Then we can safely leave you," adds Francesca, nodding y at the others, "secure in the conviction that you won't come to any harm."

"Well, I think he's - "

"Come, Marina," interrupts Francesca, "it's time we left," then turns back to the bride and says, "that is, if you feel quite at ease."

"Yes, thank you...all of you. I feel perfectly at home."

And so they take their leave, bustling back down the stairs with many a whisper and giggle, while Gaia parts the curtains of the massive bed, and already, before the street-door closes, Baldassare's shadow slips into the room.

* Gaia is flying. Through a sky of lapis lazuli. The air is blue about her, and the clouds so searing white that suns must burn inside them. She turns, sweeps, soars, as if no movement were impossible. Clouds break over her deliciously, and then she swoops, now tumbling down into that endless airy ocean. There is no ground, just brightness, limitless and pure, extending everywhere at once, until she curves and, once more, soars, while clouds like impossible mountains flash with sheer light. y She feels a joy, an energy and freedom that she has never felt before, climbing upward through her own white endlessness, just as the talons hit, and she is plunging, driven down amongst the breaking summits, looking upward, twisted back toward the thing that has her. For here are its great hooked beak, its iron claws, its eye the sun.

And she can feel the talons pressing, tearing, snapping ribs, crack crack, as if the thing were breaking out, not in. Then crack, and once more, crack...as she twists and struggles up and back and then... awake... into the dark of

Baldassare's bed.

She shakes herself more fully into wakefulness, panting from the dream, her ribs still tense and sore as if they really had been broken. But the sound of cracking bones goes on, and yet not cracking, but a banging, which clatters through the silence like a drum. She sits up straighter. It's like the sound of struck metal, pots beaten with a spoon, and there is shouting also, as if a crowd were yelling just below the window. She turns to Baldassare, who's sprawled beneath the sheets, still sound asleep. She grabs his arm and shakes it. Then slowly, painfully, he comes drifting back to consciousness.

"Wh - " he says, then, "what - " and then, "what is it?"

"Shh...listen!"

y The metal battering continues, accompanied now by wailings like the cries of cats and the howling of a dog.

"What the hell - ?" He jerks upright, still only just awake, his long pale body turning in the dark beside her. He fumbles with the tinder box and finally lights the candle, then stumbles over to the shuttered window.

Without a moment's hesitation, he flings it open and peers down into the street.

"There he is, lads," shouts a voice below him,

'Baldassare d'Aquila, the man without his cock!"

For a moment he recoils, then glares back down at them.

Wh-who are you?" he blusters, almost blowing out the candle, only to be answered by another volley of abuse and battered bedpans. As his eyes clear finally of sleep, he gains some notion of the scene beneath him. There are four men, lit only by a slice of moon, and all in clumsy dominoes. Three hold pots and ladles, and a fourth is sitting backwards on a half-dead donkey, some sort of moth-eaten buzzard on his arm. His heart jumps suddenly as he thinks of the Montagna brothers come to haunt him. "I said who are you."

"Oooo, he'd be impressive," says the first panbanger.

"Scary," says the second.

y "If he only had his cock," suggests the third, while every comment is accompanied by howls and hoots and hangings from the others. But he's reassured of one thing. It isn't the Montagnas. These clowns don't have their style.

"I don't know what cesspool you've crawled from," he cries, "but if you don't clear off, I'll be down there with my sword."

"Oh, he's lost his cock and now he's cranky," shouts the first.

"He used to hold it straight up in his hand," cries the second, and ignores the shutters opening all along the street. Then, just as Baldassare makes to climb out of the window, Gaia begins screaming, while his arms are pinned behind him and rough hands clamp round his mouth. Guido, masked also in a makeshift domino, sits upon the bed and threatens her to silence with his knife. "You'd better put on some clothes," he says at last. "You don't want to get cold when we go out."

"Bugger clothes," says Ceppo, while he and Nofri wrestle

Baldassare to the door. "His servant slipped out past us, running like a hare. He'll be back here with the watch if we don't hurry." y

"Yes, you're right," nods Guido, taking Gaia by the wrist. "Let's go."

But she tries to wrench her hand away, saying, "Who are you? What do you want?" while Baldassare lunges backward at the window, almost tipping Nofri out, so that Ceppo sticks a knife into his ribs and crows, "Oh, he doesn't want to come with us to Lucrezia's." Then he turns to

Gaia, shaking his head sadly. "You'd think he'd never been to a brothel before."

"Come on, hurry up," says Guido, dragging her off the bed, from which she manages to retain one sheet in a futile attempt to cover herself.

We're going to show you how to spice your marriage up," laughs Ceppo. "Yeah," Nofri leers. "Keep your eyes open, lady, you might learn something at Lucrezia's."

Then Baldassare bites his hand and cries, "You filthy - "

But Ceppo stops him with his fist.

"You might learn to show your husband some respect," says

Guido, sneering in her face. y

"Don't I know you?" she begins, voice trembling. "Haven't

I - "

"Come on," he snaps, and drags her to the door, followed quickly by Nofri and Ceppo, who once again are struggling with their charge as he recovers from the blow.

They wrestle down the stairs, Ceppo snarling, threatening

Baldassare that he'll kill him. Yet they're down at last, moving more quickly through the lower hall, when suddenly the door flies open and the watch bursts in, pursued by the fleet-footed servant and a handful of wide-eyed neighbours. The captain has his sword in Guido's ribs before he knows it, while the rest come rushing up to

Baldassare, who wheels upon his heel, pushing Nofri to the ground. But Ceppo is already making for the stairs, just as one of the watchmen lunges for his jerkin, grabbing on and holding tight. Ceppo pushes down, the knife gripped in his hand, and the man goes tumbling backward over Nofri, the blade still buried to the hilt in his left armpit. Then the rest swarm over Ceppo, till he's struggling under half-a-dozen bodies, throwing futile punches, while his victim trembles and then twitches, and then lies still, expiring in his blood.

Some minutes later, before a stretcher has been brought for the dead watchman, and all but Gaia are standing in the street, Baldassare sees that there's no sign of the y other youths involved, just the scrofulous old donkey waiting in its posture of perpetual melancholy.

"There were others here, too," he says. "They were making a lot of noise under the window."

"I know," the captain nods. "Your neighbours said so. But never mind," he adds, giving his men the signal to move the prisoners off, "one way or another, we'll find out who they were."

* * * A trial and counter-trial

Soon after the abortive carivari, there were a number of misfortunes in attempting to bring its perpetrators to justice. For instance, two days after the killing of the watchman, it was reported to the podesta by the captain of the people that Ceppo Castracani had died, as a result of running head-first at the wall of his cell "in an excess of shame and choler." No more than a week after y this, the podesta received a second report, which stated that "one Nofri Pasquini, carder, being of a frail constitution, and having fallen into a fit of melancholy as a result of his involvement in the abovementioned murder, perished in his cell, on the eve of the Feast of the Apostle Andrew, from an affection of the lungs." And as if this list of misadventures weren't enough, the authorities made no headway in discovering the identities of the other members of the gang. Both Ceppo and Nofri had insisted, despite the strenuous efforts of their interrogators, that they and Guido had only met their co conspirators at a tavern on the evening of the carivari, which had been so drunkenly spontaneous that they hadn't even discovered the fellows' names.

Guido had maintained this story too, and, as if to demonstrate the grotesque coincidence of his companions' deaths, remained doggedly alive, though he wasn't looking well. Of course, once it was discovered that all three of them were carders employed by Gaia's father, there were rigorous investigations in their workshop. Not only did the captain of the people send his agents, but Tuccio conducted a personal inquisition, involving individual interviews - in the presence of a notary - with every carder. Baldassare was brought, unannounced, to the carding sheds one day, in an effort to secure an identification. But he recognised no-one, for the moon had not been bright that evening, and besides, the culprits had been wearing masks. In the end, those in y charge of the case lost interest in discovering the identity of these accomplices, who, after all, had been guilty of no more than a mock-serenade in doubtful taste, an irritating enough example of delinquency, but one so common in the town that, were they to lock up every drunken apprentice who'd banged a pan outside a shrew's or cuckold's window, they'd need a gaol as big as the

Borgo Santa Caterina. And, when all was said and done, they had the killers.

Tuccio himself was not nearly so complacent. Yet he too eventually relinquished the search for the rest of the gang, and when the time arrived for Guido's trial, his mind was focused solely on its verdict. Indeed, it had disturbed him greatly that his daughter and her husband should be attacked in their own home, and what's more, by three of his own workmen. He found it hard to resist interpreting it as an attack upon himself. Of course, he'd realised for some time that many of the carders were m cruel financial straits. They were always the first to feel a downturn. And, yes, this downturn had perhaps been longer and more extreme than most. But this was just the way things were, the way the Almighty intended. For how could they be otherwise? No, such disorder must be crushed at birth by the most severe punishments. It was no excuse to say that Guido Cupa had not stabbed the man.

His invasion of Gaia's home made him as guilty as if he'd held the knife in his own hand. This was why Tuccio had put so much pressure on the Signoria to send a memorandum y to the podesta, urging hanging as the sentence. Not that

Sandro needed much convincing.

At the trial, Tuccio sat and listened, his face an expressionless death-mask. Guido did not look very well at all. He was thin, whey-faced, the skin beneath his eyes quite bruised-looking and his nose misshapen; and he took an inordinate amount of time to shamble through the chamber. This aside, the podesta moved the trial along with admirable speed. Gaia's presence was not required, and Baldassare, his servant, his neighbours, the members of the watch, all came and went with great efficiency, the evidence piling up like clods upon a corpse. Indeed, the corpse kept casting furtive, beaten glances at

Tuccio, as if he knew full well who was the force that drove this trial to its conclusion. And when all the mummery was over, and the time for that which must be said had come, Sandro fussily adjusted his crimson robes, making the most of the moment, and then proceeded in his soft, Venetian tones. Tuccio could not have been more gratified had he himself composed the verdict s final words: "Clearly these crimes of trespass, assault and the murder of a member of the city's watch are iniquitous at any time, but that they should form part of a conspiracy against the son-in-law and daughter of such an eminent merchant, one of the town's most illustrious men, is almost tantamount to insurrection. The court, in such a case, has neither wish nor option but to impose the severest penalty. Thus, it is the decision of this court y that, on the last day of this present winter, the carder,

Guido Cupa, shall be hanged in the Piazza San Stefano."

Not long after the handing down of Guido's sentence, the carders have retired to the upper room of their favourite tavern. Here they have already grown quite riotous with wine, and a number of them wear outlandish costumes, found amongst the rubbish in the wealthier quarters of the town. Geri Pinza, for instance, enthroned as he is at the head of the table, has draped a gown of soiled brocade across his shoulders, and Alfredo Crostadura, pacing up and down before him, wears a robe of tattered samite lined with cat. There are shouts and rumbles of laughter, and some surprisingly long speeches, punctuated by bellows of assent or disagreement. "Do we have any further charges?" shouts Geri from his chair, lifting his cup as if it were some kingly attribute, and slopping wine onto the floor.

"Yes, my lord," Alfredo nods, till it seems he might dislodge his head. "I also accuse Tuccio di Piero

Landucci of the murder of Guido Cupa."

"And what, uh...things... would the honourable prosecutor y present to the court by way of argument?"

"There is no need of argument, my lord. The man is guilty by his very nature. Is he not our miserable employer?"

And here, he turns to the assembled throng, flinging wide his arms, at which he is almost blown over by the gales of loud assent.

"But evidence, Alfredo, evidence. After all, this is a court of law." And this time it is Geri's turn to elicit the carders' laughter.

"Well, if you insist my lord." He looks offended, and drains the cup before him on the table. "It's the...er. . .contention of the prosecution that Tuccio di

Piero Landucci did wilfully bring pressure to bear upon a court of the commune in order to...uh, procure the death by hanging of the said Guido Cupa, guilty of no other crime than a youthful..." But here he seems to run out of words, shrugging his shoulders at the puzzled crowd. "Oh, stuff it, Geri. He nobbled the court to get Guido hung."

"Yes," shouts Luca. "He murdered Guido, and he'd do the same to any one of us that was in the carivari,"

"Guilty," mutters Geri, banging his cup down on the table.

"He knows Guido didn't kill anybody," adds Bartolomeo.

"He pays us nothing," cries another, "and has us work like dogs. "

"He makes laws to make him rich and us poor."

"He used his position as consul the get a monopoly of dyes."

"Guilty," announces Geri, before anyone else can speak,

"guilty, guilty, guilty!"

With the last impact of his cup upon the table, the room falls silent. Alfredo stands, mouth open, as if unsure of what comes next. The crowd sits stifling belches.

Um," says Geri finally, "does anyone have any other charges to bring... against anybody else?" "Yes, Alfredo pounces, "I'll say I do." And he peers round the room, to let the tension build. "I accuse

Alessandro della Casa, the present podesta, of complicity in the murder of Guido Cupa."

"But...but he isn't dead yet," suggests Ciuto di Dino.

"Well, he soon will be," snaps Alfredo, swinging round on the old man. "There's no doubt about that. They want him dead, and he will be. Look at how willing the podesta was to bow to the Signoria."

"Guilty," intones Geri, but then, as if the thought had slipped his mind, he adds, "Are there any words in his defence?"

"Well," says Vieri slowly, "he is said to have owed money to Signor Tuccio."

"Oh, well, that's different," Geri nods. "We'll burn him before he's hung."

And the room erupts in laughter.

For a moment there's another silence, then a voice cries from the corner, "I charge the captain of the people with the deaths of Ceppo and Nofri."

^es, yes," shout numerous others. "Guilty," agrees Geri. "Any further accusations?"

"Agnolo del Leone," shouts Luigi Luchese, "for charging high rents and fucking young boys."

"Oh, yes, yes, guilty on both counts."

"Marco Martello," cries another.

"Guilty."

And so the trial proceeds, growing ever more extravagant in its charges and perfunctory in its judgements, until the hootings and the guffaws and the poundings on the table rise to a crescendo, and there seems no-one further to accuse. Then gaunt Alfredo lifts his finger in the air, shouting in a hoarse, high voice, "I accuse the lanaiuoli," so that everything goes quiet.

Having waited for the silence to become attention, he continues. "I accuse the lanaiuoli, and all the great ones of the town, of using their wealth to make us poor and their power to make us weak. I accuse them of refusing us either admission to their guilds or the right to form our own, so that we have no hope of holding office in the commune, and no chance to better our condition. I accuse them of preaching charity and having none, of giving alms to the registered poor while their own workers starve. I charge them with making laws to suit themselves, and enforcing them against us." Finally, he turns from the main body of the carders, to whom he's been addressing his harangue, and confronts a rather addled-looking Geri. "I charge them with claiming to uphold the word of God, while doing the work of the Devil."

Geri totters to his feet, so that his heavy brocade gown tumbles from his shoulders. "Guilty," he says at last, slurring the word drunkenly. And then, as if it strikes him that there's some inadequacy in his response, he mutters, "Guilty," and another "guilty," then stands there, gazing broodingly about him. "A fine speech,

Alfredo," he chuckles, almost to himself, "though I'm afraid I'm not quite in a state to match it." He peers slowly up at them. "Except to say, in my position here as judge, that I do indeed find all these people guilty."

Then he bends to pick his robe up off the floor and drapes it back across his shoulders. "And I think they should be punished... quite severely. In fact, it's something that will happen." And here, he bangs his fist so hard upon the table that some of them look uneasy.

"This February, during Carnival. On St Blaise's feast day, and at Mardi Gras. I can now assure you all that plans are under way, and that the guilty will be

Punished. Palaces will be burned, and bodies also. Yes -" and now he flings up his arm so that he nearly falls backwards - "the guilty should be burned in the Piazza della Signoria, the prisons opened and the gaolers locked inside...masters beaten by their servants, riders ridden by their horses, hawks eaten up by sparrows. On such a day, the shadow of the sundial should turn backwards, the sands fall upward in the glass, and time flow back to start another way. Yes, the bodies of the great will burn till they ignite their souls in Hell."

Then he stops, as if for breath, and vomits. But his y curious speech has started yet another round of accusations, so that Luca and Vieri are sent below for wine as Alfredo starts to speak.

* * * Lucia calls on Brother Corvo

Lucia pushes aside the scratchy branches of the broom. In summer, they are a mass of yellow flowers beneath this section of the wall, but now - a winter's night - they are no more than rustling thickets of black shadow. Here, in that poor quarter of the town about the Ospedale degli Abbandonati, there is a breach below the walls, made there by the peasants who go out each day to till the y fields and vineyards of the plain. Guido showed it to her early in the summer, as if it were some great privilege, and hinted at conspiracies between these peasants and the carders. Yet she tries to shake this memory - like any other thought of Guido - from her mind, and concentrates upon the task at hand, forcing the branches far enough apart that she might thrust her head out through the breach. Carefully, and as quietly as she can, she wriggles out beneath the wall, listening for any movement on the parapet above. There is none, so she rises slowly to her feet and slips away into the dark in a slouching, loping crouch.

The night is overcast and cold, devoid of any natural light, and Lucia is virtually invisible as she moves amongst the dark ravines. She heads slowly for the river, gauging its distance by its sound. She is apprehensive, trembling more with fear than with cold. If it weren't for what they'd done to Guido...but she doesn't want to let those thoughts take hold, since every time she's started to remember, to feel his touch, to see the whiteness of his skin, she sees the fists and boots, his pretty face all broken, until she wants to tear the memories from her head. She's pretended not to care, even to Ambra, who surely has some notion of her feelings. But it's Tuccio that she can't bear, the spite with which he boasts of Guido's torment, his lust to have him hung, and she has wished him dead a hundred times - prayed, cast spells, made charms - yet still he lives, while Guido y hastens to the gallows.

She smiles bitterly to herself amidst the blackness.

There's little point in trying not to think of Guido, since the whole purpose of her coming here is him. She stops and peers round her for a moment. Apart from the torches above the Porta del Colombo, the only lights that she can see are some fires a little further to the east, most likely on the nearer of the river's banks. She picks her way toward them carefully, the ground beneath her feet increasingly deceptive the nearer she approaches to their restless shadows. There's a sound of scuffling to her right, and a high-pitched, muffled giggle, as a group of children scurry off toward the light. Then, quite suddenly it seems, the world grows brighter and she's almost there.

The largest bonfire is nearest to the river, but there are four others close about it, and virtually no sound but the crackling of their flames and the snap of breaking sticks. Even the river s voice seems drowned beneath the blaze. Scattered round them are quite a tribe of people, all with the loose, hard-bitten look of vagabonds. Some lie naked near the fires, and numerous bare-arsed children go scurrying about. There's the smell of burning flesh, which comes from spitted creatures roasting in the flames. She peers closer, and sees that they are neither sheep nor boar nor hare, nor any beast that she might recognise upon a spit. It's only once y she's nearer, noting their lean bodies and sharp snouts, that she knows that they are three large hounds slow- roasting to be eaten. She turns away, approaching the tall bonfire.

All waking eyes are on her, but not a word is said. A group of women and some savage-looking dogs are clustered near the flames. One of the beasts begins to snarl, curling back its lip and baring its big teeth. Another rises, rumbling. "Bulfas," says an ancient voice,

"Moloch." And then she sees the speaker, rippling in the heat, an old and wizened woman with old and wizened eyes.

But there is some authority about her, and Lucia approaches, trembling. When she is no further from her than a pace or two, a figure, until this moment hidden by the blaze, comes rising up as if out of the flames. He is tall and gaunt, with tonsured hair that hangs about his shoulders, and she sees immediately that he's the one she's seeking. 440

"I've been told that Brother Corvo's here." She clears her throat to keep her voice from shaking.

"He is," says the man, in a way that somehow suggests that she has found him.

"I've been told that he knows much of drugs and poisons."

"Poisons?" He cocks an eyebrow and smiles around the y group of women. "There are no poisons, merely quantities that poison. The key to Paradise, cut carelessly, may unlock the gates of Hell."

She frowns uncertainly, then plucks up all her courage, saying, "I want you to sell me something, in the right quantity, as you say, that might poison both the soul and body. "

He stares at her in silence, and the crackling of the flames might be the thoughts of those about her. Then he smiles - a surprisingly open, friendly smile - with his large and yellow teeth. "Sell?" he chuckles. "I'm no apothecary. Nor would I presume to tell you what you want. But here you may be free to find by trial upon yourself that purchase which you seek."

She stands, uncertain for a moment, then walks across to sit beside the now quiescent dogs, and "Yes" is all she says.

# # # The Priors discuss the growing disorder

"There's something happening here that bodes disaster for us all."

Tuccio was in full flight. Once more the scrutators had drawn his name amongst the ten, and he was determined to exploit the opportunity.

y "There is a growing attitude," he continued, "a rebellion in the air, that's undermining everything we've striven to achieve." He paused, then gave a slow, regretful sigh.

"I myself, as you all know, have recently been touched by this decline. Not only has such a thing never happened to me before, but I believe it never could have happened to me before. In the past, a man's workers owed and gave him loyalty. They never would have dreamt of such subversion.

Now they resent him for the very wealth that he creates, wealth that keeps them living. It is this evil of envy, this breakdown of order and respect, that will turn the world upside-down and plunge us into chaos undreamt of by the likes of Frederico dalla Montagna or Rollo da Parma."

This burst of eloquence, or mere outburst - depending on one's faction - produced a brief silence which was finally broken by Marco Martello.

I appreciate what you are saying, Tuccio," he ventured,

and you certainly have all my sympathy for the recent attack upon your daughter. But might this not affect your...perception of events?" And he hurried quickly on as Tuccio made to speak. "It's not as if I'm saying that things have been running smoothly of late. Quite the contrary. It's just that I'm unclear about what measures you're proposing - should we gaol those workers ungrateful to their employers, or mount armed campaigns against those who no longer go to Mass? I suggest,

Tuccio, that if you have problems with your carders, then y it's up to you to work it out with them."

"Of course it is," said Tuccio, looking stung. "But the danger is immediate, no matter how you might seek to trivialise it." He put both hands upon the table, leaning further forward. "Swords have been imported from outside the town, and by those to whom they are forbidden. A number of Piedmontese weapons were discovered in the house of Ceppo Castracani, one of the men involved in the attack upon my daughter. There have been reports of alliances between certain groups of carders, scourers and dyers. Some troublemaking peasants from the Ospedale quarter are said to be involved. There are rumours of possible violence during Carnival, and of inflammatory talk about the burning of palazzi and the killing of their owners - "

There are always rumours, Tuccio." "No, Marco, not like this," said Agnolo del Leone, uncharacteristically quiet until now. "I have one or two reliable informants among the wool carders, though they aren't in what I suspect are the most dangerous workshops. You may rest assured that what they say is genuine, not just hearsay created by the bad dreams of rich merchants."

Tuccio grinned a little ruefully, then said, "In fact, y just to give you a clearer sense of the situation, I can provide you with at least one name without causing its owner any danger, though I'd still request, of course, that it remain within this room. This man is not, at present, an informant, but he could be influential. He's

Bernardo Zoppo, the owner of a dyeshop in the Borgo Sant

Maria del Carmine. He's been hoping to get some price concessions from me, and, in the course of our negotiations, let slip a hint or two about the plans of certain carders, all very vague, of course, and easily denied. But I think he wanted to give me the impression that, with the right inducements, he might be helpful."

"Once again - I'm sorry - " said Marco, shaking his head

- "but it's just not clear what you mean. It's like you said with this dyer - all too vague and easily denied."

"No-one's trying to deny anything," snapped Tuccio, "and yes, it is vague, precisely because we've got so much to find out. But what is clear is that something dangerous is beginning, and we must make provision for our own security. What Bernardo seemed to be implying is that the carders want their own guild, as well as positions reserved for them amongst the Priors, with the ultimate aim of redistributing taxes in their favour."

There were cries of disbelief and outrage, and for the first time that afternoon he felt he had them with him, even Marco and his ilk. y

"But it goes further than that," he added, raising his voice above the noise. "This is a threat to the very nature of our commune. To allow the led to lead, the ruled to rule, to make the servants masters, would be to open the gates of our town to lunacy and evil, to turn the world upon its head and go tumbling into chaos."

There was not one dissenting voice among them. He felt relieved, smiling primly at Agnolo, who simply sat there nodding.

"Of course, such demands are ridiculous," the old man said at last, receiving further cries of approbation.

"Yet the dangers are quite real. I find the involvement of the town's peasants particularly concerning. They have connections with villages in the countryside which have been hard hit by famine, and which have no cause to love us, if they opened the gates to these outsiders when things got out of hand..." "But what do you propose?" urged Stoldo Peroni. "We can't just have the militia attack them. After all, they're the means of our own wealth."

"And let's not forget," Marco added, with a saintly smile, "they haven't done anything yet."

"Exactly," said Tuccio.

"Then what are we to do? Sit on our hands and wait for them to murder us?"

"What I suggest," purred Tuccio, "is that we keep our eyes and ears open, vote Agnolo extra funds to extend his network of informants, check every saddlebag and cart that comes into the town, expand the militia and provide them with the best Milanese swords we can afford."

"Yes," Marco nodded impatiently, "but if what Agnolo says is correct, then any militia we recruit would have to be outnumbered."

Thank you, Marco, smiled Tuccio to himself, though what he said was, "True. You've seen the problem clearly." He glanced uncertainly around the table, since this bit would be tricky. "The only possibility is this. If things get bad enough, we might just have a chance of outside help. Of course, it would mean another loan, though I'm sure we re all agreed it's worth it. You see, the fighting in the north, around Pistoia, has just ended.

There are forces there now looking for employment. It's possible that some of these may be willing to camp up in the hills outside the town, in case of an emergency."

"What forces do you mean, Tuccio?" asked Marco, narrowing his eyes.

y "I...was thinking of Wolf Schwanhals." And he gazed at his companions, who, for men so often eager to make speeches, now seemed strangely speechless.

* * * In which the carders choose their Carnival king

His chin supported by his hand, Saint Blaise reclines in the long white ram's fleece of the clouds high overhead.

He gazes calmly down upon the carders' sport and turmoil, a smile of soft beneficence suffusing his features, despite the iron combs and cards, the flails and bloody rakes - all the instruments of his martyrdom - that have torn his flesh to pulp, and now litter the lambent y surface of the clouds. Slowly he extends his other hand, and crosses the sky with his first two fingers, the symbol hovering above them for some moments, before dispersing in the air like sunlight. The vision too disperses, and Geri Pinza turns his attention back to the carders' race, the cries of encouragement, the jeers and whistles erupting in the air about him as he waits for his eyes to clear of the sun-dazzle.

"Come on, Bartolomeo, don't just waddle. Run!" shouts

Vieri di Grazino beside him.

"Go, Luca, quick! You're doing well!"

Then Geri spies Alfredo, a reluctant entrant, the big club bouncing at his thigh like a massive phallus. "Get a move on, Alfredo," he bellows, "you're running like a spavined ass!" Alfredo half turns, grimacing, almost tripping on the heels of the runner before him, so that Geri starts to laugh, slapping the shoulder of Vieri, who blushes at the unaccustomed intimacy from so senior a member of the workshop.

They watch the big group of runners, perhaps fifty in all, go pounding across the square before the tavern, in hot pursuit of the ram that's already fleeing up the lane y beside Santa Caterina delle Ruote. Indeed, it isn't actually a ram, but an aging wether, which should tire quickly enough not to be an embarrassment to its pursuers.

Over twenty workshops have turned out, despite the chill of the February day, and all have provided runners. Geri smiles to himself, since this augurs well for their march on the feast of Saint Blaise, at which the winner of this race will be king. He hopes that it's someone from their shop, as this would add to their prestige - perhaps Luca, who's good at any game, or Bartolomeo, of such simple rude health that he just might come in first. Yet whoever it is, Geri knows that he and Alfredo will be the powers behind that Carnival throne. For Alfredo has the words and ideas, while he himself has that which Alfredo could never truly have, precisely because of those words and ideas - the trust of his fellow carders. He glances round the crowd that's gathered in the square, taking special note of the group from Bernardo Zoppo's dyeshop, who are sharing jugs of wine over by the tavern wall. Bernardo himself, face shadowed by whiskers like smeared charcoal, seems morose and unsociable, refusing

Geri's every attempt to catch his eye. Benno Sapori, on the other hand, with his useful contacts on the farms of the contado, gives him a wave and starts to stroll over, just as the wether comes clattering in. y

The thing is wild-eyed and panting, slipping about on the stones. Then the beaters close off the square, and the crowd gets in on the act, bleating, guffawing, waving their hands while it dithers and shies. But Geri lets out a cheer as the first of the runners arrives. It's

Bartolomeo, with Luca behind him; then all the others come pouring in. Bartolomeo heads straight for the sheep, which slithers away as he swings his great club and skittles a mob of wine-tippling fullers. But Luca - nudging aside a rival carder - swipes once at the wether, then twice, and finally thrice, crushing its skull with the blow.

It splays to the ground, dead in the instant. With a single voice, Geri and all the others of his workshop give out a cheer, joined by a bruised Bartolomeo, and then by Alfredo Crostadura who is only just now stumbling into the square. They carry their victor up the church's steps, where the priest - a fellow most willing to join 450 his flock's frolics - awaits with the robe of kingship, face wreathed in fatherly smiles. Luca stands like a boy at his confirmation, as the man swirls the sheepskin over his shoulders, adjusting the hood with its great curled horns.

"I procl-cl-claim you the K-King of the Ca-Ca-carders," announces the stuttering pastor, while his flock sets up such a din that his admonitions to enjoy the excesses of y Carnival with the rigours of Lent in mind are all but lost in their bleatings. And now Luca shuffles before them, aware that the moment calls for a speech. "I declare..." he declares in a voice still hoarse from his recent exertions. "I declare the coming of the carders' kingdom." Then he stops, as if such were sufficient for any new king. But Alfredo and Geri are behind him already, whispering in his ears, so that his face firms up with newfound resolve. "I declare," he commences once more, "that the world be turned upside down, that the great shall be humbled and the poor raised to power." Yet here the priest begins shaking his head, plucking the sleeves of Alfredo and Geri. And the King, wound up as he'd seemed, now runs down abruptly: "Let the little men rise and the big men fall...and, er...let those who've sat on us be sat on - " so that his speech trails off in a round of loud cheering, begun by Alfredo, while whatever objections the priest might have had are lost in the noise and the start of the feast. For now the women and some of the carders are bringing the food - great platters of bread and slabs of strong cheese - while the taverner and his tapsters bear jugs of cheap wine. Already the slaughtermen have got to work on the wether, knives flashing in the chill winter sun, while the butchers bring forward what broken-down goats and old ewes they can spare, slamming them down on the stones of the square where the carders are building their fire. "The feasts of Cockaigne going free," cry the women y with platters of cheese and thick bread, while some, for the grisly humour of it, bear planks with dead rats, rotten herring, oats, straw, hay, wormy wine, shouting,

"The food of the poor, five florins a dish, the food of the poor, five florins a dish."

"We'll leave those for the lanaiuoli!" roars Luca, relinquishing for a minute his dignity as King of the

Carders. "Only they can afford them." And his subjects raise their cups and a cheer, tearing the heavy, dark loaves with their teeth.

Now, as wine pours down throats and the first rich whiffs of the roast fill their nostrils, a stronger, less wilful good cheer takes hold of the company. New servitors appear amongst the women and tapsters - carders dressed in fawning, ragged mimicry of bishops, abbots, lords and priors. As if the jugs were filled with words, not wine, talk floods from the labourers' mouths, while the first burlesque dance gets under way, a father pursued and thrashed by his child to the whistles of the feasfers. The second involves a carder dressed like a wool merchant, who utters the most alarming cries as he's ridden and flogged round the square by one of the fleece- beaters .

The last performance - for the time being, at least - has a very small carder arrayed as a Prior. But Geri sees little of this, since he's drawn aside by Benno Sapori, y who seems intent upon conversation.

"You know you can count on the peasants, Geri," he says, just a little too solemnly, as if he's already drunk more than his share. "We're with you every step of the way."

"Yes, yes, of course. We might not have had those without you," nods Geri, indicating the illegal swords in the hands of the dancers, as they circle round the cringing

Prior, slicing the air with virile strokes.

Benno raises his wine, as if proposing a toast, and loudly announces: "The villages of Roccianera, Maria del

Poggio and Palude are willing and eager, and the breaches in the walls are complete."

"Shh, Benno." Geri looks around, smiling. "I know these are friends, but we can't be too careful, can we?" Oh, Geri, you know you can trust the peasants. And the fishermen have agreed to break custom to march with the carders." Then his tone seems to darken. "It's others I'm worried about."

"What do you mean?" says Geri slowly, narrowing his eyes, while the mock-Prior whimpers in a torrent of sword- blades .

y "I mean him," Benno hisses, jerking his thumb at Bernardo

Zoppo. "I don't trust those dyers, particularly Zoppo.

They're likely trying to have it both ways."

"Do you know something, Benno?"

"There's nothing I know for certain, except that I wouldn't trust Bernardo Zoppo to be loyal to anything but his own interests. He's been seen at the Palazzo dei Dieci. "

"Well, that - " but Geri hesitates - "that could mean nothing at all."

Yet he doesn't sound confident, while Benno watches him, eyes sliding in and out of focus, and he in turn watches the Prior rise from his robe, dressed as a carder, to join his own killers.

* Later that evening, downstairs at the carders' favourite tavern, Geri manages to get a small corner table to himself and Bernardo Zoppo. The dyer seems uneasy, darting glances first one way then the other, as if to reassure himself of his cohorts' deployment about the room, yet manages to smile and say, "A wonderful day,

Geri, lots of wine and plenty of laughs."

"Yes, and a good solid feeling amongst the men." He watches Bernardo, following his gaze once more on its circuit about the room. "Still, that's only a foretaste of the march on Wednesday. Now that should be something.

You know the Borgo San Pietro's committed itself as well?"

"No, Geri, no, I didn't." He raises his eyebrows with an expression half-hopeful, half-anxious. "Well, that should pad out the numbers nicely. No worries there."

Geri fills the dyer's glass once more, though it's nearly two-thirds full. "So, with them and the dyers as well, not to mention the people from the Ospedale quarter, we'll have quite a procession. Enough to make the lanaiuoli shit their silk pants."

Bernardo gives a humourless chuckle like a fit of dry coughing. "Yes, indeed, Geri." Then he raises his eyes, takes a sip at his drink and says slowly, "Though I'm not sure it's the right way to go about it, not any more."

Warily, he watches Geri, who peers back closely, as if seeking the gist of his words in his face. "Not the right way? "

"No, it seems too...provocative."

y "Too provocative?" Geri echoes once more. "But you said that you'd - "

"March on Saint Blaise's day, I know," Bernardo nods vehemently, then looks away at the fire. "It's just, well... things are different now."

"Different? How are they different?" Despite himself,

Geri raises his voice. "The carders aren't paid any more than they were...their taxes haven't gone down, have they? Or have I missed something, Bernardo?" He stares intently at the dyer, then utters one harsh bark of laughter.

No," Bernardo mutters, bristling at the sarcasm.

But some change must have happened. After all, you're not marching,"

"Have I said I'm not marching?" "I think so. Yes, I think you have. ' Geri watches, and nods with increasing conviction. "But just in case I'm doing you wrong - are you marching, Bernardo?"

"No. No, I'm not."

"And why aren't you marching, Bernardo?"

y The dyer turns his gaze from the fire, his features suffused with a look of infinite reasonableness. "I'm not marching, Geri, and my dyers aren't marching, because we think things are getting out of hand. I mean all that flaunting of swords you're forbidden to carry, and the way they were used against the Prior in that dance. You saw the priest's reaction. He'll be off to tell the bishop, who'll take it to the Signoria." He shrugs his shoulders and slowly shakes his head. "To tell you the truth, Geri, I think you're teetering on the brink already. "

"Of course we are!" cries Geri, unable to restrain his anger. "It was always going to be like that, surely you realised it. How else can we get any tax concessions, let alone our own guilds, or places in the Signoria? Do we simply go up and ask? 'Oh, excuse me, Signor Tuccio, but would it be alright if I took your seat as Prior?' I mean, I don't believe you're naive, Bernardo." "And I'm trying hard to believe the same of you, Geri."

Bernardo gives a short, grim laugh and tosses back his wine. "What do you honestly expect to achieve by incensing such powerful people? If you keep up the sort of antics you performed today, they'll crush you like the ants you are...like I am too. You just won't stand a chance."

"I see," says Geri bitterly. "Well, something's certainly y brought about a change of heart in you, Bernardo."

"Look, Geri," the dyer urges, putting out a conciliatory hand, "I wish you'd see that I'm speaking with your welfare in mind as well as my own. What's going to happen after the march on Wednesday if they show no sign of bending? By Mardi Gras, or sooner, you'll be forced to use your swords. And what do you think the lanaiuoli are going to be doing then? Counting their money? Going to church? Shivering under their beds?" His conciliatory hand is now a fist that thumps the table. "No, they'll be sharpening their blades and getting the militia ready.

And when they've had enough there'll be blood, which all the dancing in the world won't staunch, and a good many of your carders will be killed, and you'll end up choking on a rope in the Piazza San Stefano."

There was silence between them for a moment, broken only by Geri's loud yawn. "Well, I wish I'd known all this before." He smiles unpleasantly and gives a snort of contempt. So, there's risk involved, Bernardo, and we might end up failing? All I can say is, I'm humbled by your insight. I'll bear it in mind when we've bettered our position and you're still kissing Tuccio's arse."

Then he gives the dyer a long, appraising look. "Or maybe your position's already had a miraculous improvement.

Maybe you found this sudden moderation of yours in one of your visits to the Palazzo dei Dieci."

y For the first time in the conversation, Bernardo looks upset. "What are you implying, Geri?" The veneer of reasonableness has cracked, and now crumbles. "Is there something wrong with my going to the Palazzo? Have I suddenly forfeited my rights as a citizen of Topomagro?

No matter how obsessed you may be with your plotting, I still have business to conduct."

"And what deals does that business involve, Bernardo?"

The dyer jerks abruptly to his feet. "You know, I don't think I want to listen to this any more. I've spoken for your ^ewn good, not my own. But I suppose a man can always count on treachery to see treason all about it."

Treachery?" snarls Geri, also rising. But Bernardo is already heading for the door, followed by the eyes of those few amongst his men still sober enough to note the speed of his departure. *

The feast of Saint Blaise brings forth the parade and the rain. It does not bring forth the dyers. On the route from the river to the Piazza della Signoria they are nowhere to be seen. But everybody else is there - carders, peasants, fishermen - and Geri buries the dyers in the depths of his memory, heaping the details of the day upon them. For now, beneath the grey drizzle, there y are drums and raucous horns, as the long parade uncoils from the Piazza Santa Caterina, across the grey river and up through the throngs of the Via Gentili. The King, of course, is in the lead, wrapped in his sheepskin robe, his brow sprouting ram's horns, while Bartolomeo and

Vieri follow at his heels, carrying the Prior, red-robed and great-girthed, stuffed with soiled wool and as big as two men. Troops of carders march behind in time to the drums, their faces white with chalk like Death's own army, the charcoal of their eyes, moistened by the rain, already weeping in black tears to the ground. In their hands they wave the weapons of their trade, the sharp- toothed cards and combs of martyrdom, as if they were smuggled swords. And behind them come the peasants with their flails and levelling rakes, chanting rhymes to the beat of the drums - "Pile up the fires, pile up the

Pyres, pile on the liars and pile on the Priors," or

"Thresh the great and rich, flail them till they twitch, beat and beat and beat, to make the harvest sweet" - until these voices that rumble like drums, and drums that shout like voices, fill each quarter on the route with the thunder of their passing.

Next comes the world that marches on its head, the topsy turvy parade of husbands beaten by their wives, of merchants who wait upon their servants, of mice that devour the great Guelph lion, its tawny wool ripped to shreds by their teeth, the clay of its face already melting in the drizzle. Impossibility is piled on y absurdity, as if the order of things were inverted, and the parade were time itself marching backwards, till the final conundrum - a fisherman caught by a mackerel - leads to the marchers of the Borgo San Pietro. These come striding behind their banner, a fish that holds the keys of Saint Peter in its mouth. And here comes their fisher- king, arrayed like some moth-eaten Neptune, riding in an ox-drawn boat with wheels, his moon-queen there beside him. His minions come after with their nets and hooks and traps, while hers - the hunters of shellfish - come marching with their lanterns. Among them, flaking and misshapen, is the leviathan itself, built from cast-off tanners' hides, its own huge bones picked clean and piled together. A Prior Jonah - bearing an uncanny likeness to the landlord of so many, Agnolo del Leone - is wriggling in its jaws, interrupting his tortured-looking struggles to wave incongruously at friends among the onlookers.

This beast's patched tail is more or less the tail of the procession, a thing so long and slow that it's almost sunset by the time they all arrive at the Piazza della Signoria. Here they beat their drums and chant their rhymes, planting their emblems on the flagstones of the square before dispersing to their homes or local taverns.

Later, when night has properly fallen and the watch arrives at the Palazzo dei Dieci, they find before them on the steps, hacked and torn apart by hooks, combs, cards and flails, the figure of the bloated woollen

Prior.

* * * The worthies put on a show

All the big people of Topomagro - those who, be they short or skinny, could stuff their shoes or vests with florins - were seated in the main salon of Tuccio's house. There were the full contingent of Priors and

Gonfalonieri, as well as numerous advisers and special commissioners; there were the main officials from the

Confraternity of Saint Mark, and the consuls from the town's leading guilds. Most were members of both the confraternity and the Guelph Party, so that the protocols of decision-making were well-established amongst them.

Indeed, the decisions had already been taken in one forum or another, and the present meeting had been little more than a means of re-affirming their mutual conviction.

Tuccio, tired from all the talking, stood at the head of the table in order to wind things up. "The important point," he said, hoping his tone sounded final enough,

"is that the sheer strength and confidence of our display should discomfit the seditionists. If this doesn't work, and insurrection ensues, then our response must be quick and ruthless. They have signalled the violence of their intent, and we must signal the resolve and power of our own. "

"I still can't believe their audacity, Tuccio," said

Bartolomeo Chiaudano. "That business with the effigy, on the very steps of the Palazzo, and those traitorous rhymes. I - " Yes, yes, Bartolomeo, put in Tuccio, eager to avoid the resurrection of earlier points of contention. Once again he attempted to establish that conclusive and concluding tone of voice. "Some of what has happened might well deserve punishment in itself, yet its only real danger lies in what it may portend. If we act too rashly, we might precipitate those very events we are hoping to avoid, yet might avoid them if we find the wisest middle y path. And once tempers cool, when Lent has had its chastening influence, then there may be time to patiently seek out and punish those guilty of the crimes you so admirably condemn, Bartolomeo."

"Please, not may, Tuccio, but must," the man insisted.

"They must be punished."

"Indeed...yes, indeed. But before you all go - " and

Tuccio said this rather loudly, so that even those who were half asleep might hear - "we owe a debt of thanks to one whose information we have found invaluable." He gestured that this individual should rise. "On behalf of everybody here, I would like to thank you for your courage and sense of civic responsibility, Bernardo Zoppo. "

* One week after the carders' march, the lanaiuoli and their friends had completed their preparations for the selection of their king. It was to be by means of a tournament in the Piazza della Signoria, where the crowds had been gathering since early morning, jostling into the areas roped off to contain them, while the sun flashed and vanished behind a host of fluttering banners. The largest of these were the Guelph Party's flag and that of

Saint Mark's confraternity, whose respective lions went y billowing out above the crowd as if suddenly come to life. The lamb of the Arte della Lana crouched timidly beneath them, for the lion was in the ascendant, and word had gone out that this was to be the most splendid of tournaments ever held in the broad piazza. Nor were the crowds disappointed with what they discovered when they arrived. Parti-coloured pavilions had been set up at the piazza's entrances, and temporary loggias, decorated with pennants and painted shields, had been constructed against the walls of surrounding buildings. At the centre of the square was a Castle of Love, far larger and more opulent than that of the feast of Saint Martin.

From his seat in the worthies' raised stand, Tuccio observed the people's faces and could not resist smiling.

"It's money well spent," he murmured. "They're clearly impressed. "

"But surely it's our wealth they object to." His wife frowned down at the milling multitude. ''These don't object. Only a tiny minority objects." He cast a proprietorial eye across the people. "If they have a good time they will love us."

The frown remained on Beatrice's face. "Then this may only reach those from whom we face no danger."

"You're in a mood for argument today, Beatrice." He y touched her arm gently, then slowly shook his head. "No,

they're here alright, the questioners. It only remains to dissuade them. But look." And he pointed to the air

between the Palazzo dei Dieci and the Arte della Lana.

For there, suspended on a chain that stretched from the

tower to one of the guildhall's bartizans, was a knight on an armoured horse. The chain itself, only visible in

intermittent links that glimmered in the sun, might

almost not have been there, as if the knight, his balancing lance held sideways, were riding through the

air. The people were now silent, only interrupting the hush to gasp and point toward the guildhall, where a

second mounted knight was stepping out onto the chain.

We've paid a shipload of saffron for this troupe to come

from Venice," Tuccio murmured in Beatrice's ear, smiling with delight when she shushed him away.

In the middle of the air, the mounted knights approached each other slowly. Then gently, carefully, they lifted their long lances. Their sway-backed horses plodded like chargers in a dream, and their tinny armour flashed above the crowd, who craned their necks in one long tension as the lances crossed, went slithering together, then met the riders' breastplates. And suddenly everything sped up. One knight stayed standing on the chain, the other abruptly tumbled - horse, rider, lance and helmet.

Screams and groans erupted from the crowd. The rider snatched the chain, the horse tore apart, the top half catching at the rider's ankles, the bottom firmly clutching to the top half's legs. Then, in a fury of leapfrogging, the three performers jumped back onto the chain, joining the first knight and his disassembled horse, all bowing together above the roaring crowd.

"Expensive," sighed Tuccio, "but I think we succeeded there. "

Yet Beatrice didn't answer, her attention already captured by a second act that pressed hard upon the first. As if to continue the martial theme, a pair of armoured giants had now entered the piazza, great stilted figures in painted wooden hauberks, moving jerkily about the square like massive insects, one blazoned with a rampant lion, the other with a lamb. The articulations of their limbs squeaked faintly in the silence, while the onlookers barracked their chosen contender.

"And where are these from?" laughed Beatrice. "Milan," he said, abstracted. "The Archbishop likes this sort of thing..." then cried, "Oh, yes, just right," as the knight with the lion struck down his opponent, who tumbled to the stones in a clattering heap. Nor were the cheers for the lion's triumph entirely lost on the merchant.

Yet, no sooner had these giants retired, than stewards were preparing the square for the tourney, and maidens ascending the Castle of Love, as if the aim were to overwhelm the audience with the sheer speed of each combat. Now the sons of merchants and rentiers, traders and bankers, entered the square on their beautiful horses, their swords, shields and armour all shining like strangers to blood and rust. Here, once again - unoriginal, perhaps, but surely unequalled in splendour - were mock-armies, brief seiges, sorties with much derring-do, massed attacks on the Castle, and at last, in a shower of petals, the distibution of honours, the lion's share going, of course, to the lion. The self- proclaimed Knights of Saint Mark - the most youthful members of that confraternity - galloped in triumph around the square, waving their swords and their lion- ridden banners.

"Now, there's panache and virility," cried Tuccio. "Let's see the clog-wearers match that. And just listen to that applause. They're eating it up." 468

Beatrice, too, was applauding. "Yes, they like it alright."

"And the real tournament hasn't even started. That's where the troublemakers will see what they're up against."

"Mmn." She peered myopically at the pavilions from which the contestants were just now emerging, then pointed at a tall figure on a black horse. "Look, there's Baldassare."

And indeed, a number of horsemen were now entering the square, clad in full armour. The merchant and his wife picked out, not only their son-in-law, but his friends,

Bernardo Cuorevero and Aldo del Palagio, as well as numerous others from among the town's worthies. The armour and colours of these individual combatants were more splendid still than those of the "armies", and there was a great deal more parading around the piazza, while various entrepreneurs went scurrying about collecting illegal bets. Nor were the contests a disappointment, with Bernardo Cuorevero emerging victorious from one especially bruising combat, in which his blade slipped under his opponent's pauldron, causing a nasty gash.

"Oh, I don't like that," said Tuccio. "We don't want them hurting each other." 469

But there were no further woundings, and the eliminations proceeded smoothly, culminating in an exhausting bout between Bernardo and Baldassare, which, by a process of attrition, Baldassare finally won.

"Oh, good," purred Monna Beatrice, while Tuccio beamed with fatherly pride. "He's the King, then."

"We-ell, not quite," said Tuccio, jerking his chin in the direction of one further challenger, who was just now entering the square.

"What?" she cried. "But that's not fair. He's fought no- one. He's completely fresh."

"Never mind, it's all been arranged, my dear," and he peered uneasily at the crowd, which, if anything, appeared well pleased to have another combat to watch.

"Arranged? What do you mean arranged? It's not fair to

Baldassare."

"Oh, no...no, he's aware of what's going on," he dithered distractedly. "And, well...you'11 know too in a minute."

The challenge was made and accepted. Both would do battle on horseback. Both would use swords. And Monna Beatrice couldn't help thinking that the newcomer - a rather fat- looking individual, even for someone in armour - had a most ungainly seat. Nor was he any more impressive when they finally came to blows. He aimed great arcing thwacks at Baldassare's helm, once or twice landing with the flat of his sword, but leaving numerous openings to his opponent. Yet Baldassare seemed unable to take the advantage, jabbing once or twice beneath his guard, but mostly using his sword to ward off the cudgel-blows aimed at his head.

y "What's the matter with him?" cried Beatrice.

Tuccio raised a finger to his lips. "I've told you,

Beatrice. He knows what he's doing,"

"No!" she snapped, anxiously shaking her head. "He's been wounded. In one of the earlier combats. Otherwise he'd move faster than that."

"Oh, I don't think he's hurt. Perhaps he's just fired."

He glanced at her sideways. "Don't you think so?"

"Look!" she cried, giving a little gasp as the challenger landed a blow on Baldassare's cuirass, knocking him right off his horse, so that he fell to the ground with a shuddering clang and appeared unable to rise. The stewards ran out, bent over the prone Baldassare, then declared his opponent the winner. "Oh, you shouldn't have allowed it," she snarled, watching the stout man tug at his visor. "It wasn't fair. He was exhausted after those earlier combats."

"You see," whispered Tuccio, pointing out the panting red face of Bernardo Zoppo, as florid as a helmeted lobster. "It's more political than theatrical."

"No, I don't see at all. Baldassare might have been hurt. "

"He's not hurt. It's the arrangement," he hissed, unable to resist a smile at how nicely she'd been gulled.

"Baldassare agreed to it. It means that the dyers, the most pivotal group, are now with us. And not just

Bernardo's own. Making a dyer our Carnival King means that all the dyers are with us. And the carders, and all of their friends, will see it, publically, like this, right now."

She shrugged, unimpressed. "Well, I don't like it.

Baldassare could have won. It's like making a clown our

King."

"If nothing else in the day does the trick," he smiled, appearing not to have heard her protests, "this will demoralise them." And, indeed, his words were born out by those large groups of dyers who yelled their approval. They might well have been cheering his tactics. Nor did their roaring abate, but increased three-fold, when Agnolo del

Leone - the gold coronet and ermine-trimmed robe in his arms - descended the stairs to crown the dyer as King beneath hosts of billowing lions.

* y

Later that afternoon, Geri Pinza stood among the people on the Via Gentili to watch the worthies' parade. He waited with Alfredo and a host of other carders beneath the high walls of the merchants' palazzi. Those around him were poor, and though at first he'd felt discouraged by the size of the turnout, it was their squalor, their rags, the stink of their poverty that now reassured him.

The lanaiuoli had been granted the luck, not only of their birth, but of one of the finest days all that winter. Yet the warmer the sun and the brighter their armour the more the crowds would resent them. He peered about him, and here were paupers infested with vermin, vagrants with broken, carious teeth, workers drunk with bad wine and hunger, all the troops of that hidden army just waiting for the first real crack in the high walls about them. Then the sound of beaten drums and blown brass announced that the worthies were coming, and he, like all those about him, peered intently along the street. The first of them all was Bernardo, the Lion King, with his glittering crown and long robes. Then, close at his heels, came the knights he'd so doubtfully vanquished, their smiles and steel blades aglitter in the sun. Next were the Priors and all the great ones of the town, dressed in the trappings of office or wealth, followed by the priests and the doddery bishop, after whom were the merchants and moneychangers, physicians and lawyers, perhaps more magnificently dressed than anyone else, with their wives on their arms in their opulent gowns. Banners waved and flags flew above them, while conservative craftsmen and careful small businessmen trailed along after, looking piously proud to be there at all. The procession surged past on the wings of its wealth, or so it seemed to"Geri, as he watched them vanish up the street, followed by the ranks of the militia and troops of the city gates. Here was no Carnival parade, no freedom, no rich hint of chaos. Here was the simple display of might and God's good order as seen by the

Priors - the florin, the cross and the sword, all spelt out to caution the people. But the people were past the point of such warnings, of this he felt certain. He turned to confirm his conviction, and felt his guts twist as he saw, not only the ignorant paupers, but his carders as well - even Luca, their Carnival King - staring in open-mouthed awe at the vanished procession.

* * * Mardi Gras riots

Mardi Gras - forty days before Christ's Passion -

Carnival's last convulsive shudder before the pale sobriety of Lent. Here, before the fast, the feast; before abstinence, abundance; before chastity, lubricity

- all day, the lords of misrule have reigned in every tavern, and the courts of fools have been in session.

Parades, burlesques and banquets, till now less frequent y than in richer times, have suddenly burst forth upon the town. Great bands of paupers and vagabonds have gathered to be fed at church and hospice, while gangs of youths, apprentices, poor journeymen, have run in drunken sorties through the streets. Strange sights have widened the eyes of sober citizens - a tournament of jesters armed with wooden spoons, which left four senseless on the stones of the Piazza San Stefano; a bloated man astride a wine tun, with two dead pheasants in his hands; a cripple playing

Lazarus in a street burlesque; and in the Piazza del

Colombo, a gigantic pair of roosters pecking at each other's painted fabric feathers. In the brothels, full as churches, the townsmen have partaken of the body, and in the streets there has been blood.

In the early evening, at Lent's threshold, the

Confraternity of Saint Mark holds a feast at its eponymous abbey. Here are meats and wines to rival Gaia's wedding banquet, though the entertainments are more extravagant. For the same Venetian ropewalkers now traverse the vaulted ceiling, and jugglers from Parma vie with Florentine clowns for the worthies' attentions.

Sicilian fire-eaters, like domesticated dragons, offer to roast the ladies' meats, while contortionists rival the looped pasta with their twinings. Tuccio, as de facto host with Agnolo del Leone, observes the goings-on with proprietary pride.

He watches Marina and Baldassare rise to dance, while a y performing Lombard bear, still tethered by a chain to its master's belt, steps up onto a keg and rolls it back and forth, its feet flip-flopping on the staves. He leans back with a sigh, and closes his eyes slowly. Such a pleasant evening, so long as nothing happens to disturb it. Yet, should things go wrong, and the clog-wearers make their move, his young men are all too ready. The militia is on the alert, there are weapons here and at the Palazzo, and the addresses of known leaders - such as those of his own workers, Geri Pinza and Alfredo

Crostadura - have been distributed. But he's convinced that nothing will disturb their celebrations. The eruption has been indefinitely postponed. Yes, of this he feels quite certain, and tries to put all thoughts of it away from him, determining to let himself relax and enjoy the remainder of his meal.

Later, after compline and the completion of their supper, they all don masks and assemble on the Via del Colombo for their procession to the Palazzo. Here, they walk with lanterns, their silks and satins rustling like the wings of fireflies as they parade past Tuccio's house, his servants gaping from the windows. The ladies wear the faces of enamelled, sequined cats, and in the lamplight's shifting glow the men walk, chatting, like elegant bears or lions. Since the curfew has been cancelled for the procession, a host of onlookers gathers on the way, while the militia's blades clank warningly behind. But the winter night is cold, and soon, beneath the sculpted brows and cheekbones, only those lips painted red have not turned blue, so that all are pleased when the brief parade is over and the mansion of Bartolomeo Chiaudano comes into view, and then the Palazzo's castellated tower. Here, followed by the ropewalkers, contortionists, the jugglers and the bear, they hurry inside to their

Mardi Gras ball, while the militia take positions round the inner courtyard.

At about this time, in the Borgo Santa Caterina, the carders storm across the old stone bridge, their torches burning in the new moon's dark. They seem to move in a shower of flames, the wey-faced ones with hollow eyes, the painted death-masks, the cone-nosed men that dance about like mosquito-sired demons. Stout Geri strides it out with Alfredo at his side, eyes shadowed black with charcoal. Behind them come the gangs of workers from the carding sheds, and peasants from the town, and even some who've crawled already through the breach below the wall, all marching in their grotesque masks to the bray of wooden horns. At their head, now lumbering between the walls of torchlit houses, is their King in effigy, a

Prior stuffed with straw, his face the grimacing image of

Tuccio di Piero Landucci aflicker in the orange light.

Geri peers round him at his army, listening to their roars of laughter with deepening satisfaction. The dozy watchmen sent to spy upon their homes had crumpled without a sound. It was a portent of the night ahead, and he stares along the darkened tunnel of the Via Gentili y toward the tower of the Palazzo, unseen but fast approaching.

Some way ahead of them and to their left, in the Borgo dei Panettieri, yet another Mardi Gras procession is in

progress. A host of children, wearing woollen cloaks and

carrying tapers, moves slowly through the streets. Two

ancient friars from San Francesco lead them, conducting

their chant with trembling hands as their high-pitched

voices cry:

"In the wheat field, kill the mice,

In the hencoop, kill the lice,

In the fruit trees, kill the weevils,

Fire, kill the Devil's evils."

For these children wander through the streets of baker's

shops and granaries with cleansing fire in their hands, eyes solemn with their purifying task, as if spring

itself depended on their presence. And the old friars 478 guide their footsteps, ushering them through the dark, their tapers a pale reflection of the carders' torches, their voices a soft echo of the carders' roaring voices a dozen streets away.

In the Palazzo dei Dieci the worthies' ball proceeds apace. A wide circle of masked dancers orbits the central fire, while jugglers dressed like jesters lob apples past the bear, his back quite black with shadow, belly red with fiery light. Tuccio, puffing from his exertions, flops amongst the cushions beside Agnolo del Leone.

"Well," he says, "it looks as if the gamble's paid off," and Agnolo turns to nod his head, both unaware that, just beyond the walls of the Palazzo, the carders are erecting their great bloated Tuccio on the Piazza della Signoria.

For here - while Tuccio converses comfortably within - the faggots are heaped about his effigy's straw legs, his crimes upon its head. As the captain of the militia runs in to tell them all, the straw erupts in wreaths of flame, till the windows glow vermilion and the captain stands there gaping, his message never heard.

Men and women hurry to the windows. Baldassare and

Bernardo Cuorevero have already gone to fetch the weapons from the cellar. "Riot!" cries one amongst the crush.

The rebellion's started!" shouts another, rushing for the door, while yet others try to calm the mounting

Panic. "They're trying to get in!" "They'll kill us all!"

~ but Agnolo del Leone, flushed with drink or anger, 479 bangs a chair down on the floor so hard that, for a moment A there is silence. "No-one's coming in!" he bellows. "And no-one will be killed except through fear."

While he tries to get them quiet, Tuccio confers with one of his servants, saying, "You know which way, once you turn off the road to Perugia?" And the youth, still nodding, rushes from the room. A host of men now swarm up from the cellar, holding spears, swords and halberds.

And better even than the wrath of old Agnolo is the sight y of all these warriors bristling with bright arms, so that fearful cries now turn to heartening shouts as the troops surge out the door. Here, in the square, they find only

Tuccio's straw effigy, already withering, while far across the town they see the glow of further burning.

Then they break up into groups, fanning out among the streets, some clad half in steel and half in silk, others dressed like dandies, while others yet - forgetful or uncaring - still wear their masks, and leap into the dark like bulls or bears or lions, swords swinging in their

fists .

Geri Pinza stands in the street beneath the burning

Palazzo of Marco Martello. The lower windows, like the mouths of kilns, spew orange flame, and incandescent

streamers flicker through the smoke that seeps between

the roof-tiles. He feels as if his chest and face, both

crimson with the heat, have caught on fire, yet doesn't move, standing on the stones in silent contemplation of the carders' work, the torch still smouldering in his hand. In their first rush through the house, the rioters have hurled the most splendid of its contents out of upper windows, down into the street, where others now put them to the torch; so that tapestries and carpets, great heaps of clothing, bolts of silk, rugs, the embroidered canopies of beds, ignite in bright red flame, each one infected by its neighbour as with some luminous disease, y while carders, combers, washers, scourers, leap from blaze to blaze with torches in their fists. Further down the street, the children and the household's servants cringe in doorways, while neighbours - some with buckets sloshing in their hands - attempt to comfort them, yet stay back from the house, discouraged by the carders' swords. Vagrants too are here already, some drawn forth by riot, some by hope of heat, but most by the thought of pilfering some object of great value from the blaze, darting in amongst the piles as yet untouched by torches, or crouching round a fire's crackling birth, plunging in their hands for a piece of clothing or a pile of gilded buttons, only to be flung aside and threatened with a blade.

Against the black sky, where the road slopes down toward the sea, a tower is now burning. Sulphurous clouds already roil about it, and Geri briefly wonders where the blaze will stop, just what will happen if they go on with their torches. But then he sees a group of carders loading jewellery, gowns of samite, silver buckles, sconces from the walls - any number of things - into a damask swatch, and all these questions leave him.

He rushes over, shouting, "Leave those things alone," and waving his extinguished torch. "We can't let them call us thieves."

The carders, who are men from the workshops of Marco

Martello, stare up at him, amazed. "What?" demands one.

"How else are we to get our due?"

"Not by thieving," Geri insists. "The due of thieves is to be birched naked through the streets."

"Then it's Marco who should be birched," protests another, "since it was him who stole from us."

"That's right," says the first, gathering the cloth about his spoils. "We're taking our due payment."

Geri knocks the damask from his fingers with the torch, then draws his sword. "We agreed on this. We mustn't risk our cause with accusations of looting." But now another group arrives, including Luca and Alfredo, who also draw their swords.

"It's true!" snaps Luca. "We said that was the way," and most of the others mutter their agreement. "Set this junk alight!" says Geri, while the pilferers protest. But Alfredo thrusts his torch against the damask cloth, which smokes, then starts to blaze. "We can only lose by stealing."

"Well, what do we do now then," snarls one of the would- be looters, "since we can't do much more here?"

y "Burn down Tuccio's carding sheds," says Luca, raising his torch in the air.

Alfredo looks at him and shakes his head. "Don't be an idiot. The sheds are the carders' livelihood."

"Then we'll burn his house. Just like Martello's. What do you say?"

"Alright, let's do it."

"Burn down Tuccio's house!"

And already they are rushing up the street, no longer

bothered with the conflagration, united once again, while

the servants shamble forward and the vagrants leap among

the half-burnt piles of valuables.

At about this time, a group of peasants from a nearby

village, having crawled beneath the walls, are forcing entry to a butcher's shop near the Ospedale quarter. When the gates give way they tumble in, then stare about them, axes at the ready. There's nothing in the courtyard but carcases that hang from hooks, though they don't let this discourage them, knocking down the door into the house, where they find the butcher and his wife already wriggling through the windows that lead into the rear lane.

"Got you!" laughs their leader, and drags the butcher down, turning as he sees his wife rush for the door. "Go on, get her!" he yells, hauling his man into the yard, where the woman now stands pinioned.

"We've waited a long time for this," he says, face wreathed in a broken grin.

"What, what is it?" The man's knees buckle, and only his assailants stop him falling.

"What is it?" The peasant puts the point of his old knife against the fellow's chin. "Well you might ask." Then yanks him closer to the carcases, so that his feet scrape on the ground. "But you couldn't really give a fuck, now could you?"

"I - I haven't done anything, I - " The knifeblade, scraping at his jawbone, interrupts his protests. 484

"Shut up!" The man holds the knife firm, glancing at the others as the woman starts to yell, and they pull her

hair till she subsides in whimpers. "As if the toll on

the beasts wasn't bad enough, consider what you pay us.

And look at the profits you've been making." He indicates the ample house and shop, for indeed, the butcher is by

far the weathiest of his trade within the town, virtually

controlling the purchase price of any creature bought for slaughter. "Have you seen how men are living in the villages?"

"Have you seen how men are dying?" cries another.

»TI > ve got n-nothing to do with - " he whines, then shrivels back, chin streaming blood as the knife flicks up once more.

"That's right," says the leader, "n-nothing, n-not any more," and they drag him closer to the marbled slabs of meat that sway upon their hooks. "How do you think it feels to be one of these creatures that you slaughter?"

Then, when the man just gapes back, silent, he prods the blade into his ribs. "Well, how?"

I-..I don't..." But the words have dribbled dry.

Well, then," he laughs, eyeing the butcher, then a vacant hook, "there's only one way to learn, isn't there?" And in a single swinging lift they heave him up, then jerk him down, so the hook tears through his neck, leaving him dangling, making strangled sounds, toes fretting at the stones while his wife cries, "Please, please, let him down." But they truss her up with bits o twine and gag her with her blouse. They trade swift glances; then, at a nod of the leader's head, go running out the gates, leaving the woman - hands tied behind her

- trying to wedge her back beneath her husband's feet to ease him from his pain. y

Meanwhile, in the Via dei Panettieri, the tower of Agnol del Leone burns forty times over in the eyes of the children with their tapers. The old friars order them away, but some continue staring, while further up the street a crowd of paupers has lain seige to a rich bakery. Their angry voices rise beneath the fire's roar, and as the children watch, the door collapses and some rush in, others peering through the windows, till the baker himself is flung into the street while some shout

"Robber!" and some cry "Give us bread!"

"There's barely a loaf to give you," his thin voice pipe above the roaring tower. "Liar!" they cry, and yet he argues still: "I give to charity." But "Liar!" they cry once more, and with a wrenching thrust they lift him up, back through the door, and like a single starving thing come lunging after him. But the friars gather in their charges, herding them away to San Francesco, while once again their high-pitched, holy voices chant: 486

"In the wheat field, kill the mice,

In the hencoop, kill the lice,

In the fruit trees, kill the weevils, Fire, kill the Devil's evils."

A little later - long fingers of red flame clutching at his back - Geri Pinza comes scuttling out beneath the ground-floor arch of Tuccio's house. The shop is already well ablaze, and a group of carders are kicking at the recessed door that leads up to the house. Servants are flinging open the upper shutters and staring out in terror. Some shout down info the street, but Geri doesn't listen, since he's seen the men approaching from the Via del Colombo, figures wielding heavy swords, half-armoured in helms or gambesons, some in cloaks of minever and some with lacquered masks still fastened to their faces.

They're coming fast now, at a run, maybe twenty of them, twenty-five at most, and he stares about him quickly, checking the number of his workers gathered in the street

- at least fifty carders, and perhaps as many washers and scourers combined, all with knives and some with swords.

Then the worthies are upon them, Doffo del Bene at their head, young men with training and good weapons. He sees a group of carders fall back, running, some cut down in the initial onslaught, till it seems the very suddenness of the attack might cause a rout; and he waves his torch about him, abusing the retreating figures. But Alfredo is already there, emerging from the flames below the house with a further score of men, all hurling their red torches at the worthies, who try to ward them off as

Alfredo, Luca, Vieri and the rest come slicing in with swords. And now he hears a cry from the dark beyond the fire, and peering out toward it, sees a mass of peasants, rakes and scythes raised in their hands as they hurtle down the street.

A rush of triumph fills him. He feels the power of the y poor converging to avenge those wrongs till now unrighted. The young men rally, back to back, set upon by torches, flails and sickles and the best blades of Milan.

Some attempt to withdraw to less exposed positions, Doffo del Bene cutting a wide path with his broadsword, while others simply scatter, harried by the peasants. For the first time that night, Geri sloughs off his sense of desperation. His cause swells up inside him, and he too rushes forward with his sword to join the fray. Around him now the ever-present vagrants have swarmed in, having seen which way the fight is going, kicking at the youths who've fallen to the ground and snatching their fine weapons.

In the light that flickers from the burning shop, he sees faces cruel or frightened, grotesque as figures on cathedral walls. But something flashes at his eyes, and he glimpses the raised sword already at its zenith. Then he lunges with his blade, piercing the boy's soft belly, watching how he grits his teeth, breath rattling as he falls. He wrenches back before the sword's dragged from him, eyes fixed upon the boy's racked face, even while he senses something different in the street, some kind of rumbling thunder that echoes through the stones. He stops, and others round him stop as well, even those caught in the midst of murdering each other, all listening, letting their swords drop, turning slowly like somnambulists to peer up the street, where, coming through the fast-converging host, they see the horsemen, swords upraised and axes hacking down, hewing hands, arms, heads, like Death's own woodsmen helmed with boar and metal swan. Saint Mark has brought Wolf Schwanhals.

* * * In which Brother Corvo reaps a harvest

In the Piazza San Stefano there are twenty weird trees.

Each has a trunk with just one branch, supported by a single brace. Each branch bears one dead fruit, and that fruit is a man, jrnd he hangs from a rope. Here, in this orchard of dead men that grows from the stones before the church of San Stefano, a single watchman dozes by his fire. It is now, with the moon overhead, the watchman sleeping and the Porta San Stefano locked for the night, that Brother Corvo, old Maria, Speranza, Fiducia and half-a-dozen others come slipping from a laneway amongst the shadows of the square.

Brother Corvo - who'd held his minions prudently aloof from the Mardi Gras disturbances - puts a finger to his lips and bids them linger where they are. For they have spent some hours dodging the town watch, creeping from the breach in the south-east walls - shown them by Lucia in payment for their poisons - and he wants no errors now. So they remain, and he slips across the square, gliding from one thicket of dark shadows to the next, only the knife that glints its silver mimicry of moonlight hinting at his presence. But the watchman remains snoozing, and goes on sleeping still, even when the blade has slithered through his ribs, disturbing his repose for just a moment of sharp anguish. Then Corvo strides about the square more carelessly, his habit gathered round him, hands clasped behind his back, surveying those geometric trees and their dead fruit like some monastic orchardist. Here is the heavy form of Geri

Pinza, dangling from his rope, eyes bulging in his face and his tongue stuck out. And there, Alfredo, head cocked strangely down, as if his body, yearning for the earth, sought to wrench his twisted neck out of the noose. Luca,

Vieri, the leader of the peasants - Benno Sapori - and numerous others are hanging there as well; and Corvo peers up into their choked blue features as if to read y some oracle of Topomagro's future.

Finally he crooks an arm, and his followers come forward, glancing silently about them. One or two stroll over to the watchman's fire to warm themselves, but most have taken Corvo's lead, wandering amongst that gallery of dangling limbs and grotesque faces. Only Maria, Speranza and Fiducia seem intent upon some purpose, for which the old woman draws a shiny, well-kept knife out of her robes, while the others grip her round the hips and legs to lift her up. She reaches with her spindly arms, extending the blade toward the face of Luca Peroni, the erstwhile King of the Carders, where his teeth, tight- clenched into a grimace, have almost bitten through his tongue. She slices once - finding the job quite easy, since Luca has all but done it for her - and, catching the leathery thing between her fingers, puts it in her woollen pouch. Her work is not so simple with Geri, whose tongue, though rigid and quite purple, is perfectly intact. With him, she takes her time, cutting away carefully, and puffing o\it small gasps of steamy breath from the exertion. Slowly, she completes her circuit round the bodies, omitting only those whose tongues are captive under teeth and the locked muscles of clenched jaws.

This harvest done, she closes up her pouch, kneading the stiff contents and smiling to herself. For they will soften well enough when boiled and leached out for their virtues. Now Brother Corvo crooks his arm once more, returning whence they've come. Nor does he glance back at the carders, since their destiny will not be his. He has far more than desperation - or even so tenuous a thing as justice - on his side. The God of Light, like the sun behind a hawk, is with him, and the shadow too that comes out of the south to do His will. To the east of the town he hears the pipes still skirling, guiding his party back toward the camp of their provisional exile, and for the moment he goes to them.

* * * WIDDERSHINS

PART THREE: THE LORD OF LIGHT Brother Corvo prepares for battle

Dawn, the beginnings of spring, the east a white light, a hole in the dark from which a cold wind comes like the breath of day's waking. To the east of the town, on a bare, stony hill figures move, a flapping of rags, a spare-jointed stamping, shadows cast against light. As if day mourned its birth, the song of the wind is the whining of pipes and the cry of cracked voices. A fire y rocks and shivers, coughs sparks into the paling sky, while the figures circle round it like a dance of moulting birds. One, the crone Maria, feeds its flames with odd gobbets - a buzzard's cut heart, vervain picked barefoot under Taurus, a donkey's pizzle, blessed wine mixed with spittle - and the blaze leans out toward her in the wind, opening its red maw. The dancers reel and stumble as if drunk, baring their teeth to laugh, while

Brother Corvo, with a reddened stick or bone, covers rags in lists of words. Fiducia, having found the power of talismans and amulets under old Maria's guidance, now moves among them draped with hangings like a human shrine

- sprigs of rosemary to ward off hostile spirits, heliotrope to silence slander, a hare's foot for the soothing of wild dogs, mistletoe against arraignment, and five nettle leaves to ensure safety from all fantasy.

She, like her companions, slows her dancing and turns her eyes to Corvo as he rises from his writing. Now, bending for a moment by the fire, he speaks the words of consecration to a heap of bone and feathers.

Then he lifts the buzzard with its heart cut out, holding it above his head, wings spread - a burlesque cruciform for adoration - before he hurls it at the flames. His people now stand watching in the vaporous air, while

Maria comes to help him with the pile of scribbled rags, lifting them up and flinging them amidst the heat, where they fall, then briefly seem to float until they fall y once more, these namings, as their owners fell from

Heaven into fire. The crowd washes back, mindful that the burning of such words might free the spirits which they name. They wait to windward of the heat, while the fire, whipped and kindled by the blast, yearns down toward the town with smoky sighing. But Corvo stands before them, opening out his arms to guide the streams of embers, crying, "Fall upon them in Your light as You fell from

Your twin God, YHWH, Tetragrammaton, God of darkness and gross matter. Fall upon them in the brightness of Your being, whom some call Lucifer, and others Satan, and yet others foul Beelzebub. Fall upon them and ignite their darkness with Your light, tear their gross flesh with teeth of purest flame, Apollyon and Abaddon. Bring forth

Your great powers, Asmodeus, Berich and Azazel, and deploy those princes despised by Your dark twin, abandoned by His world, and variously cursed as Dagon,

Thammuz, Moloch, Belial, Baal and Mammon. Call up those mysteries out of exile from the shadowed world,

Heradiana, Demogorgon and Abraxas..." Yet here some sap-filled branch or badly balanced log, or spirit reluctant to be summoned, disturbs the fire with a splintering crack and fountain of red sparks, so that

Corvo's flock begins to moan and cower in the brightening dawn, until he towers over them, throwing up his hands and shouting, "Here me, Prime One, for Your time has come and we are here to serve You. 0, Lord of Light, send forth that shadow of Yourself, that pestilence which y rages from the south and east to nullify all flesh.

Destroy this town, infect its people's blood with fevers, their flesh with sores, and in the agony of death fill every heart with black despair against the God of matter, that He may die within them. Grant us the privilege to lead them in the path of Your wise spirits, Tabuel, Adin,

Tubuas, Raguel, Sabaok, Uriel, Simiel, Floron..."

And so he continues into morning, while the members of his flock, in watching that descent of fiery spirits on f the town, feel their hearts catch fire, each one a black and burning coal within its grate of bone.

* * * Lucia takes Jacopo to Corvo's kingdom

Twin figures on the mole at Topomagro, silhouettes, their backs a little silvered with pale light. Behind them, the rising plateaux of the town with the starry Bull astride its towers, and the moon a skewered onion on the Duomo's campanile. The black sea lies before them like a breathing beast, its dark reflected in their faces as they sit and watch it, tethered by each other's arms, the slow waves lapping at their feet.

"Come tonight," insists Lucia. "Tonight's a special night for them, a kind of sabbath."

Jacopo watches her white eyes, like moons of mercury within her shadowed face. "I've said, Lucia. These friends of yours - they're witches, or worse. I don't want to go to see them."

"You're scared?" And her laughter starts as a soft carillon, but ends with a brazen echo. "I'm surprised at you, Jacopo. My little thief a coward."

For a moment he looks offended, then slowly smiles and says, "But that's the point. I am a thief, just like the merchants are thieves, and my friend, Fra Lippo. I'll trust a thief because I know what he wants. But these friends of yours, these witches...I don't trust them because I don't know what they want. Do you?" "No, not really." She shakes her head slowly, as if distracted for a moment by his question. Then she turns, waving a thin finger in his face. "But don't you be too sure of your friends, Jacopo. You think you can trust the merchants, men like Tuccio?" She spits into the hissing waves, and snaps, "They're pigs. I know what he's like, I work for him. The trouble with you is you want to be like these men, so you steal their possessions. Thieves like y you look up to them as better thieves..."

But he's shaking his head and holding out his hand toward her lips. "That's not true. I don't admire Tuccio. I hardly know anything about him. I - "

"You hardly know him? Isn't he obvious enough to anyone who's not a fool...one of those men whose silky smiles hide the heart of a vulture. Look at what he did - what he had done - to Guido and the others." She turns away, and when she speaks her words sound choked. "I saw him strangled on that rope, his eyes bulged out...his beautiful soft eyes...and his lips all twisted as his body turned..." She stops to get her breath, panting thick, dry sobs. "If I could have that done to Tuccio..."

"Lucia. ..sshhh, come on," he whispers, wrapping his arms about her, nuzzling his face into her tight-curled hair and rocking back and forth, then back and forth, upon the stony pier. 'There's nothing can be done, not now. Don't make yourself feel worse."

For a time she weeps, so that her tears add their paltry matter to the sea, and Scimmi watches as they plummet, nosing at the air, while Jacopo holds tight and croons his words like whispered lullabies. Then suddenly Lucia gives one sniff and sits up straight. "Jacopo," she says at last, then slowly nods her head. "You're right. This y isn't any use." She holds him tight and strokes his hair.

"Come...it's time you went with me...to the sabbath. They know so much of healing and of herbs...and of so many secret things." She kisses his cheeks, his lips, his eyes, wetting him with fragmentary tears, till he feels himself begin to nod in slow agreement, already rising as she goes.

"What tricks have they been teaching you?" he laughs, tucking his unwilling cat beneath one arm, and reaching out his other for her hand, skipping a little to keep up as she marches off to skirt the moonlit walls.

The fire is so large that it seems more like a mountain of luminous gold than a bonfire. It writhes and flickers, casting a lurid glare about it, and beyond, a deeper night. Caves of saffron and dark crimson burn within, and its twin lies shimmering amidst the haze and shifting 498 waters of the river. Only the figures that move round it reduce its size as they draw nearer, vague shadow-spirits that drift among its vapours. Some, naked or arrayed in rags, go reeling by like drunks, their bodies larded with dark oil, while Lucia smiles at one or two, waving her hand at some old hag who fails to notice, too busy pushing off the dogs that nuzzle at her skirts. A group beside the river passes round a bowl, each taking a small sip then handing it along. Others, stretched out near the fire, let children rub their flesh with unguents, chatting all the while. Then one, barely visible behind the amulets that clothe her, comes over to Lucia and pauses in their path.

"Here, this is for you," says Fiducia, holding out what looks like a cuttlebone strung with twine. Jacopo can see faint letters written on it. "It will help you to win favour with everyone you meet."

Lucia takes the talisman in her hand, while the woman grins eagerly up at her, eyes glazed bright with what might almost be infatuation. "Go on, read it!" she says, watching Lucia scan the letters, then peering askance at

Jacopo who cranes to see them too. S A T O R

A R E P O

TENET

OPERA

y ROTAS

Lucia squints at the powdery forms, then frowns. "But what's it mean?" she demands, frowning still harder, as if the meaning were somehow hidden in the soft, calcareous shell.

"Oh," says Jacopo, seeing something there, and Fiducia glares at him, speaking up quickly before he can tell Lucia.

"Read it down," she instructs, and Lucia opens her mouth once more, as if to make a protest, but Fiducia swiftly adds, "Now read it left to right, then read it backwards from the bottom, then - "

"But I can't read!" Lucia snaps, as if that sealed the matter. "Well, nor can I," proclaims Fiducia, unsurprised, "but that's of little consequence. Its power remains the same. Brother Corvo told me how it works."

"It reads the same all ways," says Jacopo, staring at the shell, eyes flickering across it,

"Well, of course it does." Fiducia barely looks at him, already turning the talisman about. "You see these letters on the back?" But her words are interrupted by the growling of, first, one dog, then another. A pair of massive hounds begin to bark at Scimmi's pouch, when suddenly the hag comes up with flaming brands, driving the beasts before her. Then Jacopo can see that there are further creatures near, some cringing from the barking dogs, some taut, some passive - cockerels in cages, ravens, jackdaws, birds of many sorts; and other cats and yapping dogs, a goat, a tiny hedgehog, rabbits, moles and hares - all captive at the blaze, eyes flaring with its every swelling.

"Now hurry," says Fiducia, "you should be oiled before he comes." And with no further attempt to explain who "he" might be, or why they must be oiled, she leads them nearer to the group of children by the fire.

Most among the camp have already been anointed, and the children are lounging as near to the fire as they dare.

Some seem dazed, but most are laughing as if drunk, staggering about and giggling over things invisible to Jacopo. A boy and girl - both no more than seven years old, perhaps eight at most - agree to oil him, helping him free from his smock and then his shirt, then dragging at his trousers. But he waves them off, holding valiantly to his belt, and wondering what madness has induced him to agree to this. Then he sees Lucia naked, stretching by the fire as a pair of infants lard her with their pudgy hands, and beckons back the others, telling them to oil his torso only, while he strokes poor Scimmi, her eyes red circles of reflected flame, her back still ridged and hackled.

They crouch beside him, their fingers sliding on his skin with a slow, mesmeric rhythm, as if the long anointing soothed their spirits. He too begins to feel a little dazed, perhaps by their massaging hands, the heavy air, the heat and passing night. For soon he has the sense that he is drifting, floating, wafting like a cinder in the fire's currents, till he opens his eyes to a golden light and spices fill his nostrils. Then suddenly there's movement all about him, figures rushing from the fire,

Scimmi scrabbling at his chest. "Come on!" Lucia hisses, while pipes begin to screech and wail. "He'll be here any moment." And once again he can't help wondering who this he" may be, beginning to resent "him" as he's pulled into the dancing, slow as yet, but growing faster by the minute . The ring of witches narrows and then widens, twirling him about in counter-clockwise circles, until he feels that he is spinning, not on rocks and earth, but among the fiery spheres. Nor has he any sense of passing time, since they turn against the sun; then "he" of whom they spoke rides in upon his horse, which rises like a wave before the flames, a spume of grooms gripped tight upon its harness to bind it to the earth. A tremor passes round the ring, the dancers' eyes all fixed on "him", heads twisting as they spin, while Jacopo - despite his jongleur's skills - feels bile rise in his throat.

Brother Corvo sits in stillness, witnessing the frenzy.

Then he stands up in the stirrups, eyes watching every face, and brings a slaughterman's long blade out of his habit. The circle falters, slowing, some stumbling as they turn to see him hold the knife aloft. Then, gripping the stallion's mane, he leans forward as it shies, and draws the blade in one slow, silky pass across its throat. At first there's nothing, no reaction, just the breathing of the dancers; and then the creature seems to sprout a ruby collet, a thing so fine that it might well be some reflection of the flames. But soon the collet is a pendulous, rich necklace, then a bubbling panoply that floods the stallion's breast, and the beast is walleyed, snorting bloody foam and jerking from its handlers. It tries to leap, to buck, but plunges downward in their grip, then rises trembling, head arched back, its teeth locked in a tombstone grin before it flounders, and Brother Corvo goes down with it. Yet, when the handlers part, and the horse lies dark in its own blood, he stands there, silent, shadowed by the blaze, as if its heat consumed the creature's flesh and what remained was his gaunt form.

Then what an orgy of sacrifice ensues. The necks of fluttering jackdaws, doves and ravens are wrung before their cages; goats and dogs are clubbed down where they stand, cats strangled. Hares shriek beneath the knife, blind moles grope into death, and Jacopo winces from the killing, staggering about among the yelps and cries, hands held tight on Scimmi's pouch, pushing down her head as she attempts to peep. He sees a hoopoe, wings spread wide with its heart cut out, and at the outskirts of the fire's light, a hedgehog writhing on a needle. Figures glistening with sweat and oil hurl roosters, pullets, pigeons, flapping at the flames, where, cooked upon the wing they fall, or fly like massive embers. Some dance with grotesque steps, faces painted with their creatures' blood, while others hold the bodies in the air as if in mourning. But Corvo, with the flames ascending at his back, now raises a great chalice, lifting it above the crowd before he drains it dry.

Other groups now pass round goblets of their own. The crone, the woman with the talisman, and several more besides, arrive with pitchers full of liquid; while a number of half-naked men and women, proffering a cup, already gather round Lucia and himself. She takes a draught - he sees her swallow - and passes it to him. He stares into the depths of the dark liquid, which has a brackish, oily look. "Come on, Jacopo," Lucia smiles,

"drink up." He feels their eyes upon him and tips the goblet back, taking one small sip, then making to pass it on. But the group sits watching him, impassive, and the man across the circle lifts his eyebrows, tipping back his hand to indicate that he should drink more deeply, which - since death is in the air - he does without demur, letting the bitter, bilious liquid slide thickly down his throat, and handing the cup along. He feels himself begin to heave, but holds it firmly down, his shoulders slightly hunched, lips glistening and pursed.

Now some among them, after their communion, have begun to dance once more, while others simply lie upon their backs, eyes wide and features working. He turns to face

Lucia, who flings her arms about him, plants a kiss upon his mouth and then, as he reaches out for her, jumps up amongst the reeling ring of dancers, stumbling for the fire. He rises after her, yet sinks back on his elbows as if some weight were tethered to his shoulders. When he looks again, she's gone. He tries to rise once more, then feels the turning earth, the rush of space inside his head, and - legs still moving like a toppled bug's - falls flat upon his back. He lies there, drifting in a slow dark silence, where time floods forward and ebbs back, washing over him with the voice of the black river. Somehow, out of that wash of waves he feels a movement, a warmth that, breathing, crawls across his belly and his chest. He slowly lifts his eyes, which seem to flutter like the wings of insects with the effort. He feels the silky touch of fur against his cheek, and at the very moment that he looks into her lemon eyes, Scimmi rubs against him, swaddling him deep in the thunder of her purring, kneading his chest with her needles, though he cannot feel them. He turns toward the fire, and thinks he sees Lucia conversing with the hooded man; then further, to the river, which sings now with the hissing voice of flames. It winks with quicksilver lights - the broken pieces of the moon - which drift apart then merge, then float up smoothly from the blackness into air. Pale-bellied fish break surface, then descend in plunging arcs, while others swim and slip out of the depths toward the stars. He closes his eyes, feeling waves of heat rush through him, then seems to see, as if his lids were made of glass, Lucia, her black fur pale with silvery light, tail swishing like a cat's, as she rides a flippered fish and waves a long black banner past the moon, white as a skull in the speckled sky.

Lights flash across his sight, and he writhes to flee the sound - the rumbling breath, the heated roaring in his ears. His eyes flick wide then flutter shut, yet show him Scimmi or Lucia, her long, lithe, limber body stretched upon him, a moving sheath of silk, closing round him like a moist and razored mouth. Her pointed teeth, her topaz eyes, are mirrors to the flames that crackle as they mate, her fingers scoring slits, red trenches, shreds of skin. Yet, writhing as he is, his eyes roll round like taws, reflecting shadows, fire, the men and women strangled by the claws of cats, the hedgehogs and the smiling hares that skewer them with needles, their gizzards spilled by long-beaked birds. Pale pigs are snuffling up their hearts like glistening truffles, and a great black goat, crouched before the flames, turns larded torsos on a spit. He draws his breath to scream, hearing nothing but the roar of all-consuming heat, and a crackling voice that seems to say beside his ear, "Lucia, take heart. Kill him tonight, or don't come back again."

* * * 507

Tuccio eats orange sherbet

Marina sat in the rear loggia of her father's house, feeling the warm evening breeze displace the stray wisps of hair that crept from her wimple. In her lap, her hand stroked that small fluffy dog which had been her fortuitous gift from Gaia's wedding. She smiled down at the thing, ruffling the fur between its ears, so that it wriggled and flicked its pink tongue at her fingers. She heard the clink of the cups and the low, earnest words of her father, Bartolomeo Chiaudano and the physician,

Francesco Morelli. She paid little heed, turning to the stand that supported her book, a translation from

Florence of Chretien de Troyes' romance, Yvain. But her thoughts wouldn't focus, distracted by her irritation at her father's change of attitude. For now, since Gaia's marriage, she found herself nagged and curtailed by her parents, so that her erstwhile freedom of dress, speech and movement was suddenly checked, subjected to her father's sharp tongue and the judicial gaze of her mother. "Don't use phrases like that, they're not becoming to a girl of your age." "Try not to shout,

Marina, and stop rushing round like a child." "No,

Marina, I insist, you really should dress more demurely now. What's charming at twelve may be a disgrace at fourteen." And so they went on, determined - now that

Gaia was married - that she would soon follow suit. Of this she was certain. The idea, however, held little appeal for her, though she wasn't sure why. She wanted to do other things, though again, she wasn't sure what. Her father's stories of sailing the sea to trading ports in Sicily, Spain and

Africa, or Baldassare's tales of Greece and Roumania - these fired her thoughts and made her burn to go there.

The stories she read of knights and enchantments, like the one now before her, made her want to dress in bright armour and ride a great horse on adventures. To be a y knight in strange realms - the very thought made her curl up her toes with delight. Somehow the women, sitting in their castles, doing their embroidery, waiting for news, didn't appeal to her at all. Perhaps, if you could find someone who'd take you with them on adventures...but this neither happened in the stories nor in the lives of her father and Baldassare. No, the more she thought about it, the less appeal marriage held for her, especially since it seemed to mean always speaking softly, and never running, and wearing dresses so thick and long that it felt like wading in water. But it was hard to know what to do, besides staying in her father's house forever, or entering a convent. She sighed, staring sightlessly at her book, then nuzzling her face in the dog's soft fur.

It wriggled some more, then whined with excitement, till she shook its front paw, saying, "Why is it, Palla, that the more attention I give you, the more you start to cry?" she glanced over at her father and his friends to see if they were smiling because she talked to the dog.

But they were taking no notice, too engrossed in their discussion. In fact, her father was ordering Domenica to bring them some ices.

"Our slave girl, Lucia, has become quite an expert at

Arabian sherbets," he was saying. "She makes them from our own eggs and oranges, and the ice from my cooling tower. "

"Yes, Tuccio," laughed Bartolomeo ruefully. "Before you y say another word, I'll admit it, I was wrong about the cooling tower - "

"Did you hear that, Francesco? Bartolomeo admitting he was wrong? You're a witness to this, you realize."

"Alright," Bartolomeo smiled, reddening a little, "it was a good idea. Though let's wait and see this evening's results. "

"Have no fear, it's a specialty of the house." And Tuccio sat back beaming in the temperate air. Then, with

Domenica gone, and a brief silence falling round the table, he said, "You were saying, Francesco, about the letters you'd received on the sickness to the south?"

"Well, in fact, that's just what I was about to tell you,

Tuccio," Francesco nodded, growing suddenly solemn. "It's no longer confined to the south. My friend in Genoa informs me that it's raging there, and there are rumours of some isolated cases in Pisa."

"Pisa?" said Tuccio. "From what we hear, isolated cases don't stay isolated long. If it's in Pisa, it could be here soon as well."

"Yes." Francesco stared absently toward the north, as if he might catch sight of the pestilence coming like a storm across the hills.

"I don't know," said Bartolomeo, shaking his head doubtfully. "I haven't heard that much of it really.

Sometimes it seems to me that you physicians are so hemmed in with illnesses yourselves that you get things out of proportion."

"That's not altogether wrong, Bartolomeo. But this, I think, is different." He sighed and took a little sip of wine, then looked levelly at both of them. "For those who've had their ear to the ground, these rumours have been building for some time. More than two years ago there were stories coming from the east of a pestilence in Cathay. Millions were said to have perished. And each month these stories said the plague was coming closer, sweeping on through Persia and then Tartary, Syria and

Byzantium, sparing neither heathen nor Christian." "But there's always illness breaking out somewhere," protested Bartolomeo. "To put each separate case together, as if they were all one pestilence descending on the world, is to court disaster and encourage panic."

Francesco stared at him, and seemed about to raise his voice, but took a deep, impatient breath instead, then spoke with slow deliberation. "To turn away from the facts, Bartolomeo, is another form of panic." He raised his hand as Bartolomeo made to speak once more, adding,

"The magnitude of this cannot be doubted - the stories are simply coming from far too many sources. From Sicily for instance, where the towns on the western coast are said to be all but deserted, and where war almost broke out between Messina and Catania over the protective relics of Saint Agatha. Or from Naples, where it's said that sixty-thousand people have died already. In Genoa, before they drove off a fleet of infected galleys, the sickness took hold, and now hundreds are perishing each day..."

By now, his voice had grown so urgent that Marina listened closely to his words, her thoughts distracted from her personal future to that of the whole world. The reports of which he spoke, and of which she'd heard no more than hints, made her fingers tense and nervous, twisting tight in Palla's fur until he yelped. "Yes, said Tuccio, "my agents in Barcelona have written that it's there. My Venetian office writes that Venice too has been infected."

Francesco shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "Oh, yes," he said, "and from the reports of my colleagues in that city, the Doge, Andrea Dandolo, and the Great Council have ordered strict control of immigration, setting up a quarantine of forty days at the Nazarethum, banishing the y bodies of the dead to graves on the remotest islands, forbidding beggars to exhibit corpses and releasing debtors from the gaols." Then he leaned forward, saying in a voice that was almost a whisper, "And they've even - would you believe that things could come to this? - allowed surgeons to practise medicine. Can you imagine it? Those barbers dealing with physic's intricacies, the subtleties of humours, drugs and planets. Chaos is surely descending on the world, and with the speed of an avenging angel."

"But these are great cities you're speaking of,

Francesco," Bartolomeo protested, "trading ports with ships from every land, full of riches and corruption.

Surely we're too small, too humble, to provoke God's wrath on such a scale."

Then we may provoke His wrath on a scale more like our

°wn," suggested Tuccio, "and still have no-one left alive within our walls. From what I hear of this pestilence, it makes no comprehensible distinctions, killing all it can in one place and slowly moving on."

"But why?" Marina blurted from her corner, briefly alarmed by an image of the sickness as an army, Death mounted like a general at its head.

All turned toward her, surprised by her voice, as if they'd forgotten she was there. For a moment, no-one knew quite what to say, until Tuccio replied a little testily,

"How can anyone know that, Marina? Such questions are beyond us. Only God can know their answers."

There were splutters of indignation from Bartolomeo

Chiaudano, who finally burst forth, "Well, I'm not so sure about that, Tuccio. Such suffering must surely be a punishment, and what else can a punishment be for but sin? A pestilence of the proportions suggested by

Francesco can be nothing other than God's chastisement for our ignorance and lust."

"Oh," uttered Tuccio, throwing up his hands, "well, yes, of course that's true...I wasn't questioning that..." He glared at Marina, who busied herself with the supine dog.

"What I meant," he explained, turning to the others, "was that we can't really fathom what's behind it, what's causing these things to happen...you know, through what mechanism God works. Can we, Francesco?" The physician adopted a lofty expression, then puckered his brows and lips in a frenzy of concentration. "It's very hard to say as yet," he announced at last. "As far as I can glean from my correspondence, there are numerous opinions, to put it mildly. Some say that the corruption of the soul infects the body. Though most agree that this cannot explain the thing entirely, since virtuous priests and dutiful physicians are said to perish, while men of ill-repute steal off scot-free. Most hold that it must be something far more general - a corruption in the air itself, which moves with the winds from realm to realm, destroying where it rests."

"But what corrupts the air, if not the sickness of the souls that dwell within it?" Bartolomeo pursued, his face quite comical with puzzlement, so that Marina had to stifle her laughter in Palla's fur.

"Well, once more, opinions are divided. Some, following

Galen's work on epidemics, say the corruption has resulted from putrescence, caused by those thousands killed in earthquakes to the east. Others agree about the earthquakes, but say the air has been made toxic by fumes escaping from the earth. Still others blame agents of the

Devil - witches, Jews and lepers - for releasing potions m the air, while the most learned lay the ultimate responsibility with the planets." "Mmn, Tuccio nodded solemnly, that's the way that I incline as well. "

"Yes, indeed. For I have it on good authority that members of the Medical Faculty of the University of Paris believe that the corruption is a result of the conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars in the house of

Aquarius, a very dangerous situation, I'm sure we'd all agree . " y

"But what can be done about such a disaster?" Bartolomeo cried. "We can't reverse the planets."

"Certainly not," agreed Francesco, almost as if he enjoyed the intractability of the problem. "And indeed there are those who say it is insoluble, such as Ibn Khatimah, a physician from Granada, who maintains that, at the core of every outbreak of the plague, the corruption of the air is absolute and irreversible, incapable of ever sustaining light or life again. Though others are not so gloomy."

"Yes, Francesco," nodded Tuccio, clapping his hands together, his voice suddenly quite brusque. "Yes, all this is very interesting. But I'm a banal and practical man who grows frustrated in the absence of practical solutions. The question is - what do we do now, here, short of changing planetary motions, to safeguard

Topomagro?" Francesco looked at him blankly, just as the sherbet arrived. "Ah, sweet sanity at last," smiled Tuccio with some relief, "after all these sombre notions." He watched

Lucia place the bowls on the table, each with its orange ball of sherbet as small and dark as a tangerine.

"Marina, I'm sorry, I was thoughtless. Would you like one too?"

y "Yes," she said, barely conscious of his question, still considering the burden of Francesco's words. "Thank you."

"Well then, come and join us," he commanded, waving Lucia away and Marina to him, so that she stood - the dog cradled in her arms - then sat down with them at the table. He nodded at the others, saying, "We'd better start before they melt, good manners or not," though his encouragement was hardly needed by Bartolomeo, who'd already picked up his spoon.

"Delicious," he sighed through a mouthful.

"Yes," agreed Francesco, "so cool and sweet on a balmy night. With a friend like you, Tuccio, who needs to purchase passage to the east?"

Grinning, Tuccio sheared off a scoop of sherbet with his spoon. "But just to get back to what we were saying before... about what we might do to safeguard the town. I'm concerned about the inexperience of those now serving among the Signoria. If the pestilence reaches us, do you think they'll cope?" And he raised his eyebrows for their answer, slipping the sherbet between his lips.

"There are some good men there," said Francesco,

"including two of the commune's best young physicians.

I've heard they're considering restrictive measures."

Tuccio pursed his lips, as if in disagreement, saying,

"Lucia's made these with bitter oranges. I'll have to speak to her about it."

"No, not at all," and "Oh no, they're excellent," the others protested, Francesco adding, "It's just that your pallet's been pampered by such fine food, Tuccio," so that their host shrugged, nodding, and was noted to try a second portion.

"What did you mean, 'restrictive measures', Francesco?"

"Oh, well, from what I've heard, a number of things, really...though none is more than a suggestion as yet.

For instance, they've foreshadowed an ordinance restricting visits to infected states, such as those of

Genoa and Pisa...so that anyone returning from such a visit would be refused admission to the town. Or again, there's the notion of forbidding imports from infected areas, things such as bales of wool, linen goods, corpses for burial, of course, and...what is it, Tuccio?" For both men were now staring at their host, whose face at first seemed stricken with disapproval, his eyes wide, mouth gaping, cheeks red with an excess of choler.

"Tuccio?" But now his face had turned white, and he clawed at his throat, making tiny choked sounds with no breath at all. Marina threw the dog from her lap and lurched up, but Francesco beat her to it, leaping round the table with surprising speed, shouting, "He's breathed the stuff into his lungs."

Tuccio stared at them all, his eyes bulging out, while

Francesco, straddling his legs, jerked back his head and thrust a spoon down his throat. He gagged and spasmed and heaved as Francesco rode his knees, and then, in a series of spluttering groans, spewed the sherbet half on the doctor and half on the floor. Francesco stood back for a moment, wiping at his doublet with a napkin, and steadying Tuccio with his one free hand.

He should be alright in a minute," he said to Marina, who looked close to tears. "He'll have received no more harm than a bad fright."

Certainly, groaning as he was, and staring at the ceiling as if in horror, he seemed indeed to have received a very bad fright. And though the vomiting appeared to have relieved his physical distress a little, he showed no real signs of recovery. In fact, he now started to thrash about on the chair, so that Francesco and Bartolomeo would have been hard put to restrain him had not Luca,

Stoldo and Domenica, alarmed by the cries, come running to the room. "Quickly," grunted Francesco, leaving Stoldo to take his place, "we should carry him to his chamber.

It's possible the strain of the choking may have caused more serious harm."

He urged them forward, shooing the remaining servants from the doorway. Then he turned at a cry from Marina, to find her staring, not at her father's raving departure, but at the floor, where the small white dog, its tongue still stuck in a gobbet of sherbet, lay dead with goitrous eyes. "Marina?" he said, peering first at her, then after the merchant, then fixing his gaze on the slave girls, Ambra and Lucia, still loitering at the door.

* * * In which Corvo considers the Pestilential King and Jacopo attends an execution

Brother Corvo stands on the hilltop, his hands at his sides, his long hair turned into whips by the wind. On the plain below, his disciples mill by the river, and beyond them crouches the town. He stares at the sky, his bent nose whistling in the unsettled air, while high overhead the clouds rend and tear, or flash like steel in the glare of the sun. Grass, trees, river, the flags of the town, the festering sea - to the rim of the circled earth, all is in flux but he, here at its heart, on the hub of its raised navel.

His gaze remains fixed, as if it would pierce the moving blue spaces above him. He peers beyond to a blindness of brilliance and shadow, where the twin Gods are once again fused, as they were at the start; though not now in the slow, clenched circling of birth - one light and one dark

- but gripped in a murderous combat. And he is the singular witness, here, below, where the elements echo that battle, and no-one may know of the victory of light till they've past through the darkness.

He looks to the south, beyond the horizon, and there sees the plague rising up from the plains like a swarm of black locusts. Turning, he sees it fly from the spires of the great northern cities, a tide of sick souls that floods through their streets. From the north and the south the dark waves come, and he waits on his hill for their breaking.

For he must stand at the storm's bright centre, a rod of iron for its lightning, chosen as he is by the Twin of

Light to bring destruction like a beacon, death's own lodestone - the Pestilential King.

* y

Jacopo barely stops to draw breath. He has followed the cart all the way up the Via Gentili, jostling through the crowds, past the Duomo, the house of Francesco Morelli, where he pauses a moment, staring up at the windows in sudden grief, since this is where he'd once stolen her necklace. The crowds line the street here, hooting and jeering as the cart passes by, enjoying the morning sun, the air's excitement, the bright savage smiles that flicker between them. Some buy sausages, pancakes, cups of sweet rosewater, cracking jokes with the vendors till

Jacopo feels himself lost amongst enemies. He thinks of

Luca, the steward, and his slanderous tongue; of the housekeeper, Domenica, who'd implied that the boy, Guido

Cupa, was Lucia's sole lover, as if he himself had counted for nothing. There were others, to be sure, but none was any more her lover than he. But mostly he thinks of Ambra, the young Tartar slave. How pale she had looked at the trial, like watery cheese, and how limp, barely able to stand before the podesta. A cry goes up from those around him - some draw their breath and avert their eyes, and some stand higher on tiptoe to see - as a scream erupts from the rickety tumbrel. He keeps his face hidden, sick with the crowd's

febrile chatter, thinking not of the killing to come, but of Ambra, head bent before the podesta, telling the court of Lucia's love-charms, her potions and rituals and

stolen church wafers, weeping as she told how the slave y would steal from the house late at night, only to come back at dawn, strange in her speech and smelling of ointments. She too had exaggerated Lucia's love for the carder, speaking of her hatred for their master since

Guido's hanging, as if the whole testimony were Tuccio's trap to confirm the girl's guilt. She'd lusted for Guido, there was ho denying it, and she'd hated her master as well; but this does not mean she'd attempted to kill him.

Nor is he dead - both he and his malice are thriving.

Her scream fills the air between the high walls. He thrusts through the mob amid curses, pushing past women, children, stout men, as if something pursued him, some fury that cries with her voice, that knocks loaves from men's hands and upsets cups of wine. For what else makes him witness her pain but the hope of some miracle, some reprieve of the angels, some means of escape? San

Stefano's dome is almost in sight, and it's here that she's sentenced to burn twice over as poisoner and witch.

Yet who else would save her, even if they could? Not the crowd, all hooting and jeering at the edge of the street, nor the guards, much less her tormentors. Nor would the priests intervene on behalf of a witch, nor the Signoria, whom Tuccio holds in his purse. There is only he, Jacopo

Passero, master thief, to steal her from them. And yet he dare not...no, not even go down to the cart to support her, since he might be suspected of witchcraft himself, and burned in her ashes on the Piazza San Stefano. He remembers a time when accusers, proved wrong in their charges, had suffered in place of those they accused. But not any more. Now the charge itself was sufficient, and although they might furnish no case at all, the accusers could walk off scot free.

Yet all this seems so much prevarication. He was a burglar was he not, a master thief, the top of his trade?

So why could he not steal Lucia? But he glances about at the gobbling crowd, at their fat-smeared faces, at the militiamen down on the street with their halberds, and knows the question requires no answer. Yet he tunnels under their arms, past the jut of their hips, trailing the squeaking cart like a lone, hungry fish in the wake of a ship.

He hears her cry out, hears the howl of the crowd, and this time can't stop himself looking, so that he sees the old cart, the driver prodding the ox with his whip, and standing, arms lashed to the rough timber sides, Lucia, still gripped in the pincers held by the man behind her. His partner is already drawing his own metal tongs from the bucket of coals at his feet, holding them out before him, so that even those people high in their houses can see the points glow red in the air. Then he plunges them down in her flesh, giving quick, vicious twists, while she whimpers and writhes, crashing down on her knees to the floor of the cart, skin crisping, fat curling up with a smell of cooked meat. The man lunges forward, her blood steaming up from the red-hot tongs, then wrenches them back, uprooting a thick wad of flesh as she screams, and the crowd pores forward with grim fascination.

Jacopo shudders, jerks back like a tortoise, head low on his shoulders. It's as if he's surrounded by monsters - no better himself - unwilling to help, to save her, to put a stop to her torment. If he had a thousand hands with a thousand knives he'd plunge them all in their hearts. But he hasn't, and can't, and must watch her yet in his mind, her dark skin ragged and gaping, her body ablaze at the core of his rage. For who above all has caused her pain and his helplessness? Who but her master,

Tuccio di Piero Landucci? He thrusts up his head and peers about, yet sees neither him nor any other worthy of the town; then catches a glimpse of her bleeding body, and turns his eyes away, thinking he smells her burnt flesh. And a sickness of pity fills him, of running his fingers over her wounds, hearing her scream, until, for a moment, he thinks of her beauty, of how he'd caressed her and heard her low sighs, her cries in his ear, and sees her astride him in the pale evening, a thing of such sweetness and strength that, seeing her broken, trembling and bleeding...he turns away to be sick, vomiting over the shoes of some vendor to cries of disgust and loud laughter.

"Can't take it!" cries one.

"Spoil it for others," says another.

"Don't come near me!" shouts a third, pushing him off, so that he goes crouching amongst the mob at the verge of the square, wiping his mouth and his chin, then peering about him to find that he's there, at the steps of San

Stefano. He shoves his way to the shallow portico, surveys the piazza. A ring of militiamen keeps the crowd back from the stake, and the only ones there are their captain and Zoppo the Nark, a one-time informer to the captain of the people, and now the town's executioner.

There's no priest, no dignitary, no sign of Tuccio, just the cart bouncing over the stones with the crowd churning after. The militiamen let the cart clatter through, but push back the rest with their halberds. Jacopo watches the men in the back grasp Lucia's arms. Even from such a distance he can see how she winces, her wounds like red and white birthmarks spotting her skin. They fix her hands behind her, pulling - almost lifting - her down from the cart, and when her feet touch the ground she nearly collapses, eliciting protests from Zoppo, who limps across on his mismatched legs, his infamous temper flaring before him, as he roars at the pair to take her full weight. They do it roughly, dragging her quickly over the faggots and up to the stake, while Zoppo the

Nark comes lurching behind, binding her fight with a chain, expending no more ceremony than he might for trussing some beast to be slaughtered.

So quick is he that the crowd seems taken by surprise, y still chattering even as he lights the first flames, then suddenly falling silent, hushing each other, leaning forward where they stand, like some revelation might be at hand, or as if, in fixing their gaze on her final moments, they might witness the flight of her unshriven soul. But now there is only silence, then the first wisps of smoke and a fireside's crackle as Zoppo jerks back, waving his luminous brand. Then the fires roar up and a screaming begins, and the crowd starts chatting once more, peering into the conflagration, where she flickers and shifts, a dancing black shape at the hot orange core, as if its heat had melted the chain, and immune to the blaze she moved at its heart like a shimmering salamander. But Jacopo's strength has run out. There will be no rescue, no sudden eruption of courage, no descent from the heavens, and he turns tail and runs. He slips past the throng with his hands to his ears, feeling only the dumb, chilling numbness of stone, as if the air, the wind, the sky, his heart, were made of stone, until slowly, far from San Stefano, the anger begins, and the bleak resolution. Lucia's life had been stolen from her.

And who was the thief? No other than her master, Tuccio di Piero Landucci. Jacopo knows that he will not kill him. Yet he is a thief as well, and must have a thief's vengeance. The merchant had stolen a thing beyond wealth.

So he in turn must search the man's treasures and steal such a thing. For all men, even a merchant like him, hold something as priceless.

y * * * The pestilence comes to Topomagro

"Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord, hear all you sinners the word of the Lord..." and on and on the loud voice cries, while the bell tolls out above it. The families of fishermen slowly gather in the Piazza San

Pietro, drawn by the bait of that clammering bell in the hand of the portly friar. Fra Lippo Peppo has cast his net wide, surprised by the size of the crowd, and remembering Christ's words about "fishers of men". For despite the length of his stay in the town, he'd not preached in the Borgo San Pietro, where he might well be a fisher of fishermen; and he raises his voice to bring in the catch, all the time grieving his assistant's departure. He was a worry, that Jacopo, going back to his thieving; though there was little Fra Lippo could do but preach him a sermon, something which might sway a village, but, sad to say, not his old partner. So the friar must addle his brain after new routines, solo sermons which might yet keep him free from his brothers' suspicions.

Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord."

It was tempting to fall back on relics. After all, they were something he was comfortable with, unlike his recent routines with Jacopo, which felt dangerously close to feigned magic. But relics worked best for itinerant

Preachers, while townsmen, in contrast to ignorant villagers, were notoriously fickle in their faith.

Indeed, many presumed that this was the reason for the special virulence of the sickness among cities. Be this as it may, the fact remained that his brothers at the

Abbey San Francesco seemed less than totally trustful.

True, once Jacopo had moved to lodgings of his own, their suspicions had waned. Nevertheless, some negative reports concerning his work had filtered back to them, and he'd never quite managed to repair the damage. So relics, if y considered at all, should be used only sparingly.

"Hear all you sinners the word of the Lord."

And they gather in silence, facing the preacher upon the church steps, the bell in his hand with its tongue hanging out. For a moment, he waits there, struck dumb, then suddenly flings one arm in the air and draws it across the breadth of the sky. "The hammer of God is loosed on the land!" he cries, his voice so loud that it hurts his throat, such that only a consummate effort of will can keep him from coughing. "And high in the air over Naples, Messina, Venice and Rome, an angel flies weeping with a fiery sword, laying low with the fevers of pestilence all men of no faith. Have no doubt, this sickness is almost upon us, even as I speak. For who can be sure that the soft, warm breeze that blows in your face is not the breath of God's angel, breathing contagion amongst you?" He pauses to let the notion sink in, while several among the crowd stare mistrustfully at the air about them.

"Thus I say pray to the Lord and to Saint Sebastian, the patron of those who perish with plague. Yes, pray with me now to this goodly saint, this merciful healer, who, at the hands of the emperor Diocletian, was shot through with arrows like plague-sores, who was healed by the pity of Saint Irene, yet martyred at last by that unrepentant emperor. Kneel, I say," he commands, waving the crowd to its knees while he draws a deep breath and commences, not the traditional supplication, but a torrent of horrors, visions of death and decay from the tales that he's heard of the plague, supplying with his imagination what details these rumours lack.

A stumbling, yet heartfelt "Amen" redounds from the crowd, whose blanched, frightened faces stare up to discover what counsel Fra Lippo might give. For now, in raising them back to their feet, he beams such a radiant smile that they feel reassured. "My friends," he says almost gently, "it's been vouchsafed to me by my order to bring among you - that you might know God's mercy - a rare and sanctified thing." Then he draws from his robes a small wooden casket, from which he extracts... it's unclear just what, though it looks like an old bit of stick. All eyes turn toward it, some wide with anticipation, some narrowed with myopia. "For here,

Passed down through the ages, is the end of an arrow, still with a bit of its fletching, that was drawn by Irene from the saint's holy instep. I have been authorised to allow each of you to come near it - this splinter of hope - for a donation of no less than one grosso, so that you, the people of the Borgo San Pietro, might receive its healing virtue and be safe from the plague. I have also a small selection of crosses, some made from aromatic juniper, some from sandalwood, some from laurel, and if you step forward, I - " But his words are interrupted by a shout from the crowd, so that, for a moment, Fra Lippo prepares to flee, afraid lest some gang of unsatisfied customers out of his past has abruptly resurfaced. Most have lost interest in him, milling about at what was, until now, the rear of the throng, although one man bounds up the stairs, so smartly, in fact, that the friar can't resist flinching.

"Friar, come quickly, please," he implores, "it's my daughter."

And Fra Lippo, still a little discomfited, allows himself to be led down the stairs, through the crowd, to the centre of their interest, where a young girl - perhaps twelve years old - lies flat on the stones, her face flushed and covered with sweat, eyes strangely unfocused.

She moans, then cries out, pressing her hand to her armpit, while the people mutter among themselves and stare expectantly at Lippo. "What is it?" he says uncertainly, and the father, without further ado, brushes aside the child's hand, tears back her sleeve and reveals, there in her armpit, a taut, fierce bubo. He draws back her elbow still further, but she screams and kicks, almost catching Fra Lippo on the knee as he gazes in horror.

"It's the sickness," says one behind him, already bustling away. y

"The plague," another confirms, starting back.

"Quickly, Friar," the father pleads, "get the arrow of Saint Sebastian."

So he scuttles off with no time to think, suddenly afraid, as if the terrors he'd invoked for so long had finally come to settle their claims. And yet, in the midst of his fear, as he casts about for his old broken arrow, he can't help thinking how well it would work to have someone collapse, just like that, then revive at the relic's touch. If only Jacopo might be persuaded...

No," says Jacopo, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Lippo, but I want to concentrate on developing my natural talents. " "And what are they worth unless you use them in the work of the Lord?"

"But that's just what I'm doing." Jacopo shrugs and wrinkles his brow. "Certainly more than if I was working with you."

"Oh, now, let's not be offensive," the friar says sadly, taking a sip at his wine. "But while you mention it, if you're going back to thieving, for God's sake steal a better vintage." Then he glances up sharply. "And what do mean you'll be doing God's work?"

Jacopo leans back in his chair, opening his arms to embrace the whole room with its cracked, broken walls, its unshuttered window, the sound of the woman singing next-door. "I've got all I need here. I couldn't find a thing to steal for myself. No, any stealing I do from now on will be for the Lord."

"That's perilously close to blasphemy, Jacopo," says

Lippo severely, and, ignoring his laughter, continues:

"How can you possibly steal for the Lord? It's against

His commandments."

"Not if my theft is the way that He punishes one of His sinners . "

"Who?" Lippo asks, eyes narrowing over his glass. Tuccio di Piero Landucci, the one who had them murder Lucia."

"Oh, that Barbary slave you lusted after."

"Don't say that, Lippo," he snaps, leaning forward on the table and seeming more than a little drunk. "If you'd seen how she died..." y

"No, no, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it." He shakes his head slowly. "I'm an idiot." Then, after a small silence, he looks up and says, "But it's not for you to punish him, Jacopo. The pestilence is here already. If he needs punishment, God will see to it."

"Then why did they punish her with such cruelty? If they believe so firmly in the justice of God, why not leave her to hellfire?"

'Because they see themselves as God's agents," says

Lippo, raising his eyebrows as if it were obvious.

Well, my friend," smiles Jacopo, "that's just how I see myself. "

Fra Lippo regards him over his cup, then shrugs. "I'm not so sure that any of us should be punished. Things happen almost before we know it. We are what we are, and they happen. Or perhaps we should all be punished. Either none or all of us are sinners."

"Well, that's what they say, isn't it? that we're all sinners...all guilty of our parents' first sin, and must die of it. "

"But I'm not so sure. That young girl I saw this morning... she'11 probably die. Sometimes I think our first sin lay not in disobeying God, but in seeing Him as jealous and wrathful...a punishing king."

"But that's what He is, at least sometimes, when we do wrong."

"Yes, once again, that's what they say. But when we try to act like this God, to make laws and seek justice, then we end up like a race of vengeful fathers, hurting ourselves, as if our first sin weren't disobedience, but misconception."

"I - I'm not sure what you mean," says Jacopo, scratching his head, a comical frown on his face. "You speak as if we'd made God, and not the other way round." happen. Or perhaps we should all be punished. Either none or all of us are sinners."

"Well, that's what they say, isn't it? that we're all sinners...all guilty of our parents' first sin, and must die of it."

"That's what they say," nods Lippo, pouring more wine from the pitcher. "Just like they say that the plague is a punishment for our wickedness." He pauses, listening to the song float through the air from the room next-door. "But I'm not so sure. That young girl I saw this morning...she'11 probably die. Sometimes I think our first sin lay not in disobeying God, but in seeing Him as jealous and wrathful...a punishing king."

"But that's what He is, at least sometimes, when we do wrong."

Yes, once again, that's what they say. But when we try to act like this God, to make laws and seek justice, then we end up like a race of vengeful fathers, hurting ourselves, as if our first sin weren't disobedience, but misconception."

I - I'm not sure what you mean," says Jacopo, scratching his head, a comical frown on his face. "You speak as if we'd made God, and not the other way round." "No, no, not that," protests Lippo. "I mean that we don't see Him clearly, and that our poor sight makes us fear and stumble, like blindmen in a world of light."

"But surely, then, God should lead us, should - " But his words are cut short by Scimmi, who leaps from the floor, to his lap, to the table, overcome with impatience at the piece of cold sausage that sits at its centre. "You little thief!" he cries as she jumps to the floor with the meat, shaking it like a rat in her teeth.

"Strong words, Mr Thief," laughs Fra Lippo, stooping to stroke her sleek back, till she snarls and sidles away, dragging the sausage with her. "You don't really want to go back to burglary, do you? Why not join with me in preaching God's word? We'll start travelling again, ahead of the plague, though not too far ahead. This latest idea...it's a good one."

"I've told you already, I'm going to stay and take care of Tuccio. "

"Leave it to God, Jacopo, leave it to God." And so the argument goes, around and around in diminishing circles, while they gradually finish the wine, and Scimmi devours her sausage.

* The first in sight are the dogs, Bulfas, Moloch and a dozen other wolfish, manged or mad-eyed creatures sidling down the street, some snouting the air, some with raked hackles, others cringing low and bent and vicious, as if they could slip unseen beneath their spines. Then comes

Brother Corvo, tall and hooded, the sword of some dead captain slung about his waist, and no more fraction of him showing than the tip of his hooked nose, seeming - like the dogs - to sniff the tainted air. Behind him walk

Speranza and Fiducia, one garlanded with daisies and wild roses, the other hung with herbal amulets and talismans with scribbled nostrums. And here, at their heels, the hag Maria ambles, breathing songs to the unravelled skirlings of the pipers in the rear, a naked baby in her arms, its gummy grin an echo of her own, a toothless moonsmile on its great, round, pallid face. And now what others come behind her down the shuttered street - tall, gawky goons in rags, muscled thugs, shit-smeared infants pocked with sores, dames scabious and naked as their first wandering mother, cracked blitherers, gibberers, sad loons with swimming eyes, dancers back to back and slatterns decked with feathers and butterflies' plucked colours. For here, through the Borgo San Pietro, on a feast day written in no calendar, comes Corvo's new-found order.

The houses stare with dead men's eyes, each window blank and shuttered, and to the west the heavy stonework of the wall looms up, devoid of movement. Doors clench on silence, and the gaping mouths of alleys breathe a damp putrefaction. Here, on the street, there is no movement but the sift of lightbeams through the smoke of smouldering rags, the burning clothes and linen of the unseen occupants. Brother Corvo is alert to all, to the bodies of the rats that lie among the refuse, to the dead cat sprawled upon the stones, a heap of ratguts spewed before it. He hears, beneath the burden of the pipes, the dearth of birdsong, and once or twice, a cry that spatters raw as vitriol between the broken jalousies. For here he smells death, the descent of flesh, the coming of his kingdom. Air flutters round his ears, faint winds not winds at all, since bodies die behind these walls, giving up their souls, which, even now, come whizzing through the air like moths of lambent fire, comets made of glass, so delicate and soft that any hand might seem to catch and mould them as it would. Yet, slippery and quick, timid as shrimp pried from their shells, they flicker for whatever vacant womb they may, and seek a further birth into the flesh. But now, with the pestilence upon them, what womb is there that won't soon die? And what hand is now more powerful to mould them in their nakedness than that of Lucifer, the God of Light?

He pauses in his thoughts as the dogs go bounding forward, each vanishing around a turning of the road. He can hear their barking above the whine of pipes as he draws near. And then he sees it, the great black body sprawled across the opening of a laneway. Bulfas and Moloch hold back uneasily, sniffing at the air, while a number of the smaller dogs, taut, half-starved and nervous, dance round the giant's corpse, yapping and snarling, leaping toward it in sudden darting forays till their muzzles graze its skin. But the ox remains inert, unmoving, reeking where it lies. A stench, not of putrescence, but of the pestilence itself hangs heavy in the air, driving off all but the most ravenous of hounds.

Huge carbuncles, big as melons, rise from its coarse hair and weep dark, noisome fluids on the stones. The procession moves past quickly, disturbing only briefly the storm of flies already gathering above the body, then rounds a further turning and enters a small square.

Here, on the flagstones, is a basin carved with two crude griffins, a paltry thread of water dribbling from its spout, where once again the mongrels start their snarling, teeth popping at the figure lying there. But

Corvo will not pause, despite the murmurs at his back and the dogs' redoubled paroxysms. He strides straight on, eyes shadowed by his hood, merely noting the dead beggar stretched beneath the fountain, as pallid as the ox was dark, sores streaming with the same black, brackish stink. For crowded on the square's far side, creating a great din, is a horde of revellers dancing jigs and drinking wine. It's for their riot that he's making, the frayed parade regrouping in the rear, the pipers hugging harder to their windbags, the willing hounds relinquishing their prey and bounding on ahead, their ears flung back and red tongues lolling.

Neither the eruption of the dogs among them, nor Corvo and his motleys, cause the revellers much consternation.

Their senses are too benumbed with wine, and the newcomers merge amid their number like the mingling of twin rivers. Brother Corvo notes as well the way each back turns from the fountain, the way each voice is raised and how the fiddles scream, as if to drown out any sound that is not theirs. This crowd, for all its noise and laughter, is turned resolutely inward, and no sound short of the last trump would wake it from its riot. He sees the way the dancers do not dance, but stagger, the way the speakers do not listen, but rant in mutual monologue, as if all language but their own were fraught with peril. Some, a little further up the narrow street, wear bits of costume, and one - a tall, fat figure with a rumbling laugh - is got up in a death's-head mask from

Carnival or All Saints' eve. He performs ridiculous dances with surprising ease, whisking through the crowd on slippered feet, wobbling his big belly and slapping at his arse, a grin fixed thin and lipless on his face. And all the while he carries a great cask of wine, filling up each drinker's glass in turn, and laughing fit to burst at their slow capers.

"Lord Death," breathes Brother Corvo as he passes, "why do you make them drunk?" "Well, says Death, suspended for a moment in his pouring, "dead on your feet, dead to the world, dead drunk - it's all a matter of degree. Besides," he adds, still playing up his part, yet turning to his task once more, "we fatten swine before we slaughter them."

Then Corvo smiles and marches forth, secure in his faith.

For now, as summer builds to its full heat, the

Pestilential King comes unannounced, surveying his sad streets. And still he is an exile in his own dominions.

The plague has far to go before it captures the town's heart. The dead remain too spare about him, and he must wait until their souls fill up the air like shoals of silken fish. It is the final dark before the new God's dawn; and beneath his mantle Corvo smiles once more, head lifted as he hurries on, listening for souls.

Fra Lippo lies supine on his pallet in his small white cell, no more companions with him than the Psalter by his side and the crucifix upon the wall. Yet even these he does not see, floating as he is in fire. Pain waxes, and his bones are candles brightly lit, then wanes into a raw, parched whimper. Once, amid this waning, an old

Priest peers from the oily air, pushing at his lips and thrusting in the wafer, which crumbles on his tongue like dust. Crusted with chrism, the dry cicada fingers touch his skin, the dove-voice mutters rituals. Lippo strives to speak some fragment of confession, but the words drown in his throat. And then the priest is gone, and flames erupt once more. He sees a black inquisitor come leaning from his lectern, listing charges of false promises, fake relics and deceitful healings. Eyes yellow in his fevered face, he sees reliquaries, phylacteries, arks, shrines and monstrances gape wide in crypts and on the altars of a thousand churches. He sees the relics of apostles and dead saints arise in admonition: the phalanges of Saint

John the Baptist's finger wag accusingly, Saint Blaise's jawbone drops with disappointment, and Saint Margaret shrugs her sacred scapula.

All rise against him in his pain - the saints he's mocked, the villagers he's swindled, the brethren he has lied to - all decrying him among the streets, laughing at his anguish as they lead him bound and burning. And at the height of the procession, as Lippo begs for mercy, the relics come together in a climax of collision - a rib of Saint Sebastian, the wristbone of Saint Paul, Saint

Stephen's battered cranium, the ulna of Saint Chrysostom,

Saint Barbara's pelvis, and many, many others from the friar's repertoire - all towering above him in a rage of accusation. And now his hands are bound by Zoppo the

Nark, while the aggregated Saint, monstrous with its extra teeth and missing ribs, pours scorn upon his head, the flames already rising as he cries, burning in his flesh, his guts, swelling till he feels that he will burst. And then he does, spewing stench across the air, the town, his sheets, deflating like a broken bladder, feeling weakness and relief, watching the red heat, and

Christ who hangs upon His cross within it. He watches while the flames abate, then drops back on his bed, no longer seeing the nailed crucifix, but feeling it against his back as if he hung there, dead.

When he steps down to the ground, the flames have almost faded, like the countless sombre leaves of a grove that glows at dusk. He moves in fear through this wood of burnished trees, coming to a clearing with a small, dark stream where a figure stands in silence. He steps a little forward and then stops, as this figure, shrouded in a deep blue robe, begins to turn. He feels afraid, then sees it is a simple girl, one of those he'd meet in any village. He starts to smile, but something causes him to falter, something in her face, her eyes, some sorrow that he can't define, which seems not young, but ancient.

She looks at him with such complete and depthless disappointment that his eyes turn slowly inward, and he feels not fear, but a desperate grief, a mourning for a life now lost, missed chances irredeemable. Then he stands there, failed, waiting to be finished like any flame snuffed out, as she slowly smiles with such a fullness of acceptance, her arms held wide toward him, that he stumbles forward, clumsy in his gratitude, now standing, with her no longer there, as if her loving eyes 544 were his, and his the arms extended to the foolish, hungry-hearted world which bursts in light about him.

* * * Jacopo discovers the means of his vengeance

Two nights after the bonfires, the street dances, the high jinks and low comedy of the feast of Saint John the

Baptist, Jacopo Passero climbs the tall roofs at the rear of the house of Tuccio di Piero Landucci. Scimmi leaps intermittently into the darkness, slipping from shoulder to sill to rushy flagstones, reconnoitring shadows and sleepers, sniffing the air for snoozing dogs, then perching back on his shoulder like a sleek and silvery moon-beast. He is angry as he scales the stepped rooftops, thinking of Lucia and the flames that killed her, and the patient vengeance of her master. Yet he has to rekindle these images daily, as if, deprived of his will, they might fade of their own accord. For now she seems vague in his mind, like something he thought he had known, yet hadn't. Perhaps the death of Lippo, no more than a few days back, has obscured her memory for the moment, the figure of the fat friar as insurmountable in death as it had been in life. He thinks of the time that

Lippo and he dressed Scimmi as a devil and were chased through the woods by those villagers. Then he shakes his head slowly as he recalls how he'd found him, already dead by the time he'd arrived, the buboes spewing out their pus, while the old priest, with his pyx under his arm, scuttled for the door. For a moment, he'd felt the room lurch about him, the floor tilt at his feet, as if he stood once more below the deck of that death-ship, watching Laura die. Of course he'd known the plague was here, but to have it suddenly before him - its stink, its broken skin, its thick black bile, all as they'd been on the Santa Margherita - and to see its racked grimace on the face of his friend...it was more than he could bear, and he'd hurried at the heels of the terrified old priest.

He clambers quickly to the second-storey rooftop, tiptoes over tiles, skirts the stale, warm, smoky mouth of a vent above a kitchen, and begins the next ascent. He thinks of

Tuccio asleep somewhere within, dreaming peacefully no doubt of some new scheme, feeling no remorse at how he'd crushed Lucia and harried her, unshriven, to the stake.

Yet he hadn't even deigned to witness the agony he'd brought her, content to see to business while her death was carried out. Well, if Jacopo's successful, his contentment will not last beyond tonight. Yet, even as he climbs the high, third-storey tiles, he feels the hollowing within, the weariness that eats at his resolve, that tells him to go, to cut his losses and to leave the plague-bound town before his luck runs out. For the very wildness of the feast-day crowds had seemed an echo of their fear, as if God had sentenced them already to perish for their sins. Yet, if there were any whose sins might justly bring such horror on the town, they were men like Tuccio, whose avarice had created the riches that would help them flee to country villas when the plague was at its height. Yes, he'd seen it all before. But tonight, one way or another, he'd make sure the merchant paid.

He stands before the lightless windows of the topmost storey, listening for the sounds of sleepers from within. All is quiet here, with just the faint soughing of the night-wind to disturb the silence. He reaches forward and tries the shutter of the nearest window. It remains firm upon its catch. Hugging closer to the house, he shifts a little sideways on the tiles, and tries the next along the wall. It eases upward as he lifts it. He peers cautiously amongst the shadows, but dares not lift the shutter high enough to let the muted moonlight in.

Instead, he drops Scimmi down onto the sill, urging her forward. For a moment she hesitates, sniffing at the room within, then leaps down noiselessly, vanishing amidst the gloom. She's gone for quite a time, and Jacopo begins to grow impatient, fearing that she might have been unable to resist some cache of food in one of the lower kitchens, when suddenly she leaps out of the dark onto his shoulder. "Oh, Scimmi," he breathes, "I wish you wouldn't do that." But she's smartly down again, with quizzical, quick tail-flicks and the pert, impatient mews that bode a clear path. He lifts the shutter higher and steps in after her, discovering an empty bed chamber, probably a guest room. He quickly checks the only cupboard, finding nothing but some linen and an extra counterpane. The same is true for the rooms on either side, and he ventures further after Scimmi down the 548 darkened corridor, where he finds a larger doorway, through which he peers into Tuccio's dim library.

Here, though the windows are wide open to the starlight, he has to strain his eyes to find what things lie in the merchant's desk and on the shelves. Yet he finds nothing but letters and old quills, codices and candles, not even an encouraging casket of gold coins or a bill of exchange for some dizzying amount. He's here, not to pilfer, nor y even to find his fortune, but to make Lucia's killer suffer for his crime. What he requires is something of fabulous wealth, an object valuable both for its monetary worth and for its beauty, the kind of thing a man invests his pride in - a possession that Tuccio might love. He slips silently out of the room, back into the corridor and down the stairs that open at its end.

He passes a small kitchen, some narrow passages that lead, most likely, to slaves' and servants' quarters, losing Scimmi somewhere between an echoing reception hall and the cavernous dimness of a dining room, neither of which contains a single object worth stealing without a horse and cart. It's in a lower kitchen that he spies her, crouched above a group of sleepers by the dying fire. She's gnawing at some chicken bones - he hears them crunching from across the room - and refuses to come when he beckons. So he leaves her where she is, and heads off down a darkened corridor. The fact is, men like Tuccio all keep their best-loved trinkets near when they sleep. For this reason, he ignores all further rooms that hold no hope of being the main bedchamber. At last he finds a corridor with three tall, carven doors, each closed upon a room adjacent to the rear loggia. It's here, in one of these, that the merchant will be sleeping. He listens at each door in turn - imagining the massive ruby ring, or casket carved in chrysoprase containing its great treasure - but hears y nothing from within. After much procrastination, he tries the middle door, twisting the handle and pushing his weight inward, then peering quickly round the silent room. Pale light sifts through the open window, revealing a dresser and a high, closed bed. He strains to catch a sleeper's breathing through the curtains, creeping nearer as he listens. Perhaps he should simply riffle through the drawers as softly as he can. Yet he can't resist the temptation to have one look, and gently draws aside the corner of a curtain, peering at the bolster. For the bed is empty of all but a faintly musty odour, and he swings back to the dresser, deciding that the room must be the older sister's, the one who recently got married. He slides out drawers, groping at the contents, yet finding nothing but spare linen and heavy bolts of cloth, some of it expensive - rosato, velvet and fine scarlet, sewing- silk and taffeta - but not the sort of thing whose theft would do much more than irritate the merchant. He slips out of the room, glancing at the doors shut firmly on his right and left. He decides upon the right, moving gingerly along the hall once more. Again he listens, and again hears nothing. He turns the latch and enters, pausing at the threshold as if the merchant were already rising from his sheets. But he finds himself inside a room still smaller than the first, containing no more than a pair of chests and a bed with curtains open to the air. But this bed is not empty. Jacopo stands there, staring, half-closing the door behind him. A young girl lies curled beneath the thinnest cotton cover, a swathe of heavy hair unfurled across her pillow. Her lips are slightly parted and her palm lies cupped before them, so that, for a moment, as he stands unmoving, he seems to feel her soft, warm breath against his cheek. She looks so slight and lithe, her back a little arched, with one thin leg drawn almost to her chin. The moonlight frosts her hair, her skin, and he can't help smiling in the shadows, seeing how she curls about herself, so silvery and spare, like some feline thing become a girl. Yes, he might almost reach to stroke the fan of hair upon its pillow.

Then he pauses, turning to the chests before the bed.

What is it that Tuccio might value most of all? What is it that he himself would hold of greatest worth? Rare treasures have sparkled in his own thief's hands. But what loss would make him weep? What necklace, piece of gold or diamond? No, he's never cared that much for these. Perhaps the only thing, now that he thinks about it...yes, the only thing that he might weep to lose was Scimmi. Indeed, his cat.

He turns back to the bed where sleep has flung the silver girl. Oh yes, he'd love her desperately if she were his.

Just as Tuccio must love her. And a new awareness fills him, floods him with conviction. For here is the thing the merchant would most hate to lose. And suddenly a shudder moves her, a great, slow, shaky sigh that stretches her as on a rack, till her knees and tiny breasts and narrow ribs arch upward through the sheet, a gesture so voluptuous in such a skinny thing that he hesitates, distracted, before he draws his knife. But how to steal her from him? To kidnap her...would be madness.

He holds the knife before him, moving from the shadows.

He couldn't hurt her, yet...a sudden gasp comes shaking from the bed. "Wh - " Then he has her tight between his arms, the blade already glinting in her eyes. And he feels the rushing of her breath between his fingers, the trembling of her hands, or possibly her heart, while he keeps saying, "Ssshh, it's alright. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you," and countless other such assurances, until, between the words and knifeblade at her ear, she slowly quiets down. There is a long and awkward pause where she just breathes and he says nothing, gripped together, waiting in the silence. Then she mumbles something soothing through his fingers, and he says, "Will you be quiet if I let you go?" relaxing his grip slowly as she nods against his arm.

"Wh-who are you?" she whispers, watching as he gets up

from the bed and stands before her, the knife still ready in his hand. "What do you want?"

"I...uh..." he stares about him, unsure of what to say,

then thinks of Scimmi thieving in the kitchen overhead. y "I'm, er...looking for my cat."

"Looking for your cat?" she says, more loudly than she'd

meant to, so that he puts the knifeblade to his lips.

"With a dagger in your hand?"

"I'm sorry," he hisses, fumbling the weapon back into his

shirt. "I got frightened. It looked like you were going

to cry out. "

She does not seem reassured, her eyes wide and glistening

with tears. "You're here to steal something, aren't you?"

Then she holds her hands up as if to fend him off. "Not

that I think it's always wrong. Some people have to

steal, I know. I'll give you something if you like."

He smiles softly, gazing down at where she wraps the

sheet more firmly round her. "Yes, you're right. I was

here to steal. And I am a thief." He holds out both his hands, as if to show that they are empty. "But I won't steal from you now."

"Why?" she asks, and looks a bit suspicious, opening her mouth to pose a further question, just as something flashes through the half-closed door - a spirit at high speed, a sudden rush of moonlight on the floor - and springs to Jacopo's shoulder.

y "Oh," he gasps, a comic gape upon his face. "Scimmi! How many times...?" Then he turns toward Marina. "She does it constantly."

But Marina's fear and mistrust have become a wary smile.

"I see that you really were looking for your cat." And she laughs uncertainly.

"Though why I'd want to find her I couldn't tell you." He tucks a finger under Scimmi's chin. "You little wretch!"

But she takes no notice, simply sitting on his shoulder and licking at her paws.

"But you're here as a thief, aren't you?" the girl pursues.

"I was," he nods, stroking Scimmi softly. "But not now.

It's always harder once you...well, once you start to know the people you were going to steal from." "So you do it a lot?" Then she looks afraid once more, as if regretting that she's asked.

"Only since my parents died." He hangs his head in sorrow. "When the pestilence struck Naples...I couldn't stay there any longer. And ever since, I've been running from the plague, heading north, doing what I can. I've wandered the roads all through the south, with a troupe of travelling acrobats for a time, then helping a poor y friar I met upon the way." He gazes up with a look so sad that it might stab her to the heart. "And sometimes I'm reduced to thieving."

She stares at him, mouth open, fancy taken, not by his feigned sadness, but by his wanderings. She sees the wayside inns, the hedgerows by the open road, the forests in the hills, and thinks of all those strictures grown tighter by the day. Her father's admonitions, her mother's watchfulness, the long, thick prisons of her gowns, and riding side-saddle, accompanied everywhere she goes by beady-eyed attendants - all the hemming-in that she has had to bear since Gaia's wedding comes flooding in upon her.

"What's your name?" she asks, eyes softening.

'Jacopo," he says. "What's yours, my lady?" She sees the acrobats, the squares and towers of far towns, and is taken by a sudden lightness of the heart.

"Marina," she answers, half frightened by the weird joy she feels. "Marina di Tuccio Landucci."

He notes the softness of her smile, her eyes' bright eagerness, and knows that, yes, he might just steal her from her father yet. "Well, Marina, perhaps - " but his words are interrupted by Scimmi, who leaps down from his shoulder to the bed, arching her back and rubbing up against Marina's hand. The girl, distracted, starts to stroke her. "She's lovely. So smooth and silky." And she holds her in her arms.

"You're lovely too," says Jacopo lightly, yet with feeling enough to make her look up quickly, breath catching in her throat. She sees his thin, dark face, his sharp blue eyes that seem to slant a little upward like a slightly puzzling smile. He reaches out a hand and runs it over Scimmi's coat, until he finds Marina's fingers, brushing them lightly with his own, then closing slowly round them. She blushes, looking down, heart racing in her chest, and draws her hand away. He seems to chuckle, and Marina looks up sharply, yet finds his hard, bright eyes all creased with laughter, and wants to put her hand

°ut once again where he had touched her, as if she'd never moved it. But already he's scooping Scimmi up into his arms and stepping to the window. "Marina, he says softly, holding up the cat, which wriggles in his grip. "If I should lose this wretch again...well, I think I'll know where she might be. Can I come here first to find her?"

Marina hesitates, watching him uncertainly. "Does she often...?" Then lets her question fall away, closing her eyes instead and nodding slowly. "Yes, I leave my window open," she whispers, flooding him with the sudden candour of her gaze. "But you must be careful."

"Oh, yes," he whispers in return, smiling with a wide, white, hungry smile. Then, turning to the window - Scimmi still beneath his arm - he peeps out once, flashes back a final grin and slips into the dark, while Marina gazes after him for no short while, wishing and yet fearing that she might have followed, not into the town's walled shadows, but out into the endless silver night.

* * * The sickness spreads and Tuccio mourns a daughter

As the delphiniums and daffodils, lilies and crocuses, had blossomed in the woods beyond the town, and the poppies, harebells, buttercups and dog-roses had sprouted from the grass in sprays of colour, so the flesh of those who lived close by the Porta del Mare and the Porta Santa Maria had thickened with the first rank blooms of pestilence. At first the fishermen of the Borgo San

Pietro and the workers of the Borgo Santa Caterina had been the only ones to feel the blade of that dark gardener, falling back into the earth like grass stalks mown and scattered. But now, as the petals blackened on the bows and fruit came forth, as apples slowly deepened to a full, rich red, and lemons, nectarines and peaches swelled upon the air, so the buboes grew upon the flesh of those inhabiting the eastern quarters of the town, in the Borgo dei Lanaiuoli and the Borgo dei Medici e

Farmaciste. Now, in the heat of midsummer, the pestilence went stalking through the streets of the wealthy, taking not just fishermen and carders, slaughterers and dyers in its passing, but merchants, traders, bankers and physicians, as if its initial hesitation before the ranks of men had been no more than a catching of its breath.

There were fiery sermons from visiting friars, supplications to Saint Sebastian, public prayers for the intercession of the Virgin, and gifts to charity by the most unlikely individuals. Huge bequests were signed over to San Francesco, and the bishop led processions up and down the town, while a great flock of merchants, craftsmen and labourers came barefoot behind him, swathed in coarse wool and beating themselves with short, knotted cords. Their voices swam up through the hot summer air in long prayers of penitence, and Saint Barbara's thimble - produced from the depths of the Duomo's crypt - bounced at their head in its crystalline casket. Even now, this same bishop - old and feeble though he was - had left his y home of so many years to make a personal pilgrimage to

Valence, where he hoped to enlist the prayers of His

Holiness, Clement VI, on behalf of the town. Nor, in this outbreak of piety, did the people omit more mundane forms of caution, since the Signoria enacted page upon page of new regulations to ward off infection. And many shut themselves up in their houses, shunning their neighbours, or sought protection from the poisonous air by burning incense each night in their chambers, or by walking the streets with packets of spices pressed to their noses.

Yet neither prayer nor penance, drug nor decree, seemed proof against the pestilence.

For now, in the town's poorer quarters, the cemeteries were glutted with bodies, so that queues of porters formed in the churchyards, their biers piled high with corpses, while deep pits were dug where the indigent dead were heaped up in layers and covered with dirt. People collapsed in the street and lay there untouched, while each morning discovered new rotting corpses, like leftover nightmares, laid out at their doorways by terrified neighbours. Kites, crows, buzzards and jackdaws squabbled and flapped amid the decay. Yet these too contracted the sickness, wobbling away through the alleys and streets, collapsing like drunks, their feast unfinished.

The stench of the dead lay over the town like the carious breath of some long-dying god. Yet, for now, the wealthiest quarters were spared the plague's more drastic excesses. Here were neither buzzards, nor jostling queues of porters, nor trenches stacked with bodies. The funerals of the rich retained their dignity, though recent legislation left them smaller than before. While family vaults contained more bodies every day, they had not yet filled to overflowing like the churchyards of the poor, and there were many among the wealthy who still prayed that the plague's worst ravages might be contained within the city's meanest districts, where it conquered street by street like an army on the move. In the Borgo dei Lanaiuoli it did not slaughter wholesale, but crept silently at night from house to house, choosing its victims with apparent care. Yet, with time, the infection spread faster, until even the town's most opulent streets held their matinal dross of dead bodies, and increasing numbers of merchants abandoned their homes and their commerce to flee for the north. Now people died more frequently alone, abandoned out of fear by their relatives and friends, so that neighbours often discovered a lonely death, not with their eyes or their ears, through witnessing the grief of kinsfolk, but with their noses.

When Gaia fell ill, Baldassare too felt the urge to flee

Their marriage - born of her demand that he destroy his falcon, and nurtured by his lie that he had done so - brought little happiness to either. Each was infected by guilt and vague resentments, feelings which prospered as silence spread between them. So the sight of that first bubo, growing from her groin, filled him with terror and the need to get away. Yet he delayed, sending first to her mother then Francesco Morelli, the physician.

Beatrice stayed all afternoon, moaning and mewing as the girl tossed to and fro beneath the ministrations of

Francesco. And as the days went by, Baldassare stayed to tend her, still full of fear as he mopped at her hair or spoke softly to her, yet unable to leave, tethered by their mutual guilt, or by some courtly duty that would not let him go, or perhaps by some last vestige of his adoration, seeking out a cure for itself.

Indeed, so harshly did the illness treat her body that such a cure might have seemed inevitable. He had loved her for her beauty and her fierce pride, and now, as the sickness gained ascension over her, it turned her slowly to an image of itself. First, the sore within her groin swelled outward like some smooth, encysted head, then formed a twin inside her armpit, and another in her neck until she groaned with every tide of blood that pulsed within her. A fever swept her on the second day, and soon her sweat, infected with the pestilence, began to stink so foully that he could barely step inside the room. Her saliva and her breath now held the odour of decay; and then the illness took its hold upon her bowels, until she swam in such a slough of muck that only some perversity - less kindness than a sort of self-destruction - made him try to clean her up. For now she raved, raddled with delirium, mired and mottled with taut red wens that thrust out of her skin like bloodied snouts, her flesh so pocked and shamed that it seemed she had been ravished, though by no mortal man, but rather by some demon crawled up from the Pit.

Francesco Morelli lanced the boil beneath her arm, and did his best to drain it, drawing off a thick black blood and greenish scum, which he caught within a golden cup.

Despite her screams he persevered, attempting to cauterise the wound with red-hot steel, but met with no success, since the boil now throbbed more painfully than ever, soon swelling to a still more fierce red. He then applied a variety of plasters to the other buboes, some made of gum resin and the roots of arum lilies, some a blend of powdered amethyst and snakeskin, and some that smelt like excrement. But most he bled her, attempting to expel the poison from her veins. He thought that it attacked her liver, fleeing to the groin - that organ's first emunctory - and bled the vein by which it fled. Then he said the heart was poisoned, and opened up the vessel leading to the armpit. Next, seeing the brain's emunctories swelling at her throat and ears, he cut the veins between them and let the black blood out. Yet, for all his expertise and effort, the only thing his remedies achieved was Gaia's suffering, and he gave up in despair.

Her mind now came and went, igniting like a fire, then shrivelling to ash. At first she fought the pain, y writhing and screaming at its onslaught, rebelling as it sought to conquer her. Yet, as the hours melted into days, she came to see that she must suffer like the saints, those heroes of her youth, Saint Catherine on her wheel, Saint Margaret, Saint Barbara, submitting with her body to triumph in her spirit. And slowly, as the sickness sank more deeply in, she saw that she was no great martyr, but only some poor sinner discovering God's wrath. For here, mired and tormented, she failed to find the saint within her, discovering instead the likeness of some toad or adder puffed up with its pride. God's justice - hellish though it was - would soon be done, and all her vanity, garnered with such pleasure, would ooze in slime amid the anguish of redemption.

These musings brought her to a morbid kind of peace, and yet the pain went on until she knew God meant to break her. Ghosts flittered in her fever - her mother with her cool, moist sponge and cooing words, and once or twice, her father, shifting darkly in the haze and quickly vanishing. There were the doctor and the priest with their pale rituals, but most came Baldassare, at first so distant and reluctant, and then - even as she drifted from him - softer and more near. Once, when the pain had rasped like saws against her bones, then quieted a moment, she thought she heard his falcon screech in terror.

"What?" he'd cried, rushing to her side. "Are you...?" And then said nothing, waiting in the silence.

"I killed your bird," she told him, the whisper scraping at the edges of her mouth. "I killed her for my pride."

And as she lay back, choking, exhausted by her voice, she felt the slaughterer's knife inside her throat, its cold blade rattling.

"No," breathed Baldassare, alarmed by her distress.

"Fiera's safe. It was another bird they killed."

At first he thought she hadn't heard, since her limbs went rigid and her skin blanched pale as ice. She gasped as talons tore her neck then bit into her heart. She felt the shreds spray upward, and the great soft wings go beating into light, as her mouth gaped, muttering, "It doesn't matter now...it doesn't really matter," and

Baldassare, shaking her thin shoulders, choked back gall and tears. *

Tuccio stood before her coffin in his long black mourning robes. Beside him stood Beatrice and Marina, and a little further forward, Baldassare. The Duomo was cast in evening gloom, the catafalque shimmering before the altar with a galaxy of candles, where the coffin seemed no more than a deeper darkness still, a shadow lost in light.

Tuccio surveyed the scene about him - the chanting monks in coarse-spun habits, the priests in albs and broad black copes, the crowded nave - and mourned for Gaia's absence. Always, when the family was together, he'd been conscious of her presence, of her beauty, like a brightness that attracted light, drawing every eye. Now she was smothered up in darkness, and not even one last glimpse of her was possible. At other times she would have lain amongst the light in her most gorgeous gown, and those last rays of sun that broached the coloured windows, cobalt and blood-red, would have lit within her hair. Here they lit no more than dust-motes, as tiny as the souls of fleas ascending in the air. For now people so shunned the sight of those the plague had ravaged, and there was such fear that corpses, openly exposed, might cause contamination, that even he had been prevailed upon to shut his daughter up in wood for the procession and the service. Of course, he had ignored the rules forbidding all but family at the funeral... and, indeed, so long was the cortege, and so elaborate the bier, and so many the monks and priests and candles, that it was like the rites of some great general from another time...and yet, somehow, it had not felt right. For of the townsfolk, corrupted by the sickness and their fear, precious few had shown her due respect, barely turning to acknowledge the procession, while some appeared to derive more mirth than sorrow from her passing. Even the streets seemed out of sympathy, some stinking with great plumes of greasy smoke from burning heaps of rags, some strewn with corpses dumped upon their doorsteps, awaiting tardy porters, and yet others resounding with the scrape and bump of tumbrils piled with ill-made coffins, as if they were the town's main industry. For a moment he had almost

•felt - with death now so familiar and obscene - that such a grand procession was a habit from another, slightly foolish, time.

He opened his mouth in mechanical response, following the words in Beatrice's Book of Hours, glancing up to watch the monks and black-coped priests all gathered at their lecterns with their great antiphonals.

Si iniquitates observaveris, they chanted, while he thought of Gaia lying in that darkness, face shrunken with her illness, deaf to their singing and blind to their tears. That it should happen now, when she had only just been married, when her child - his grandchild - might already have been forming in her womb...it was too Pitiful to think of. Magnificat anima mea...

The Canticle of the Virgin swelled into the air, filling the dome with its round, rich song, and his eyes dropped to Marina at his side. She must not die like Gaia. He would protect her at all costs. For the moment, he must stay to safeguard the shipments arriving from the East.

But soon - as soon as he could - they would leave

Topomagro, and all would then be simpler and less hedged in with fear.

Qui Lazarum resuscitasti, he intoned, letting himself be lost among the words of the Office, drifting with the ebb and flow of voices, till Beatrice turned the page to move on to the versicle. Et ne nos, he began, but faltered as he saw the picture facing him. For here was Death in person, grinning upward from the vellum depths, surrounded by a border packed with fruits and living flowers, yet himself skeletal, with an arrow raised above his head and something held out like a gift. Tuccio peered closer and saw it was a mirror. Yes, the painted figure held a mirror to him, and then he seemed to see his face reflected in its surface, as if Death now held him in his hand. A porta inferi...He felt a sudden chill, a shiver in the bones. Perhaps he wasn't well; he'd felt fatigued of late, with headaches and sore legs. This might have been a sign, an omen, something sent to warn him of his avarice. Was he willing to die for those shipments? Would such stubborn protection of his profits gain him a secure place in Paradise? He knew the answer well, and resolved to pledge a wealthy benefice to Santa Maria dei Poveri.

Soon the Office of the Dead was over, and all gazed up from Gaia's coffin in its pyre of gold candles, facing the altar instead, where the priest commenced the

Requiem, hands clasped before the chalice with its square, stiff pall of linen. Yet, almost from the start, seeing those pale stones before the altar, Tuccio felt his thoughts slip from the service, sensing instead his daughter's sorrowful displacement, as if, right there and then, he could hear her wailing in the dank, black stone, pauperised in death amid the cold humiliation of Santa

Maria dei Poveri. For here was the thing he'd been remiss in, and now it was too late. Indeed, he'd never dreamt that she'd be first to die. He'd long assumed that mantle for himself. And how might one expect a man of business such as he to fix his thoughts on death? It was something better left to God. And so, even as his fortune grew beyond his first arrangements with the priests of Santa

Maria dei Poveri, he had not bothered to make provision for the death his change of status now demanded. And thus his child must suffer. In the midst of all his grieving, his blood began to boil at the thought of that old bishop. "Oh no," the priest had said, the very one who stood before them now, "we may say the Mass, of course.

But she can't be buried here. Not without the bishop's final word. And as you know, he's on a pilgrimage to save the town. A pilgrimage? To save the town? To save his skin more like it. The doddery old fool had never done a thing for them, not even against that rabid cardinal, when his voice might well have held some sway. And now he'd scuttled off to Clement's castle near Valence - a town yet free from plague - as fast as he could get there, depriving Gaia of a place before the altar of the Duomo.

y Well, thought Tuccio, fussing at his mourning robes, he'd better get back soon to approve her relocation from the church to the cathedral, or he'd see no more Landucci florins. And so the merchant ranted in his mind, wringing his hands together more than clasping them in prayer, already making plans to gild the altar of that humble church, to beautify its walls with murals as a shrine to his dead daughter. But then the Requiem was over, almost before he'd noticed, and the Absolution had begun. Tuccio watched the pair of acolytes hold back the priest's dark cope as he blessed the bier and shook the aspergillum over it, moistening the pall with holy water. He watched the censer trail its scented smoke above the coffin, before the bearers came to lift it from the catafalque.

He heard Beatrice's cry of grief, saw Marina's shoulders tremble, while Baldassare, grey as ash, went slowly forward. Then he too shuffled after, through the nave, toward the night, feeling once again a shaft of grief, then fear, as he watched that shut black box. It seemed so small, too small for Gaia's life, and he felt the urge 569 to open it and look inside, just to see if she was there.

Yet he trudged on stolidly enough, catching a glint of candles from the transept, and thinking how dark the nights would be in that poor church, alone in the cold stone .

* * * In which Brother Corvo pursues a vocation and Jacopo pursues Marina

The criers, the bailiffs, the watch and the militia are soon so small in number that the streets are left to those who have the strength to take them. The chaos at the gates grows by the day, so that vagabonds and wandering paupers slip easily into town; while ruffians, inured to the harshest lives, find sudden wealth as nurses to the rich, those wealthy merchants or their wives abandoned in their final sickness. But most in number is the horde of porters, the self-proclaimed sextons of the plague, who heave the biers, boards and barrows piled with corpses through the streets. These men, for whatever price they might demand, haunt the infected chambers of the dead and dying, the foetid pits, the mounds of heaped contagion, dressed in graveyard mire like a host of carrion crows. And first among them are the followers of Brother Corvo.

For he and his disciples have prospered by the plague, using its protection to penetrate the town. Somewhere he has found a great dark horse with heavy hooves, which he rides among the laneways, his pack of snarling mongrels at his heels, as if he were some lord upon the chase. And his sextons, dragging at their carts and makeshift biers, come swarming up behind, sniffing out the dead. There are now fortunes to be made by those who have the gift of menace and no fear of the plague. Indeed, he knows the pestilence for what it is - the judgement of the Lord of

Light, devourer of the flesh - and rides its dank, black power as an angel rides the storm. Its breath will not destroy him, but puffs him up with purpose like a wind fills out a sail, driving him forward to its glory. He does not quake amid this shrivelled city, where dogs, diseased and famished, go ranging through the streets. He revels in these signs of the kingdom close at hand, this interregnum before the the Pestilential King's accession to the throne. But now, before that moment, there is work to do.

For see him riding, surrounded by his sextons, down a narrow laneway in the Borgo dei Medici e Farmaciste. See the tall, fine house of ashlar rising up before them, its higher storeys disappearing in the blackness past their torches. See the servant who has led them here beckoning them on, drawing backward from the noses of the grumbling dogs, their long backs quilled with fanning hackles.

Here, while Corvo grins beneath his hood, this figure hurries up the stairway of the portico, where a door has opened to reveal a maid, whose smile, begun, now freezes on her face at the sight of the grim sextons already filing past her. She makes to shut the door, but finds it will not close, opening it once more to seek out the obstruction, seeing there before her the tall, gaunt, monkish form and falling back before him. He sidles through, moves down the long, broad hallway, barely registering the whines of the impatient dogs behind him, and then the sudden thunder of their fighting. He follows the reflection of the torches on the ceiling, past unlit sconces, candelabra, darkened chambers, toward the stink of sickness. He can sense it in this house, the death they've come for. And then he enters the lit sickroom.

A boy lies in a massive bed surrounded by tall candles, his body twisted in a knot, his dead face livid in the drifts of waxy smoke. The lump upon his neck secretes a y thin black blood, and his sheets as well are blackened.

There is the father too, a prosperous man beside the bed,

his soft mouth anxious in the nest of its neat beard, his

wife as pale as marble by his side, and between them their small daughter. All seem frightened in that funeral

hush, watching the still body as if it might arise at any

moment, while the sextons, dressed in their dark rags,

crowd forward round the bed like uncouth mourners. Then

Fabio, their foreman, shuffles up, his chin thrust out

beneath his cap.

"Twenty florins to cart him off, and another ten to dig

the grave," he barks, as is his way, peering hard into

the man's slow gaze, which blinks, yet barely seems to

with a frown, steps forward just a little.

"Thirty florins?" she says, the question thick and husky,

as if formed from swallowed sobs. "But that's absurd. Do

you seek to make your fortune from our sorrow?" "Sixty, or we take the girl as well." And all his men come pressing in, while Fabio grins and rolls his eyes at the young girl, who thrusts her face into her mother's belly.

"You - you wouldn't - " begins the woman, half in horror, half in anger, but the father raises a conciliatory hand and shakes his head. y

"Of course he would," he murmurs softly. "I can see that he's a man who knows his mind," and turns toward the sexton. "Sixty florins? Well, I know you do a dangerous job. . . "

Fabio grins and nods approvingly, withdrawing the hand that was already reaching for the girl, while the man steps back to rummage in a clinking casket on the dresser, and his wife glares after him. But the child, saved for the moment from the plague pit, peeps shyly from her mother's skirts, staring up, not at the sextons, but past their shifting forms toward the shadows by the door, where Corvo stands in silence. He, in turn, looks back into her fixed blue gaze, feeling the fever sliding through his veins, the power in his blood, and seeing - as the child now parts her lips to speak - her black, split tongue, the demons at her side, one green, one red, then sends the plague upon her. *

The wind, strangely cold for the season, blows in from the east like a thick, black tide. It buffets the house in sudden gusts, while cloudscraps, briefly luminous, twist across the moon's pale face and the night grows shifty with shadows. For Marina, all this movement is truly a godsend, as if God might actually side with daughters against their strict fathers. For here, in her bedchamber, in the heart of the darkened house, the rush and bustle of air hides the murmur of words, the sibilant hiss of twin breaths, as she and Jacopo speak softly together. He reclines on his elbow, between the bed and the window, as if concealed from some sudden intruder, while Marina leans toward him, whispering among the covers, her long dark hair spilling over her cheek, tumbling almost to the floor.

"It's like being in prison," she's saying. "The padlocks and chains are invisible, but they're here all the same."

"He's afraid of the plague," he answers, gazing up at her quizzical eyes. "And so am I. It makes good sense to stay inside . "

"But you go out, and you aren't sick." She gives her head a sulky shake. "And he goes on with his business, but remains in perfect health. And then there are the others, who stay in their houses and die in bed. I don't think it makes any difference. If God wants you to die then you will."

"Well, there's no denying that," he says slowly, then gives a wry smile. "Though why God preserves a thief like me, while so many priests are dying...I don't know how you'd explain that."

She watches his thin, dark face, and says with a laugh near to mockery, "You might have virtues that only God can see...and those priests might have sinned without your knowing it."

"Perhaps. But I know my own sins well enough." He watches her closely, sensing the moment is right, that the jewel lies couched in its casket, awaiting the thief's quick hand. "I've stolen from more rich men than I can count, men who might well have given what I stole to some worthy charity."

"Or fed their faces with it," she laughs, and the soft, silver sound rings in his heart like a bell. "I've heard the friars preach of rich men's sins. Some say that God has provided enough for all, and that the rich steal the bread of the poor. I know little of these things...but perhaps you're stealing back what they owe you."

He looks at her, so sweet and young in her soft, clean sheets, then thinks how her father tormented Lucia, thrusting her into the flames. "Perhaps...Yes, perhaps these Fraticelli may speak some truth. But the life of a thief is a shiftless one."

"You say that... yet to me it's something more." She leans closer to him, and he sees the golden colour of her back and thin shoulder, feeling the urge to touch her. But he knows the dangers of greed to a thief, and freezes his heart with the thought of Lucia. "It must take courage to travel from town to town, a stranger everywhere, with no- one to trust, and only your thefts to feed you."

"Courage," he says softly, "or desperation."

Now her eyebrows cock in a question, and with a confidential air, she twists a little closer on the bed.

"But tell me what it's like to climb into someone else's house at night, when there may be watchers there, or servants, or armed men?"

"Better than climbing into a house in broad daylight."

"No, really, tell me. How does it feel, slipping through a window, not knowing what's inside, or whether you'll be killed or captured?"

"Like entering anything," he shrugs, "anything that's new, that you don't know. Then you take whatever you can. " "Yes, she smiles, that's what I like, instead of simply being there, just waiting." Then she nods and plumps her fist down on the mattress. "I think I'd make a good thief, Jacopo. I can climb, I can be as...as quiet as a mouse. I wouldn't be afraid...not any more than anybody else. And I..." She peers about, seeking inspiration, then lights on Scimmi, sleeping beside her in the rumples of the counterpane. "I'm as nimble as a cat, and I can see in the dark. Just ask anyone."

He chuckles, shaking his head doubtfully. "So," he laughs, as if humouring a child, "you'd come and be a thief with me, Marina?"

"Yes," she says without a second's hesitation. "Yes, I would. "

He feels the pearl, the priceless treasure, icy in his fingers. And in that moment a silence grows, a dangerous silence from which scruples might be born. He lets it linger for an instant longer, then says more solemnly,

"You really would, Marina?"

But now a greater silence gathers, a hush where even the rush of wind against the shutters is drowned out by their heartbeats. She gazes at the room's dark walls, the corners deep in shadow, and feels the closure of a lidded coffin, as if, for just that moment, she were Gaia shut inside its blackness. Never before had she felt the

nearness of death until she'd seen her sister buried,

until she'd heard the silence of the room next door, and

gone to Gaia's house and found it empty. And now to wait,

to stay here week after week, knowing nothing of the to wn beyond her needlework and kitchen, waiting till the

plague-breath finds her...

"Yes," she says once more, "I will. I'll be a thief's

apprentice." And for some moments he says nothing,

watching with a calculating kind of warmth, waiting for

her to take it back, to make a joke of it, to burst out

laughing, while she stares into his face and thinks of

all the roads and towns and open windows, the fear and

excitement, sensing the hard, dark heat of him beside

her, and the joy she wants to know, here, in the very

shadow of the plague, lying at Death's threshold.

"That wind is cold," she says, and he feels suddenly

drunk with triumph, as if the jewel he'd sought were his,

while he still strove to steal it.

»'v„Yes,_ "" he murmurs, "very cold," and rises slowly from the floor, gently peeling back the counterpane to slip between the sheets, entering as carefully as any thief might broach a casement, still clad in smock and hose, and catching one quick glimpse of her smooth body. "So cold for summer." 579

"Oh," she gasps, "your hands," yet doesn't move as he draws nearer, but shivers into giggles, while Scimmi stirs and squeaks with irritation.

* * * Tuccio consults his physician

"Come, Francesco," says Tuccio, beckoning with his candle in the direction of the upper storeys. "It's hot. We'll go and sit out on the balcony upstairs. And why not stay for dinner? Beatrice's bought some nice fat mackerel in the markets, and while Domenica prepares them we can drink some wine out in the cool."

y They are standing in an office at the rear of the shop, where Tuccio's just finished with the ledgers. It's close and musty, and even the heat of the candle feels uncomfortable. But the physician demurs, waving his hand

in the heavy air: "Ah, I Could do with some cool wine out of the cellar. You know I'd never say no to that. But you

should be more careful, Tuccio. It's wiser to remain

inside. These breezes blow corrupted mists up from the

sea. That's why the coastal cities sicken first. The same goes for the fish, my friend. Remember, the plague's

initial victims were from the Borgo San Pietro." He wags a finger at the merchant. "You should take more care with what you eat."

"Oh, well, Francesco," Tuccio blusters, "I've always liked fine fish, and it's never done me any harm.

Besides, many of those who first fell sick were paupers, who eat neither good fish, nor any other decent food. And their hovels are often almost totally devoid of air.

Surely the sickness comes from filth and putrid matter." Francesco laughs bemusedly, clapping his friend on the shoulder with fatherly good humour. "No no, Tuccio...what you say might hold a certain credence with the layman.

But if you consult the true authorities, you will find that things are not so simple. Hippocrates, in his first and third Books of Epidemics, firmly stated that katastasis - the relationship between an epidemic and the conditions in which it flourishes - is based on the alignment of the planets. And as for paupers being most at risk...well, such statements rely on mere observation, and indicate an ignorance of authoritative wisdom. For instance, Galen's calculus of humours proves that quite the opposite is true, since the humours of most paupers, as a result of their poor diet, are cold and dry, whereas those temperaments most threatened by the plague are hot and moist. An active, busy merchant with a love of meat and wine, and a tendency to wrath or lechery, would be as much at risk as anyone."

He lifts his eyebrows and smiles satirically at Tuccio, who frowns, replacing the candle slowly on the table, leaning his weight upon the shaky back of an old chair, and saying: "So you think I'm running more risks than I should?"

"We all are, Tuccio, we all are. Physicians more than most. But there are certain precautions that require little inconvenience. Such as the use of scents to nullify the air's corruption. Or you might make a powder of calamite, antimony and storax to sprinkle on the fire. I'll write the formula out for you."

"Oh, well, that's good of you, Francesco." He leans forward, creasing up his forehead. "Yet I've heard some say that foul will drive out foul, that those who nurse in hospitals and clean out the latrines are less affected by the plague than others. There are some, I hear, who spend their days crouched over jakes and cesspits to absorb their foetid air."

"And they will die of it, Tuccio. For, in general, it is true that corruption breeds corruption, and contagion will hang thickest in such places. All other things being equal, corruption feeds on filth."

"Then perhaps Beatrice is right, and I should bathe more often than I do."

"No, no, no, Tuccio," cries the physician, starting forward at the thought. "There is nothing more dangerous than bathing, especially in warm water. It deprives the skin of its protective layer, heats the members and, above all, lays the pores open to the foulness of the air." Then he relaxes a little, relenting as far as a momentary smile, apparently delighted to indulge his expertise. "And as I've mentioned to you before, be careful with your diet. Avoid fresh fruit and vegetables, and put fish out of your mind altogether. Don't overeat lest you overheat, avoid hung meats, and never eat your eggs hard-boiled - "

"Must we starve then, since your prohibitions seem to include almost everything worth eating?"

"No, of course not. There are numerous foods that you might eat," protests Francesco with an offended sniff. "Well-cooked veal or white truffles are not too risky, while figs, galinga root, spikenard and filberts are all excellent. And little is more fortifying than a delicate, fine wine, such as the Filettole or Carmignano which I remember you have in your cellar."

"Ah, yes," smiles Tuccio, "the Carmignano. So this is where your prohibitions were leading - to make sure I'd drink nothing but the finest wines, at least when my physician's here."

"Now, Tuccio, it's just that kind of cynicism that gives physic a bad name, so that patients take no notice of their doctors, and suffer for it."

"Well, perhaps I'd be wise to take some notice then.

Would you like to drink some Carmignano with me,

Francesco? Not on the balcony, mind you, but shut up safe indoors." 'Oh, I thought you'd never ask," Francesco chuckles, while his friend takes up the candle and heads toward the stairs. "But, seriously," he adds, following behind, "the apothecary has more for you than the vintner. There's little beats a well-mixed theriac, especially those blended in Bologna by the university's physicians." He mounts the stairs more quickly to draw nearer to the merchant, adding in a tone of mild remonstrance, "Indeed, the mind's tranquillity is the best preventative. Too much sorrow at the suffering of others deadens the body and the spirit, while passion of any kind is dangerous, leading to too much heat. And worst of all are wrath and lechery."

"Lechery?" cries Tuccio, almost dropping the candle as he turns on his companion. "I've got no time for lechery, Francesco."

"Ah, but anger is another matter altogether," the man smiles slyly.

"Well... yes." Tuccio, too, is smiling now as he pushes the door at the top of the stairs. "What I mean is...the whole world is shutting down, like a bankrupt business.

It's no place for a merchant any more."

"You're right, my friend," agrees Francesco, as they slip into the darkened hall. "Indeed, to be quite frank, 585 there's only one sure remedy I know - flight to uncorrupted air."

* * * Marina braves the plague

Jacopo crouches by his fire in the small cottage he has commandeered near the Ospedale degli Abbandonati. It's the height of summer, yet the flames rage hungrily beneath the smoke hole, devouring picture-frames, old wooden drawers, expensive chairs and other pieces of scrap, since he has somewhere heard that the air should be kept hot and dry to guard against the sickness. He sits sweating in the silent room lit only by the blaze, his face suffused in the sweet smile of ownership as he surveys his little house, one of the hundreds which death or fear has caused the owners to abandon, so that houses and whole districts - as well as orphans - may now be called "abbandonati". Yet Jacopo is smiling still, surveying the Flemish rug spread on his floor, the glitter of the little French enamels, the walnut chessboard with its gilded figures. Yes, the sickness has been kind to him.

It's a sort of burglar's paradise, Topomagro, with so many houses now deserted. But even here in his sanctuary, surrounded by such wealth as he has never known before, he can't help wondering about the nature of it all, about so many dead while he still lives. For he has seen the good defeated, shrivelling like sinners in the fires of the plague, while thieves, no different from himself, now briefly live like kings upon their pillage. And though he would not pray that thieves might perish, such justice 587

niggles at his notion of how things ought to be, as if somehow he had hoped, through all his theft and cunning, to reach some place of certainty within the world, only to find - among these dying priests and nobles, physicians and rich merchants - that no such place exists.

He feels suddenly enclosed, stepping to the window and propping up the shutter. He peers out into the restless night, its curfew long since broken, hearing distant shouts, sensing the shadows that go slipping through the darkness. They are adrift inside the town's stone walls, floating with the world like prisoners on a plague-ship. Yet floating where? He peers upward at the stars. Fra

Lippo said the world sat at the centre of a host of spheres like the skins of some vast onion. But you may peel and peel an onion's skins and never find its centre.

And, indeed, the world itself may be just so. Yet now, when Jacopo stares up amongst the stars, he finds the friar's notions hard to credit. For here, in this town, he feels almost as he did upon that boat, drifting through the stars' exhausted light, sailing out into the deepening dark, though now the sea they sail contains no beacon and no shore, but only blackness upon blackness to the end of night. And of their captain in this endlessness, where kindness dies and cowards are the sole survivors? Is he cruel or simply foolish, or has he perished long ago? He bangs the shutter down and sits back at the fire. Such questions are confusing, if not dangerous. The world is as it is, and thoughts like these - no matter how real they may seem - reduce it to a shadow of itself. Yet now he feels uneasy, nervous, the proprietary pleasure he had felt before completely vanished. He picks up a stick to prod the flagging fire, tapping it against the hard- packed earth, where it echoes with a hollow thud. Then he hears a knock upon the door. He starts up with the stick gripped in his fist. Who would it be? There's no-one that he knows here. Some rag-end of the militia tipped off about his thefts? Another thief, perhaps, come to try his luck? Only Marina knows he's here...He darts over to the door, lifts its latch, swings it open, and finds the girl upon his doorstep, peering nervously about her. She rushes past him, throwing off the long black cape in which she's draped, then standing by the fire, shivering from some cause that cannot be the cold.

"A fire?" she cries, half laughing, half in fear. "Surely it's too hot. You're not suffering with fever?"

"No, no," he blurts, moving quickly to her, "it's a cure for the air's corruption," then takes her skinny shoulders. "But why are you here, Marina? It's too dangerous in the streets. You know I said I'd be there later in the week." "We're leaving," she says softly, lowering her gaze away

from his. "He's finally listening to my mother - she said

she'd leave alone with me if he didn't want to come. So

he's wound up all the business that he can, and we're leaving before the Sabbath."

He looks down at her dark hair, her delicate, quick face, and finds no words to say.

y "I don't want to go!" she cries, a rich man's pampered

daughter; then says more gently: "I climbed out of the

window...His agent in Milan has purchased a villa in the countryside. It's said to be free of sickness, and we'll

stay there till the plague has gone from Tuscany. It

might be years. I might be old when we return."

"Marina," he chuckles, lifting his fingers from her

shoulder and brushing back her hair. "It might be safer

if you went."

"No, Jacopo." She shakes free of him, and paces round the room. "I don't want to go with them." A silence falls, in which he feels unsure of what to say, while she, uncertain too, starts peering at his treasures - the chalices, the gilded casket, the painted panel. "Well," she says at last, "you've got some nice things here..." then pauses for a moment, thoughtfully. "And that's my father's chessboard!" Oh, well, that style's quite common -

"No it's not. It's his, you thief." But she is smiling, more confident now, a slight, lithe figure little taller than his shoulder. "I want to stay with you." She looks into his eyes, taking his fingers in her own. "I want to stay here, to hide until they're gone. And you can teach me how to thieve with you. I'll be your apprentice burglar." y

He stares down into her eager, resolute gaze, shaking his head, then slowly - very slowly - starts to nod, until his gloomy thoughts all vanish, and he laughs out loud for sheer mirth.

Now the wealthy are deserting Topomagro in great numbers.

They load coaches and wagons, carts, tumbrils and the backs of asses with their treasures, rumbling out beneath the northern and the eastern gates like the retreat of some prodigal army, glittering in silk and damask for fear of leaving the least piece of their best cloth behind. But Tuccio has not yet joined them, since he and

Beatrice have been gripped by frenzy since the disappearance of Marina. They send out Luca, their steward, and all the servants they can spare; then free such men as Luigi Pucci and Niccolo di Lapo from their duties in the business, in order that they might add their talents to the search. Tuccio curses the fact that

Baldassare is no longer there, but calls upon the help of all his friends who've not yet left, men such as

Francesco Morelli and Bartolomeo Chiaudano. The captain

of the people and the podesta have long since scuttled

off, but there remain the poorer members of the town militia, whom the merchant harries into action. He is

terrified lest the girl has fallen into the clutches of

those predators that now proliferate about the town - the y vagabonds that grow in number by the day, the renegade

sextons and the tribes of looters. Yet, though such a

search might well have been successful before the advent

of the plague, now all is chaos, and every system he had

mastered is now mastered by disorder. Days go by, the

Sabbath passes, and another, but Marina stays unfound. He

sends word to what agents and fattori remain in

neighbouring towns, yet not a clue - no slightest hint -

turns up to indicate her whereabouts. At last, despite

Beatrice's feeble protests, he decides they've done

enough. No mortal father could do more. And, indeed, even

his wife eventually admits that Marina must be dead or

gone, since why else would such a happy girl have

vanished so completely? They finally settle for the

explanation, first mooted by Francesco, that she has been

so frightened by the plague, so overcome with terror,

that she could not bear her father's hesitations any

longer, and has taken flight of her own volition. For

here the physician can supply a number of convincing anecdotes of other such behaviour, so that both Tuccio and Beatrice, at first distraught and then reluctant,

finally surrender to his urgings, spurred on perhaps by a

new, more virulent form of plague, which attacks the

lungs and kills within three days. Thus it is that Tuccio

- taking out his apprehension in a last, obsessive fit of

locking and securing - leaves his house to journey into

Lombardy, accompanied by his wife, his servants and his slaves, but not his daughter.

y Indeed, one final misadventure - or perhaps it might be

better called an irritation - awaits them at the northern gate on the day of their departure. A great crush of

wagons stands crippled in the road, where some overloaded

bullock-cart has snapped its axletree, so that Tuccio's small convoy is stuck, unmoving, in the Piazza San

Stefano. Here, Father Rocco della Rocca is ranting from

the top of the church steps. There is a large,

impoverished-looking crowd before him, and, fired by his

captive audience among the carts, he is delivering a

sermon which, to Tuccio's burning ears, sounds more full

of bile than wisdom. "Mammon," he declares, waving an

aggressive finger in the direction of the wagons. "There are those within this town who recognise no other god.

This is no exodus like that from Egypt, sanctioned by

Jehovah. This is the flight of wealth and luxury, inspired, not by God, but by the demon Mammon. It is the very vanity the pestilence chastises, the very avarice and lust for florins. Do you think you can escape God's punishment, all you who sit within a cart beneath a pile of gold and leave the town that nourished you to die?"

Tuccio watches as the priest now waves a hand in his direction, the mob's eyes following his wagging finger.

"These are the very men who build the city's palaces, with towers to protect their wealth." And his voice now rises almost to a scream. "Towers of Babel all! Temples built to men's own splendour, as if they themselves were

God." Then he crouches low above the crowd, his voice a threatening rumble. "But there is only one God - He who directs the pestilence against his foes to cure men of sin. And are there those who truly think they can escape

His wrath with horse and wagon?" And then he laughs - a blood-curdling sound - and the crowd laughs with him. But luckily the convoy starts to lumber forward, though not fast enough to miss his final words. "For those who think they can escape God's wrath will escape Him only where they must escape all hope as well: deep in Hell's dark pit."

The crowd is clearly enjoying itself, relishing his invective against the town's elite; and he continues, jumbling up the gospels in a bitter stew of camels and needles, penance and peacemakers, though his words are garbled by the creak of wheels on stone. Then a dogfight erupts round one of the dead bodies left neglected in the square. The priest's long obloquy is lost, his audience distracted, while, for Tuccio, the snarl and rumble of the dogs is the plague s last fanfare at his exit from the town.

Of course, not everyone chooses to leave Topomagro, even when the plague's more lethal strain appears. The poor, ravaged by both sickness and hunger, too often lack the will, the strength and means to seek out greener y pastures. Master craftsmen stubbornly refuse to leave their hard-won businesses for the life of a vagabond in a town of strangers. Some maintain that the communes about them are just as cruelly set upon by sickness, and that they're better off remaining in the town, where they are sure, at least, of roof and bed and some degree of caring. Father Rocco della Rocca says the worthy man might live a full life's span within a lazaretto, while a sinner might ride to the ends of the earth on the fastest of stallions and yet perish. Francesco Morelli has faith only in his own small well and secluded garden of rare herbs. And the old Gonfaloniere, Agnolo del Leone, having stored provisions in his basement at the onset of the plague, has bricked up every door and window of his tall

Palazzo, and lives within its fastness with his family.

Jacopo, on the other hand, feels that he inhabits a Land of Cockaigne. For here, as in Paradise, the mansions open wide to every pauper, their echoing chambers full of treasures left in haste. Now Jacopo and Scimmi stroll through breathless hallways, where crystal, gold and silver lie scattered for the taking. Yet sometimes this abundance has a shock or two in store, as when he scaled an ivied wall toward an upper window, snapping back the hasp and scurrying inside. From the street the house had seemed both dark and silent, but slipping through its rooms with Scimmi in the lead, he heard noises coming from within, until at last, following a labyrinth of hallways, he peered from a window high above a courtyard where torches lit a host of figures in elaborate copulation. Another time, in a splendid, tall palazzo, quite dark and well-secured, he followed Scimmi to a bricked-up room. Convinced that if must hold some fabulous possession - a thing too great with gold to carry in a cart - he chipped away at the bricks all night, until, at dawn, a mass of makeshift wall came tumbling down, and he too almost tumbled when the odour hit him. Scimmi's ears flattened, and she dived into her pouch as Jacopo stepped forward, peering in to find - on exquisite carven beds - the rotting bones of two small boys who must have fallen ill, then been entombed to sea the plague inside.

Nevertheless, he's bringing home increasing booty to

Marina, who starts to venture out as well, almost doubling their nightly haul. Their tiny cottage is soon crammed to overflowing, until - true daughter of a merchant - she sensibly suggests that they should leave it as a storehouse, and move to more commodious accommodation. Thus they take up residence in one of the neighbourhood's most opulent townhouses. Yet, no sooner are they there, surrounded by the choicest of their treasures, than Jacopo begins to wonder at the point of all this theft. What can he really do but stroll amongst it, laughing at the merchants who'd left it all behind?

And every day the town becomes more dangerous, with cutthroats laying claim to whatever house they can.

Vandals roam the streets, setting animals ablaze, y ' defiling the altars of any intact church; while the plague's more virulent new form strikes terror in each heart, so that priests desert their flocks, men their dying wives, and parents their sick children. The town is full of cries, and it seems an endless time since the

Priors nailed their laws about the streets, these edicts now in tatters and the Priors long since gone.

One evening, while slipping past the Palazzo dei Dieci, he sees a huge bonfire in the square before it, where youths and girls are dancing to a wild, discordant music, some falling down with drink or sickness, others coupling in the shadows of surrounding porticoes. Then suddenly a pack of hounds comes loping from the square's far side, tearing at the dancers' living flesh as if the flesh of corpses were in short supply, while gangs of ragged creatures, waving sticks and flails, come rushing in behind like beaters at a hunt. There are screams, spilled blood, bodies thudding to the ground, where they are hit with staves and savaged by the dogs. Cowering in the shadows of an alley, he sees the tall, gaunt horseman riding through the slaughter, and knows the man at once. It is the monk - the one he'd seen when he had gone amongst the vagrants with Lucia - now seated on his stallion as if he ruled the town.

As soon as it is safe, Jacopo slinks off, sickened by the violence he has seen. It's like the pestilence has worked its way beyond their bodies to their souls, corrupting all within. And only now does he suspect that he, the thief, may be no safer than any other townsman from the plague's worst thieveries. Thus it is that later in the evening, lying by Marina, he dreams that he falls ill. He feels the searing fever and the hammer of his blood, the skin so tight with poisons that he knows that he must die. And yet he doesn't, floating now in dreamy peacefulness, surviving and recovered. He turns to rise out of his sickbed, but cannot move, discovering - as he slowly lifts his eyes - the eyes of others near him, dead as painted stones. And there are limbs of withered marble

- grey, mottled torsos that stretch into the dark above him and below. For, living yet, he has been cast into a plague pit. And how he thrashes to be free, breaking out of sleep, still sweating in the fever of his fear, and finding Marina there beside him, moaning, wringing wet, a bubo bright beneath her outflung arm.

* * * In which Jacopo is faced with a difficult decision and Brother Corvo takes control

Brother Corvo rides as to the hunt. His dogs and minions swarm before him, clearing a passage for his coming. He loves this smooth relentlessness, this hurtling progress through the town, for it reminds him of the God's - and of his own - apotheosis, which comes so quickly now upon him that he sees it as a presence, like the dark, approaching end of this long street. Here, beneath the midday sun, the flat stone walls are shadowless, the arcades thin as paper, as if the world of flesh were but a mural to be peeled from revelation. His dogs' cries scorch the air, and figures vanish in their fear - a grandam waddling for a laneway, a torso bustling off on clumping arms, a blindman racing headfirst at a wall. All give way to the apocalypse, as he careens to the Piazza

San Stefano.

At the piazza, unaware of Corvo's coming, Father Rocco della Rocca shouts his daily sermon. His surplice is quite damp from the sweat of his exertions, and the usual crowd of paupers is listening on its knees. "Pray!" he bellows. "Pray that this town may one day soon gain absolution. For worst of all are they who use this just chastisement as a means to spread their heresies. Oh, you well know such heretics would shrivel in the flames of

Mother Church at any other time. Yet now, amongst the scum and pus, they thrive." And it's at this point that Brother Corvo's forces burst into the square, followed by their leader. But the priest, barely pausing to draw breath, flings his arm in their direction. "Ah, yes, good brethren of the poor," he cries, his arm now trembling with his passion. "The Lord has brought the apostate before us."

But the "good brethren of the poor" are too busy scuttling off into the shadows of unguarded alleys, while y Brother Corvo walks his stallion to the stairs, gazing upward at San Stefano's great maw, its campanile's needle pricking at the sky. Father Rocco wears a sharp, defiant look, yet backs away toward the portal, till the dogs begin to snarl.

"No, Rocco," Brother Corvo says at last. His voice is soft and mild, a sheath that hides a blade. "I don't serve an evil God, just Him whose time has come." And the priest can catch the glitter of a grin beneath the cowl.

"It's now you who are the heretic."

"Blasphemy," says Father Rocco in a tiny voice, then clears his throat and cries more loudly, "Blasphemy!"

But Corvo sees the creature leaning downward from the tower. "And, unrepentant, you must pay the price of heresy," he murmurs, even as the snaky, lashing thing coils down to bite the cleric's heart. The man jerks backward with a grunt, while smoke curls darkly from his surplice. Then the rope between the tower and his chest begins to smoulder, while another arrow hurtles from the far side of the square, then another, twirling with its rope already smoking, as yet a fourth comes hissing from the church's portal. Even as the fatted cords begin to blaze, the cassock flares, and the priest is burning at the centre of a fiery web, while the four militiamen now put away their bows, and Zoppo the Nark limps forward with his axe.

Yet Corvo beckons to the beggars, his voice as smooth and silky as the oil upon the ropes. "Come, do penance," he beseeches, "and learn the true God's word."

By the second day of Marina's illness, Jacopo knows that she will die. Buboes have formed on her neck, her groin and armpits. He has seen it all before - the twisting and the thrashing in the yellowed sheets, the stinking sweat, black piss and rancid oozings, the fierce, shining boils, the pain - and he doesn't want to see it once again. She cries out loudly, and he hurries to her side. He wipes her brow with kid-gloved fingers, smoothes her hair with her softest brush, drips water from a cloth onto her lips, resolving all the while that he will leave that night. For she will die, there's little doubt about it, and he may well die too if he remains to nurse her. On the third night of her illness, Marina ascends to Heaven. She sees clouds, great heavy stormheads brimming in the sky, and wafts up through them. She sees sunlight streaming over plains of blinding luminosity, and flutters up beyond it. She sees a halo of unbearable brilliance, and enters through its circle, where she finds the face of God. This face, His face, is like a cliff arisen from the sea, a sun arrayed in rainbows, dissolving every cloud; and it softens with her father's y watchful smile. "Marina," it says gently, "Marina, My dear child." And now she sees angelic hosts in spirals of bright song, one with the face of Luca, the household steward, another like the cook, Domenica, and yet another like Luigi Pucci, her father's plump accountant. For she supposes that Heaven must need such useful angels. And then she sees the Virgin sighing with her mother's smile, her eyes a little sad, as if she'd let her down. "My child," the Father says once more, "you make Us drink a bitter cup. We see ingratitude within your heart, and know great disappointment." And now His golden face grows crimson, while lightnings wreathe His brow. "Your loveless soul has made Us wrathful, and for this you stand condemned."

"Condemned to what?" she cries, in a voice that sounds no louder than a sparrow's cheep.

"Condemned to die and go to Hell!" her Father's voice is booming, even as she falls, tumbling past the angels' 602

hovering flocks, down through Heaven's circle, past the plains of light, the stormclouds and the sky, until vast gulfs of smoke enclose her, and the fiery Pit lies open as she screams, a hoarse and howling, high-pitched cry that echoes through the night.

When he hears this sudden scream, Jacopo is heading for the door, his shoulders burdened with a massive sack. He feels the hairs rise on his neck, while Scimmi sticks her head out of her pouch and peers at the bed. Some sort of reflex drops his treasures to the floor, propelling him toward her before he knows what's happening. "Marina?" he mutters, thinking she might die right then and there. But her eyes are open. They stare at him in fear. "Oh,

Jacopo," she whispers, and lifts her hand toward him.

Then what can he do but take it? He feels her fingers, soft and hot, just like some flustered child's, and gazes down into her face. Despite the sweat and stink and pain, there's still a loveliness about her; or maybe it's these sufferings that cause her shaky smile to touch him, till he has to turn away. But why? Why should he stay and run the risk of death? There are thousands dying in the town, and she is only one. Why should he add his number to the toll? Lucia...he conjures up Lucia burning in the flames, put there by Marina's father. But now he sees himself, silent in the throng, then running through the streets in fear, never turning back. And Laura...he sees her also, dying in the galley's hold while he remains on deck. How often did he go to her? How much did he delay? He untwists his fingers from the girl's, rising with a curse. Such softness is too dangerous. He is a thief and, like his Scimmi, has nine lives...but tenderness might be the finish of each one. He hears Marina gasp, and reaches for the sack of gold. "Jacopo," she whispers,

"Jacopo," until he sees her once again, in moonlight, in her chamber, as he slips in through the window, or climbing up a wall behind him, supple as a cat, or twining her lithe legs about him, laughing as he enters like the gentlest of all burglars. He hesitates... since

Death might steal her from him...trembling with the urge to turn, aware that, if he does, he might never be the same sly thief again. He feels the sack against his hand, and tugs it from the floor. It clanks and tinkles with a hollow sound. Then he lets it tumble with a clatter from his fingers, turning on his heel and slipping to the bed, where Marina merely flinches as he smooths her dark, damp hair.

By the following day, he feels certain that the sickness will not settle in her lungs, as it does in its more lethal form. But on the fourth night of the fever, returning with some food, he rounds the corner of their street to find her high above him, lit up by the moon, and clambering along the second-storey ledge of their tall mansion. "Marina!" he shouts, but says no more when she gives a start and almost tumbles. Instead, he scurries up the stairs, along the passage to their chamber, then peers through the window. She's some way out along the ledge, wobbling tipsily above the roadway, a sack across her shoulder, from which she takes small, gilded gewgaws, dropping them from time to time onto the stones. "Mar-i-i-i-na," he croons, beckoning with his hand. At last, after one or two more objects clatter to the road, she turns to eye him vaguely.

"Marina,'' he says softly, "what are you doing out there?"

"Oh, it's you," she sighs. "I thought it was the owner."

"The owner?"

"Yes." She turns to cast some trinkets to the ground.

"The owner's coming back. I've got to hide the evidence."

"Ah, yes, the evidence," he nods, sidling slowly after her along the ledge. He gently takes her hand. "But dearest, didn't I tell you? The owner wrote to say that he'd be gone for six more months."

"Oh, no," she murmurs, and seems to shake her head, yet lets herself be guided slowly back toward the window.

"He did. I'll let you see the letter."

And so the argument proceeds, with Jacopo wheedling and

Marina demurring, yet somehow edging backward through the window, toward the bed, and in between the covers, where he takes her slick, hot body in his arms and holds her till she sleeps.

But no sleep is ever long, and by the fifth day of her illness he knows that she'll soon die. The buboes have grown monstrous, yet she slips into a stillness much like death, only to wake an hour later, flinging out her arms and shrieking like a parrot. She raves and rants and y screams, tearing at the buboes with a mania he remembers from the galley, the last frenzy before death. Then, over a period of no more than half an hour, amid a series of long, thick, ragged cries, the buboes burst, pouring forth in such a putrid mess that he exhausts himself with retching. And then it's over, and she lies panting out her final gasps.

He stands beside the bed, holding her weak hand, waiting for the breaths to fade and die. He stands perhaps an hour, maybe two, listening to the trembling of her breath that slowly grows, not fainter, but more steady, until at last he sees she isn't dead, just sleeping deeply. It's only some time later that he thinks to leave her hand.

Yet as he does, her eyelids flicker open, and she gives a smile that, shaky though it is, shines dazzlingly above her trickling sores, and whispers: "I want to rob the

Palazzo dei Dieci," then rises weakly on her arm. "I'll need a challenge now I'm better." *

Brother Corvo, his kingdom come, has set up court in the

Palazzo dei Dieci. It is here, enthroned within the great reception hall, surrounded by his minions, that he await s the coming of the Twin of Light. Speranza, Fiducia and the ancient hag, Maria - all his loyal ones - deck his throne with tributes from the town, as Moloch and Bulfas and the hosts of other hounds go ranging through the torchlit chambers. Zoppo the Nark and his unkempt militiamen run the commissariat, while a conscripted clutch of apothecaries brew elixirs, draughts and unguents to Brother Corvo's orders. It is these potions that make him introspective in the evenings, lounging back in that great hall, encircled by his court, observing subtle changes in the murals round the walls.

He likes the one that shows the Priors at their table, mirrored in the heavens by Christ and all his saints, for it tells him how the rout of one must be reflected in the other. But most he likes the picture of the town within its fields, not for the town itself, nor for the Virgin and her angels who sit stiffly in the sky, but for the curious, enlarged depiction of the herbs and grasses in the foreground, as if the artist had some special fondness for these weeds - chervil, fennel, hyssop, poppy, henbane, nightshade - even to the painting of the bees that drink their wonders. Though there are only one or two of these small creatures, the depredations of some vandals have chipped the mural's paint, and the fields 607 are flecked with the golden stone beneath, so that he sometimes seems to lose himself for hours in the wings and furry bodies of the swarm.

Tonight, however, he stands high in the tower and scans the wide town. San Francesco, the Duomo, San Pietro,

Santo Spirito - all the churches are burning, the houses of heresy crimson with flame. Campanili fire the sky like flickering candles, and the Duomo's baptistery, cracked like an egg, is hatching infernos. Pillars of smoke twirl up under low vaults of cloud, their groinings lurid with heat, as if the whole town were a shrine to the imminent

God. For His coming is near, Brother Corvo can feel it.

His powers fill the air. Strange shapes ignite in the glowering clouds and fly through the fiery glare. And no place on earth is exempt from this cleansing, since Corvo sees Venice - the forms of the Spirit Twin stalk its canals in a spiralling mist - and sniggers at Paris, where King Philip's doctors name Saturn the cause of the plague. He giggles at Basle, where they blame the town's

Jews and burn them alive in sealed buildings. And he laughs out loud at Pope Clement, in his cope and false crown, crouched in a circle of fires at Avignon. For the

Pestilential King has ascended the throne, and now he chuckles above the dark town.

A great act remains unaccomplished, the greatest of all.

For he himself must pass through the cleansing fires, even as others have done. And he turns from the town and walks through the halls, drawing his lackeys about him.

"Come, we will ride!" he commands, distracting himself from the trial he must face, striding down to the courtyard to gather his hounds. Then, mounting his horse he rides through the gate, his pack and his beaters before him, hurtling down the deserted streets where feasting jackdaws squabble and hop, the twittering swallows skimming his shoulders, while he swats the air with his uplifted sword. As they enter those streets y where men dare to walk, they drive all before them, clubbing some back to their houses, cutting the tardy down, till they come to a square with an inn at one corner, where a small group of looters is loading a cart with hogsheads of wine. The pack roars in with the beaters behind, and Corvo circles, waving his sword, while the men at the cart make a show of resistance, their hands and bare feet torn apart by the dogs, the beaters' cudgels cracking their skulls, the hogsheads splintered to mingle their wine with the looters' spille blood. Yet some slip away, only to find Corvo waiting, driving them down to the broken stone fountain at the heart of the square. Here, joined by his troops, he harries them into the damp, mossy bowl, where they slither and slip, cudgelled to pulp, till the basin's as red as a wine vat in August. Then Corvo swings in the saddle, this way and that, facing the sea, then the hills, then the roads north and south, yet seeing only the bright, blinding future.

3fc * * The pursuit of Marina and Jacopo

It was the donkeys that finally decided Jacopo to leave.

He had found them in the stables of a house full of corpses, where they'd been languishing beside an empty manger and a trough of mossy puddles. Of course, they'd simply been the final straw, since his reservoirs of greed and courage were virtually depleted. For nearly every second house now reeks of rotting flesh, or otherwise stands empty like a body with no soul. A charnel stench hangs over all, and some of those ravines beyond the walls have all but vanished, their rocky pits and crevices now filled with corpses, while carrion-birds arrive in clouds of whirring wings. It's the violence of the looters, however, that most spurs Jacopo to leave.

His rival thieves and the renegade sextons display such cruelty that he's now grown too afraid to enter those palazzi where the pickings might be richest. And worst of all is the gang of that crazed friar, whose covern he'd once been to with Lucia: it's as if their madness ruled the town.

Marina, though, is more ambivalent. A curious elation fills her, a wish to live life to the full, as if survival of the pestilence had rendered her invulnerable.

She can't help feeling that, no matter what, she will not die. And yet, at last, Jacopo convinces her to leave the town, so that she agrees to keep the donkeys, to feed them till they're fit to travel, and then to help him load them with what wealth their bags can hold. Thus loaded - with little more than jewellery and gold florins

- they set out one warm evening for the northern gate.

They lead the donkeys silently, watchfully, through the wary lanes, and as they pass just north of the Piazza della Signoria, a dog comes trotting round the corner of a street behind them. If props, woofs softly, then gives a sudden bark, causing Scimmi to cast a baleful glance through the flap of her cinched pouch. Another dog appears at its shoulder, then another, and another, pacing forward with their progress and belling like cracked steeples. Tempted though they are to move more quickly, they hold the donkeys steady, the dogs still barking, though keeping at a distance. Then, a little further back, a man steps from the shadows. He holds a large, rough stave and watches them in silence. A second figure joins him, and a third, followed by yet others.

And now the pack of dogs starts snarling, while the men move closer, so that neither thief nor girl can bear the tension further, mounting their frail donkeys, which they batter with their boot-heels. The beasts lurch forward as their riders kick them harder, and the hounds - their ears up in unison - bound after them at once. Jacopo, with Marina close behind, turns left into an alley, glaring back across his shoulder to note what dogs have followed, and seeing the tall rider who watches the pursuit. Brother Corvo sees them clatter down the alley. He sighs and smiles contentedly, his hands a little numb upon the reins, since he knows he used a touch too much rye fungus, or drank too deeply of the blood-of-God. Yet, can one have too much wisdom, be profligate with grace? And, shaking his head slowly, he rowls the champing horse, flying off along the alley behind the vanished beaters.

His ears ring with airy songs, the cries of fleeing souls, and as the sheer walls rush by, lights burst and flash as if great shutters rumbled open in the unseen bricks and angels peered out, bright faces snouting forth, or smiles that warp in trembling, toad-mouthed grins. Arms beckon, wave, then open up like maws, grunting, bleating, cheering him on, till he is doubled up with laughter on his hurtling horse, sailing down the alley in a foam of baying ghosts. And there they are, his beaters, lolloping before him, and further on, the dogs, already closing on their prey's ungainly shadows. One of the donkeys stumbles, and a hound flies for its withers, while the man who rides the first beast pauses, swinging in his saddle as the pack comes snarling down. Teeth snap, flesh tears. The donkeys roll their eyes and bare their blunt white teeth, falling to their knees as if in prayer to some crude deity. But the man and woman have already leapt down to the road, running off into the dark, while just the beaters follow, the dogs distracted by the wheezing donkeys. Then Corvo spurs the stallion harder, harrying his men, vaulting their white eyes to ride his quarry down, their faces pale across their shoulders. But escape is now absurd, since the walls are once more cheering, the laneway swirling its grey coils about their feet, while the sky - the black night sky beyond the eaves - is pierced by God's eye of silver light.

The pair rush blindly through dark streets of shuttered windows. They flee along whatever lane seems meanest, diving through the shadows of rank alleys, as if to lose y themselves meant losing their pursuers, until - the sounds of hoofbeats somewhere near - they almost run into the rear of a wagon. At first, Jacopo fails to realise that it's moving, then sees the way it shudders over potholes, and hears the creaking of its wheels. "Ugh!" he gasps as the stench hits him, wishing he could stop his tearing breath, since the cart is full of corpses. "It's too narrow to squeeze past,"

"Over here," Marina hisses, diving for a doorway, rattling at the handle, but the bolt has been thrust home. And now they hear the baying in the laneways roundabout.

"Here," says Jacopo, wheeling to his left. But that way hoofbeats echo, while cries erupt behind them.

"The cart," she sighs at last, and with no further hesitation dives toward it, pushing back pale arms and knees and feet to burrow in. He makes to follow, pauses, thinking that it might be safe for her - after all, she's just survived the sickness - while it could mean death to him. Then a hound howls close at hand...he grits his teeth. ..stops breathing... and leaps into the cart, colliding with a wall of rock-hard limbs, peeling them apart, tunnelling amongst the sore-pocked, icy skins, remembering his dream and clenching shut his eyes as tightly as a mole's. Scimmi gives a soft, protesting squeak, and he pats the pouch's fabric. Then he hears

Marina sigh, and reaches for her hand, but grips a stiff, cold claw instead, groaning as the cart goes jiggling on, the face above him peering down in glassy-eyed reproach.

Just moments later, Corvo stands before them, his horse's flank toward the cart. He raises his pale hand. The driver halts his two old nags with much loud fuss and racket; yet, when he peers up into that shadowed face he seems afraid, while Corvo in his turn stares down, caught suddenly within the cloud of putrefaction. The wagoner has filled his nostrils with two thick wads of cotton, and seems immune to the foul stench. Brother Corvo, on the contrary, almost reels upon his horse, too much affected by the evening's potions.

"Have you seen a man and girl come running by?" he asks, his words so slow that, to the wagoner, they drip with menace. Indeed, he knows the sextons' methods.

"Ah, no," the driver says. "These laneways are deserted." 614

"You've seen me, haven't you?" And Corvo gives a pallid grin, then leans down from his horse.

"Yes, I have...I truly have." The driver nods

emphatically as Corvo draws his sword. But now a pair of

hounds come snarling round the cart, darting forward at the corpses, their voices deafening in the narrow laneway.

"Hey!" shouts Corvo, while the hounds hunch lower,

fawning up at him with whining cries and thrashings of

their tails. But another, just below his horse, yelps

sharply at the cart, so that the stallion shies a little,

and Corvo lays the dog out cold with the flat of his long

blade. Then suddenly the thick, ripe smell churns upward

in his stomach, and he wheels the horse about, shouting

at his men: "Come on, it doesn't matter. We've got other fish to fry."

A little later in the evening, when the wagon finally comes to a standstill outside the city walls, the driver groans down from his bench and limps round to the rear.

Muttering to himself about the plague and Brother Corvo, he reaches out and hauls a body from the pile, dumping it roughly on the ground. He grasps another by its stone- cold hand, dragging it down too, and then another. Settled now into a slow, familiar rhythm, he stretches up once more and clasps his fingers round a foot...that feels... quite warm. The toes retract, and then the body - a young girl's - sits upright with a fierce stare.

"Excu-u-use me!" it says. "If you don't mind!"

Then a man sits up beside her, shaking his head and grumbling, "There's been a terrible mistake." y

"Mistake? Culpable negligence, if you - " the girl begins, but the driver is already backing from the cart, shaking his head, then scuttling off toward the town.

Marina bursts out laughing. "His face..." she says, and

Jacopo laughs too, though he wastes no time in grabbing an old jerkin off the bench and scrubbing at his skin, rubbing as if he'd wipe away the grime right to the bone.

But she's already pulling at the harness, and he hurries round to help her to unhitch the ancient nags, that they might ride them to the north.

* * * The beatification of Brother Corvo and flight into the north

Topomagro lies silent, submerged in sleepy peace. Dawn shimmers like water at the tops of its towers; and from a high window in the Palazzo dei Dieci, Brother Corvo looks down on the shadowy rooftops of houses below him. Vines green the walls of mansions and churches, and the woods to the east are thick with new growth. He turns to gaze north, a swallow's quick shadow skimming his face, while a skylark descends in a silvery fanfare over the square.

The world seems renewed, as if cleansed by the plague's pure fires. Swifts soar and glide, and souls ascend through the liquid air like rain streaming up from the depths of the earth. The world is no longer the same, since the Lord of Light now sits on the Throne and His mercy reigns triumphant. Only the final act remains to be done. Yet here he feels himself waver, and quick as a pin regret pricks his eyes and fear stays his breath. He swings from the window, already reviling his moment of weakness, since he is no God made flesh, and this is no pallid Gethsemane. For the flesh of the Pestilential King must suffer the ultimate cleansing, that he, above all, may spring from Death's belly pure in spirit... Then he sees the shape at the doorway, and his blood turns to bile in his veins. But it's only Maria, her withered old breast giving suck to the failing infant. The child squalls and writhes, yet she cradles it close, shuffling toward him across the smooth stones. And she peers so strangely into his face that he feels ill at ease, for

nothing seems right any more; nor will it, till he do* >es what the Lord demands. She stands with the infant

clenched in her arms, like a blighted Virgin and Child,

and casts her strange gaze upon him. Then she comes

lunging forward, while his hand darts down to his sword-

hilt. Yet he feels, not her blade, but the scrape 'of her

old parchment lips on his cheek, then the moistness of

spittle or tears. He stands unmoving, stares solemnly

down, and abashed she turns away. Then he gives a harsh

laugh, since the time has undoubtedly come for the King's transformation.

Jacopo and Marina ride north on their nags through the lush summer country. At first, with the city behind them and the hills all around, they had somehow thought to ride free of the plague into fields ripe for harvesting, fresh and renewed. And indeed, in certain valleys where they wander off the highway, and on certain lonely hills, they find farms all busy at the harvest, with fatted pigs in pens and, out in the meadows, flocks tended by their hepherds.s Yet even here, in these havens, they find themselves pursued by dogs loosed from their chains, by narlings peasant faces and hands that brandish pitchforks, as if they were the agents of a tainted world, bringing sickness with them. But mostly they find only the plague's leavings, like battered ruins in the wake of some vast wave. They ride by peasants, fallen at the doorstep of a farmhouse, or lying in the road, or crumpled like a scarecrow's remnants in the middle of a field. Some have been torn open by dogs gone wild, and most form tattered perches for the birds, with neither handmaid, priest nor doctor to attend their final breaths. And all along the road abandoned cottages, with jackdaws hopping in and out their empty windows, lie desolate as skulls amid their unreaped fields.

Animals have fallen victim too - swine decomposing in their swill, shorn sheep abuzz with flies, bloated lambs, dead cows with spring-born calves still nudging at their udders. Yet most of the beasts they see are roaming loose amongst the fields of rotting wheat and rye, their bellies full with the ungathered harvest - plump oxen, dispeptic goats, sleek sheep, all living well amid the chaos.

The thief and his apprentice traverse this desolation, these textbook farms for fools - where the crops are left to rot and the beasts roam witless - waiting for some ending to the madness. Yet it stubbornly goes on, and indeed - for Jacopo, at least - it's not the desperate thing that it might seem, since his eyes are fixed, not on the world, but on Marina. He loves the way she rides astride her horse, just like a man, as if in argument against her woman's skirts. She seems so willowy, so whippet-quick despite her winded nag, and nothing that they see defeats her smile for long, which goes on. flashing back at him like light flung off a blade. She sings and jokes, and tries to urge her plodding hack into a run, with such loud gusto that he can't help thinking, in spite of his delight, that it's some ploy to blind her to the ruin ranged about them. But this itself is joy, just like her jaunty riding, or lithe, sly climbing up a rich man's wall, or the way her narrow breasts curve upward, eager for his hands. He watches the infected land go by, and sighs with pleasure, convinced that Hell might turn to Heaven if he were damned with her.

"We should keep going," he says at one point in their journey, "toward Savoy. We should go into the mountains where the air's clean." Then he looks at her and grins.

"Maybe we could work as acrobats... I've done it once before."

She swings round on her nag's bare back, placing one hand on its rump. "And we've had lots of practice climbing walls and jumping out of windows."

"So," he says, "the mountains it is then. A good long ride."

"Oh, well, I don't know about that." She waits for him to catch her, reining her horse to a standstill with the cart's clumsy harness. ' It s a long ride, alright. You'll know it by the time we get there."

"No, no," she laughs, pushing at his arm. "I mean our destination. I was thinking we might go to Lombardy."

"Lombardy?" He looks doubtfully toward the north. "But isn't it infected with the plague?"

y "In parts. But not in others."

He nudges his horse forward, squinting at her sideways.

"And hasn't your father bought a villa in the Lombard countryside?"

"He has," she says, then smiles a broad, bright smile.

"And we should go there, Jacopo. I think that I could

find it."

"Go there?" he cries, incredulous. "To your father?" Then he laughs out loud. "Oh, yes, I can see it now. 'Jacopo, this is my father, Tuccio di Piero Landucci, the wealthy lanaiuolo from Topomagro. And, babbo, this is Jacopo

Passero, the well-known burglar, who stole your daughter from you.' Of course, he'll reward me on the spot."

"But he will, Jacopo, he will." Then she grips his arm and pulls him to her, so that he almost falls right off his horse. "As long as we do it right." "What do you mean? I don't aim to survive the pestilence to get thrown into a dungeon."

"No, it wouldn't be like that." And she too stares off toward the north. "We could say I'd run away, that - after Gaia's death - I'd grown so frightened of the plague that...with my father waiting there to finish with his business... I'd fled in terror from the town." She y turns to him, her eagerness increasing with the telling of the tale. "And then, while fleeing through the countryside, I fell ill - I came down with the plague - finding shelter in an empty cottage..."

"Ye-e-es," he says doubtfully. "Then where do I come in?"

"And while I was dying of the illness... regretting my desertion of my family -

"Praying for forgiveness," he smiles, warming to the story.

"A young man found me, a man of honour and nobility -

"Brave and handsome -

"Sweet and kind -

"Clever and cunning - M 'No, no, Jacopo," she cries, "clever, perhaps, but never cunning." Then she holds up a finger, seeking inspiration. "Oh, but he was strong and kindly, nursing me through my illness, bringing me food and wafer, risking the plague himself in order to care for me."

"It's true, my love, all true." He catches at the sweeping gesture of her hand to kiss it. y

"And through his ministrations, I survived." And now she brushes his long fingers with her lips, while the horses snort and dawdle.

"Yes...yes," he laughs, "and more...He owns a castle in

Romagna, but it was ravaged by the plague, and then by looters, and he had to flee so fast...that he's now reduced to penury."

"Indeed, a reward might be in order -

"For the saving of the merchant's daughter -

"Or the offer of her hand in marriage, as in any proper tale..."

He looks at her, his mouth a little open, then gives a beaming grin. "Oh yes, Marina," he declares, "this plan has possibilities." And so they journey northward, refining the story as they go, adding details, pruning back the more transparent lies, reducing Jacopo from noble lord to merchant's son.

Indeed their tale provides distraction from their travels through that land, engaging them with its imagined pathways as they ride at night by lightless villages, or by day past ransacked wagons, or once, beneath a hillside where kites wheeled round and round above a blighted fortress, which - unknown to them - now housed the rotting corpses of Wolf Schwanhals and his men.

At the centre of the great reception hall in the Palazzo dei Dieci, in the middle of the heavy bed he's had his minions bring there, Brother Corvo lies burning.

Invisible flames rise round his long, white body, filling his ears with a ceaseless hum and buzz. He stares with fevered, glassy eyes about the hall, and yet exults, triumphant in this cleansing. He peers at the mural of the town amongst its fields, where vetch and vervain, henbane and hyssop, tangle on the wall as in a massive painted herbal. He watches the small bodies of the painted bees, listening through the humming in his ears, until his vision or the room begins to swim, and there, amid a net of emerald stems, a tiny bright gold speck peels off the wall and hovers through the air. His followers - much depleted by this second strain of plague - now watch as witnesses about the bed, though standing further from him than they might, as if his heat drove them away. Yet he is blind to them, seeing rather those bright legions that have gone before, and now await this final breaking of the chains with which the Dark God bound him to corrupted matter. And like any cutting of a cord - like any birth - its debt of pain must first be paid. Yet, freed, he will be glorified, and dwell within the Godhead as on a brow of light. He grins amid the stink of his own sweat, and follows with his gaze the slow, erratic path of the approaching bee.

Yet, even as he watches, the little tawny speck grows larger, till it looms beneath the ceiling's beams, its beak and dusty body like a furry golden dragon's. And now, as from the roaring of its wings or the cloying of its breath, it brings a heat that makes his sight turn red, until the room begins to swirl and he falls into a depth of spinning darkness. Some hours, days or seconds after, his eyes snap open into crimson light. It's the noise that seems to wake him - the angry, buzzing drone of wings - since the Palazzo dei Dieci has faded from his sight, replaced now by the shape of its true nature, the towering, geometric walls that rise on every side, the seamless, fiery light, the overwhelming sweetness. For here, all about him, are the cells of some great hive, where huge-eyed heads come lolling out of casements, and monstrous bees soar, hovering, in droning arcs from chamber to dark chamber. His body seems ablaze with pain, and fear shudders through him; yet this is just as every birth must be, since he can see already how the swarm attends each honeyed cell, each creature driven to its ministrations, part scorpion, part nursemaid.

Now the fire rises in his chest, as if his spirit, impatient for its glory, might flare up out of him. The swarm moves slowly in, some turning through the air while some glide, tiger-striped, from their deep chambers, their blunt beaks lowered. And then they plummet, swaying in a wind of dust and bilious sweetness, till they hover just above his bed, where one, a little nearer than the rest, drops down onto his chest. He feels the breath go out of him, the fires heighten, while the thing, encumbent there upon him, squats above his heart as if to hatch his cloistered soul. He cries out once, then starts to retch, until the creature swings about, its belly quivering, its striped back arching up. For an instant, the great barbed sting hangs tense above his head, then plunges, lancing down into his chest's hard centre, while the bee bucks upward like a stallion, wings flailing at the air. And now the sting tears from it, and the swarm goes soaring to the hive's dark cope, as Corvo clutches at himself, and shouts and coughs and bubbles, the slow blood belching out. "Lord," he gurgles, "Lord," already sucking like a landed fish, mouth circled in an 0, yet seeing for himself the black blood swilling from him, already rising in a tide above the bed, his mouth and snorkled nose.

Now, coming down from the hills of Emilia onto the

Lombard plain, Marina and Jacopo know that, at last, they have reached the lands of good health. For this is just how it seems as they gaze across that great expanse, its pastures green and golden in the early morning sun. And as they descend amongst the fields, their first impressions are confirmed. They pass green meadows, where farmers lead their cows to milking, and dewy fields already trodden by stout peasants armed with scythes, where sheaves of wheat or oats stand bound in ranks like captive armies. They skirt a broad canal, its barges almost sinking beneath their weight of goods, and pass through hamlets with their houses empty, not from pestilence, but because the villagers are gossiping upon the green or busy with the harvest. The sky shines over all, no longer like a punishing bright eye, but like a deep blue benediction.

They frequently rehearse Jacopo's new role as scion of a merchant family, though necessity still tempts him to occasional theft. Once, loaded with some wine and spicy ham, they wade into a yellow field to join the harvesters, who happily accept them at their midday feast as if no breath of pestilence had ever entered this rich land. They proceed to tell their hosts the tale they have concocted, of Jacopo's rich father, his misfortunes on the road and loss of all his wealth. It's a romantic confection, and the workers are attentive, not one amongst them showing any sign of disbelief. Indeed, they even drink to Jacopo's recovery of his fortune, amid sundry other toasts.

But mostly they keep it to themselves, refining its broad outlines, adding details as they ride. Marina coaches

Jacopo in what she's gathered of her father's business, and he teaches her to juggle. "What goods could a merchant make a profit on if he bought them here in

Lombardy?" she might ask, leaning backward as she rides, twirling the painted wooden balls he's given her, and smiling with self-satisfaction.

"Wheat, barley, linen," he shoots back. "And armour, naturally."

"Alright," she smiles. "What would your agents be out to purchase in, say, Roumania?"

"Furs, wax, metals, sandalwood... ouch!" he says, as

Scimmi, stretching on his lap, flexes her sharp claws.

"What about alum?" she suggests. "It's vital to his dyeshops." I was going to say that."

"Oh, well then...you'd have no trouble guessing what your

competitors were after if they went to both Perugia and Arezzo?"

"Fine veils," he yawns, raising his eyebrows at the

simplicity of the question.

y "Or Lucca?"

"Brocades and silks, of course." He glances slowly at

her, then shrugs his shoulders. "Come on, Marina, how about a hard one?"

She pauses for a moment, creasing her smooth brow, almost

dropping the blue ball. "Ve..e..ry well," she says at

last. "Which guild would you have to join if you wished

to make a decent profit out of silk in Florence?"

"The Silk-makers' Guild," he grins, as if it's all too easy.

"No, Jacopo. It's not as obvious as that."

In Florence?" He hesitates, considers, then swings about to face her. "Don't you remember where I come from? Why should I have to know which guild to join in Florence?

It's a foolish question, Marina." Then he lowers his voice a little. "Besides, how do I know your answer's right? You were only a child in his household. How can you be sure you know these things?"

"Because I listened," she laughs, never pausing in her juggling. "Because I'd hear him talking with his friends." She gives him a sly glance. "You marry a man because he's wealthy, or has a little influence. But you listen carefully to whatever you might hear, since he may need good advice." Then she gives a low, quick chuckle.

"Or he might be just plain thick."

He watches as the balls go round and round, unsure of what to say, then suddenly starts scrabbling in his bag.

"You cheeky wretch!" he cries, bringing out a yellow ball, and then a brown, slinging them amid the balls she's spinning, till she shrieks and almost falls. And yet she somehow catches them, slipping both into the widening ring, her laughter joining his until the sound is all about them.

Soon, among the farms and townships, they are asking after the villa of the Tuscan merchant, Tuccio di Piero

Landucci, "who has come here to escape the plague." They make many errors and false starts, until one day they find a small walled town whose name Marina seems to recognise, following the directions of the local priest along a narrow pathway to a further valley. Here, where flocks of birds fly in the sun, their wings reflecting light then dark, then light again - like the signals of some secret language - they see a villa high above them.

They urge their weary horses upward, till they stand upon the threshold of its open gates. Ivy and clematis strew the old stone walls, and vineyards stretch far up the hillside to the low, pale villa, which seems to drift amongst a mass of leaves. They ride in through the gateway, along an avenue of shadows, wondering if it's yet another fruitless errand. Already they see a figure coming from the house, and then another, and behind them several more. They watch the first one walking faster, then the second, both now moving at a run between the vines, until Marina sees her father - who would have thought that he could move at such a pace? - and then her mother's plumper form behind, her soft mouth beaming, and

Tuccio's peaked miser's face quite bright with wind- smudged tears...

* * * 631

When the plague had finally done with Italy, trailing its skirts across the Alps to Germany and northern France,

Topomagro lay exhausted. Nearly half its fishermen, labourers and peasants were now dead, and the countryside about it too was devastated, because of the neglected harvest. Famine followed close upon the sickness; the price of food and labour soared to unknown heights. Thus, though Tuccio delayed returning till the spring of 1349, he found the town in tatters. Numerous of his friends had y died, including Francesco Morelli who'd remained to do what good he might. Many of his competitors had also perished, while a few of his surviving friends - those who, unlike him, had stayed - quite openly disapproved of his desertion of the town. One of these was Agnolo del

Leone, who had sealed himself, with all his family, in his tall palazzo in the Borgo dei Panettieri. None of them had died, as if the plague were really no corruption of the air at all, and old Agnolo had stepped from his locked tower, younger it seemed than ever, to take charge of the town's recovery.

Despite his loss of friends through death or disapproval,

Tuccio at once saw ways of prospering from the shortages.

His months in Lombardy had not been wasted, for he'd established many good connections - and gained many an obligation - among the rich farmers of wheat and barley in the region where he'd stayed. Nor had his capital, his agencies abroad, his access to ships and credit, been disastrously affected, while his wits seemed honed to steely keenness by the plague. He imported the cheapest Lombard grain and sold it dearly in the town, while arranging supplementary shipments from the hard-hit south. Of course, like everybody else, he found the scarcity of labour led to wage demands that seemed exorbitant, yet even found a way to turn this to his advantage. For now he used his agencies in Iberia,

Roumania and the Barbary coast to buy up slaves as cheaply as he could, and then sold them at hitherto y unheard-of prices in labour-hungry Tuscany. So efficient was the operation that he could even establish a period of quarantine amongst the slaves, as a safeguard against re-importing plague. Thus, taking advantage of the rise in prices, while keeping his wage costs down, he quickly added to his wealth in such a way that, whatever minor cost to his prestige his flight had meant, he gained a firmer hold upon the town's economy than he had ever known before.

Jacopo too appeared to profit from the plague, since

Tuccio took him into both his home and business. At first, though grateful for the young man's kindness to his daughter, the merchant had found him lacking in his grasp of commerce, at least when pressed beyond a certain surface glibness. He had assumed that this resulted from his family's negligence, and his poor opinion of them was confirmed when Jacopo confessed that, just before the plague, his father had been listed as a bankrupt.

Nevertheless, the very survival of the boy had shown a certain toughness in his make-up, he undoubtedly had charm, and above all, Marina delighted in his company.

Indeed, it was not long before he'd managed to convince

Tuccio that the pestilence had sobered him, that he now realised just how puerile his notions of business really were, and wished to mature into a successful merchant as quickly as he could.

Thus, with Marina's pleading on Jacopo's behalf, and the fact that most of his fattori had either died or fled,

Tuccio decided to set him up as manager of his dyeshops, where he was sensible enough to rely entirely on the advice of the workshop supervisors for the first few months, learning as much as he could from Tuccio's accountants. What he lacked in technical skill during that initial period of labour shortage, he soon made up for with his thief's ability to steal workers from the competition, using whatever incentives came to hand, and showing none of the merchant's compunctions about paying his men high wages. Indeed, it wasn't long before Tuccio recognised his unusual virtues, and Jacopo - forgetting old resentments - relished his approval, enjoying it almost as much as the nostalgic pleasure of slipping from his room each night into Marina's curtained chamber.

Aware that some further outbreak of the pestilence might occur at any time, Tuccio made large donations to the

Church, giving freely to its hospitals, its programs for the feeding of registered paupers, its trusts for the dowries of orphaned virgins, and, above all, to the funds it gathered for the rebuilding of those churches destroyed by Brother Corvo. Nor did he ignore his own

Confraternity of Saint Mark, which had also grown wealthy on bequests from its dead members, though much of its wealth too, through Tuccio's stern influence, went to the reconstruction of the Duomo. Naturally, in the light of such good offices, the new bishop showed no reluctance in deferring to the merchant's urgings, ordering that Gaia's remains be re-interred before the Duomo's altar, and happily agreeing to celebrate the Mass himself at the wedding of Jacopo and Marina. Tuccio's one great stipulation was that this must wait upon the renewal of the cathedral, a demand to which the couple painlessly acceded, snuggled as they were each night in Marina's bolted chamber. In fact, this wedding - when it finally occurred in the spring of 1351 - was perhaps more sumptuous even than Gaia's and Baldassare's, as if Tuccio considered it a final celebration of the end of death, and the laughing, crowned Marina the accession of new life. And, indeed, though babies were less rapidly forthcoming than the family might have wished, it was such a period of industrious domesticity - what with

Jacopo's long hours at the dyeshops and Marina's running of the house that Tuccio had bought them - that even

Scimmi began to grow a little fat from overeating, so

Jacopo contended, until she gave birth beneath their bed one night to half-a-dozen kittens. 635

Yet it was not long before both the newlyweds were growing restless, making unexplained excursions up the walls of their new home, trying tricks with ropes slung from the roof, practising feats of juggling and acrobatics in their rear courtyard. Scimmi herself, now smaller than some of her own offspring, had seemed to catch the wanderlust, vanishing for nights on end and pushing her progeny from her. It was around this time that Baldassare reappeared at his farm above the town, bringing with him a bird that looked remarkably like

Fiera, his old falcon. Marina had taken Jacopo to meet him, and as the days went by, they spent increasing time among his woods and meadows, where he taught them the art of falconry. Soon they stayed whole weeks amid the summer hills, while, at home, their behaviour grew eccentric; for many were the moonless nights that they would vanish from the house, only to return some hours later, bearing large, mysteriously bulging sacks upon their shoulders.

It was not long before Tuccio was grumbling, complaining that Jacopo was now absent from his shops more than he was there; and, though Marina might contest this, her husband found no answer but the arching of an eyebrow and the nodding of his head. Nor did they attempt to change their habits, so that Tuccio's complaints grew more insistent, until, one night when the moon was new, they packed some bags with clothes and food, with balls and tumblers' tights, put Scimmi in her new-washed pouch and pinned a note upon their door, avowing love, gratitude nd an overwhelming urge to see the world. Thus it was a 636 that they slipped out of Topomagro, taking the eastern road upon two fine young horses, the stars so bright about them that it seemed the heavenly city was no more than a gesture's length above the hills.

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ANNOTATIONS 1

A. Introduction: On First Causes

In this section of my annotations on Widdershins I wish to explore the imaginative origins of the novel. Of course, these excavations may well throw as much light on my own paradigms of imaginative creation as on the actual roots of the book; yet, since such paradigms are often closely connected with the kind of work one creates this may not be irrelevant. Apart from my conviction that there are many paths by which a novel may come into being, I hold no conscious theoretical position from which to launch my analysis. My only real conviction concerning the book's origins is that they exist somewhere in my childhood, and that the novel is one of those which attempts to make early aesthetic, imaginative experiences more fully one's own by recreating them.

Historical fiction, particularly that concerned with the relatively distant past, will be more obviously dependent on the writer's experience of a variety of quite specific texts than will certain other forms of fiction. While confessional writing or the fiction of social protest, for instance, may well contain a wide range of textual influences, it could hardly be claimed that the analysis of other texts is a condition of their creation in the way it is for historical fiction. Widdershins is set in fourteenth-century Tuscany: without the necessary textual experiences, I would presumably never have conceived of 2 fourteenth-century Tuscany, let alone had the nerve to fashion narratives about it. Thus it is tempting to reduce the search for the book's origins to a listing of the texts consulted during the period of research.

However, this begs the question of why one chose those texts, of why one chose to write about fourteenth-century

Tuscany, and why, indeed, one chose to write on any sort of "historical" subject at all.

Clearly the unearthing of the novel's roots should provide some sort of answer to these questions, which no mere bibliographical list could hope to do, even with a plethora of explanatory notes. Yet, as suggested in the previous paragraph, our notions of any fairly remote historical period must be dependent upon texts, even our earliest, vaguest, most seminal notions. This, combined with the tendency of literary theorists to reframe almost anything at all as a text, suggests that the search for the book's first glimmerings must, to a large extent, be a kind of textual search. These texts, however, are not to be found by feeding "Tuscany", "trecento", "Carnival" or "Black Death" into a computerised library catalogue.

These are the confused, compelling, fragmentary, eidetic texts of childhood, which can only be accessed via memory, and their significance judged by the emotional charge they seem to carry. Such texts first come to us unbidden and generally return to us unbidden, colouring our later, more considered judgements of a period with their own peculiar light. I suspect that my own vision of the Middle Ages, even of the late medieval period (about which I have done a reasonable amount of reading), is coloured with the pigments of Bosch and Bruegel, peopled with characters from Perrault and the brothers Grimm, in a landscape haunted by Durer's Death. Of course, what is not early modern amongst these influences is either eighteenth or nineteenth century, but this hardly matters to the imagination. Our sense of a period is filtered not only through its sense of itself, but through our own perceptions of the perceptions held of it by those periods between it and us. Our imaginative viewpoint is necessarily a complex amalgam of more or less distorted images. However, I am not concerned here with the degree of distortion committed by my novel, but with those imaginative prime movers that urged it into being. These first causes come from a random mix of periods, and from the richest works of art to the most tawdry Hollywood schlock.

The works that push forward most insistently are those o

Bosch. My earliest and most vivid memories of his paintings come from around the age of eight, when I firs saw reproductions of them in a book at my primary-school library. A crowd of snickering classmates was gathered round a big thick book on a table. When I finally shouldered my way through to get a look, I saw that they were examining one of the strangest paintings I had ever seen. They were pointing out to each other the most frightening, fascinating and ridiculously funny details amid a mass of figures squirming together on the crowded canvas. Here was a man playing a flute with his backside, here a man crucified upon a harp, there a huge bird- creature shitting out people while he ate another, from whose arse a flock of blackbirds came soaring. There was a man embraced by a pig in a nun's wimple, someone trapped in a drum played by demons, a procession round some massive, bloated bagpipes, and a giant pair of ears being sliced by a knife. All this took place amid an architecture of monstrous musical instruments and white skeletal fragments, while, in the background, cities burned, figures hung from gibbets, and mobs surged over fiery bridges. We peered at that wriggling mass of naked bodies, giggling and nudging at each other, and generally becoming so excited that the librarian shushed us away.

The picture, of course, was Bosch's Musical Hell from the

Triptych of the Garden of Delights. Needless to say, we returned to it more than once during subsequent library classes. I gradually got to know some of his other work:

The Cure of Folly, The Ship of Fools, Triptych of the Hay

Wain, Triptych of the Temptation of St Anthony, Triptych of the Judgement, Christ Bearing the Cross. Among the aspects of his work that kept drawing me back to it - and which draw me still - are the sheer inventiveness and extremity of its grotesqueries, the carnivalesque delight of its horrors and exquisitely impersonal beauty of its 5 delights, the blend of epic grandeur and earthy detail.

Ethereal splendours share canvas with the cruellest and most comic of follies, and there remains the constant tension between the technical beauty of the visual and the relentlessly apocalyptic pessimism of the vision.

Perhaps the paradox that most appeals to me about Bosch's work is the combination of a sensuality, so extreme as to become otherworldly, with a spirituality so intensely imagined as to be almost tangible. Not that I could have expressed it this way to the primary school librarian, though it seems reasonable to assume that children are capable of responding to complexities they cannot yet express. Be this as it may, I am certain that this apocalyptic, grotesque, cruel, beautiful, sensual, spiritual, comic and cosmic brilliance has henceforth lit

- for me, at least - the concept of the Middle Ages.

It was a little later, possibly in the next book along the shelf, that I discovered the paintings of Pieter

Bruegel. Though striking with a less dazzling intensity than Bosch, here was a warm earthiness of colour, a richness of character and mundane detail that brought to life the world of ordinary people. Yet pictures such as

Bruegel's The Triumph of Death and The Fight between

Carnival and Lent seemed to extend Bosch's panoramic fantasies into that ordinary world, frequently peopling the landscape with human rather than diabolic grotesqueries - as in The Cripples or The Parable of the

Blind - so that the quotidian life of that time seemed 6 almost as fabulous as its afterlife. It was these visual artists who created my most vivid impressions of the medieval period, along with occasional glimpses of paintings from the Italian Renaissance or the Pre-

Raphaelites. Such childhood impressions have little to do with scholarly knowledge, reason or historical accuracy, and bear much the same relation to adulthood as any potent early experiences, provoking the adult's imaginative intellect to explore, develop and comprehend them with whatever techniques it has to hand.

In the fifties of my childhood, medieval fantasy was not as commonplace as it has since become with the post-

Tolkien fantasy boom of the seventies and eighties. The

Saturday matinees were dominated by war and cowboy movies, the local libraries by Biggies, William and Dr

Dolittle, the pre-teen imagination by Mickey Mouse.

Hollywood and Disney might well have taken out a patent on our dreams, and the only really vital alternatives that I recall were the old traditional folktales. Here, the stories collected by the brothers Grimm and Perrault were important, frequently offering a world of darker, less predictable magic than that of Superman, Roy Rogers and Scrooge McDuck. Bluebeard in his castle, the Beast in his keep, the witch in her sugar cottage, the wolf- haunted woods, the pathways guarded by ogres and trickster dwarfs - these held not just a deeper fascination than the flat pastel pages of the comicbooks, but also a distinctly medieval flavour, as if true magic 7 and mystery could exist only in that motley world of castles and mud huts. This popular sense that the most appropriate setting for the fabulous is a medieval one seems to lead from the folktales, through nineteenth- century medievalism, to the dungeons-and-dragons fantasy of the present day. Indeed, even Disney seems to have reinforced this perception, since much of his most expensive and imaginative animation - culminating in the

Night on Bald Mountain sequence from Fantasia - exploits medieval stage-props and fantasy. Part of my reading experience has followed a very similar sequence: from the folktales read to me as a child, through my reading of

Tolkien and study of Romantic medievalism at university, to the post-Tolkien boom in Celtic and medieval fantasy.

Though these texts have not had, for me, as powerful a personal influence as medieval painting, they constitute a strong popular background of image and assumption which, I suspect, has influenced my choice of fictional themes.

I do not wish to give the impression that my reading exists in some sort of medieval time-warp. My main purpose here is to isolate those relatively early factors in my experience which have led me to write Widdershins.

Indeed, I see the above texts largely as aspects of my more general interest in the fabulous, just as I see my writing of Widdershins as an aspect of my attraction to fabulist fiction. As a child, my predilection for the strange led me from Greek and Egyptian myths to ghost 8 stories and science fiction, from monster movies to a pseudo-academic study of dinosaurs. Of course, most children have a yen for the bizarre, though I suspect that mine was a little more tenacious than most, at least to judge by my teacher's laments that I wished to turn almost any composition topic into something weird and unrealistic. This predilection, shared by children, has pursued me into adulthood. When, on the train, I do a quick random survey of my fellow passengers, I note others reading the news, stock reports, sport or the latest developments in the lives of favourite TV stars.

Some read books, most frequently business manuals, textbooks, romances or topical thrillers. More often than not, I am reading some piece of magic realism, surrealism, fabulism, science fiction, Gothic horror -

Marquez, Rushdie, Bulgakov, Valenzuela, early Carey,

William Gibson, Angela Carter - or more recently, discovering the unequalled strangeness contained in books about pre-Hispanic Mesoamerican history. Having largely grown out of the chilly pleasures of literary snobbery, I am simply left to ponder why. That is, why have Bosch, the Grimms and strangeness stayed with me while the person beside me reads the stock report?

This is doubtless a hugely complicated question involving all sorts of factors beyond the scope of these annotations. It must inevitably include a wide variety of economic, social, ethnic, lifestyle and personality components. However, I wish to attempt at least a partial 9 explanation for my early interest in the fantastic, an interest that was great enough to continue accreting ever more sophisticated versions of itself as time went by.

This explanation revolves about the notion that stories told orally between close associates tend to have more value for those people than stories simply read in a book or magazine, where the interpersonal context is largely commercial. Some of the stories which come to have greatest personal value - as opposed to more abstract notions, such as cultural, literary or aesthetic value - are those told within the family about the family. It seems reasonable to suggest that this process of valorisation, both of particular stories and types of stories, would leave the strongest, most influential impression at a relatively early age. It is within this context that I will now give a brief account of the kind of stories told and valued within my own family.

My father was not a great storyteller. Like many men of his era, he preferred to share knowledge concerning topics of mutual interest and expertise, such as sport, cars, politics, business and whatever current notions caught his fancy. He tended to exchange ideas rather than stories. Such topics held no great interest for me as a child. To put it simply, they gained little personal value as stories. My mother, on the other hand, was not as good with ideas, but could be a compelling storyteller. She could make a story out of most things.

There were the tales of the two fox terriers she'd owned 10 before I was born, hilarious accounts of her father and his mortal enemy, his wife's pet cockatoo; there were stories about her friends and cousins, her holidays at

Ningan, her Auntie Nance, the neighbours, my father's sporting victories, and her own incompetence at things domestic. But the tales that were told with the quavering, hushed voice of tribal mysteries were those about her mother's, or her own, encounters with the supernatural.

Before continuing with these, however, I should say a little about her closeness to her mother. Theirs had been a very loving, mutually dependent relationship. This was partly due to the fact that her father had become an increasingly irascible, occasionally brutal, alcoholic.

To get away from him they used to flee the house or hide in the foundations, and her mother - a church-going Irish

Catholic - would try to reassure her with tales of guardian angels and kindly fairies. My grandmother's death, shortly before I was born, left my mother inconsolable. It was only a few years later that she started to tell me her stories of the supernatural, many of which she had heard from my grandmother. Most often at night, when the house was quiet and my father was out, she would recount the narrative of how her mother, as a child sick with fever, had woken to find a great greywinged angel stretched across her bed like some tutelary doona; or how once, in The Odd Fellows - a pub owned by my great-grandparents - my grandmother had seen 11 the spirit of a young girl rushing back and forth between the bed and wardrobe, as if endlessly packing and repacking an invisible suitcase. And there were the little people, figures she had seen dressed in Victorian finery, all dancing jigs amid her potted flowers, beneath the rainbows of her watering-can. There were my mother's own strange experiences also - a ghost on the Mosman tram, clairvoyant dreams, her conviction that her mother's spirit had once or twice been with her in our kitchen. Most of these stories were told and heard with absolute conviction. These were mysteries, significant enigmas recounted with a solemn, zealous sense of their metaphysical and personal meanings.

Even today, almost forty years later, my mother likes nothing better than to inveigle her friends into discussions of dreams, ESP, UFOs, spirits and the afterlife in general. Yet her intensity is not what it was all those years ago, possibly because she has grown old, possibly because my scepticism inhibits her. I suspect that the urgency and delight with which she told me those stories had a good deal to do with her mother's recent death. My birth had been a partial compensation for her grief; her mother had told her only child those stories to distract and comfort her; my mother had told her only child the same stories to distract and comfort not only him, but herself as well. I'd also guess that the recounting of these narratives was, at least in part, the re-enactment of a cherished, frightening and still 12 unresolved past. The great significance and value of these stories for my mother would inevitably be communicated to her listener, me. Nor would just these particular narratives become unusually significant, since this value would tend to generalise to this type of fabulous, strange tale which she chose to tell with such intimate intensity.

Of course, it's hard to be sure about a theory so reliant upon memory and introspection, a pair of editors that invariably prefer a well-rounded tale. Nevertheless, the details seem fairly true to me, and the pattern I have placed upon them appears, in part at least, to explain the tenacity of my attraction to the fabulous both in my reading and my choice of themes for writing. While discussing these family influences, it seems only reasonable to briefly mention some more mundane ways in which my tastes were moulded. Again, it was my mother who was the great reader of fiction. Her interest tended toward historical romance, some of which she read to me.

I remember being particularly struck by Georgette Heyer's

The Conqueror, which we read in its entirety when I was about seven or eight. She was also enthusiastic about the more exotic Victorian romance-adventures, and bought me a number of books by H. Rider Haggard, as well as some by

Jules Verne and H. G. Wells. She too first pointed me in the direction of classical mythology. Given this mix of fantasy and history, it seems a likely supposition that a combination of reading what was recommended and modelling 13 my reading behaviour on hers was, in the long run, partly responsible for my writing Widdershins, a more or less historical novel in which events constantly veer toward the fantastic and hallucinatory.

In summary, some of the main developmental reasons for my interest in fabulism and the medieval period are my mother's oral narratives, my early reading experiences, my strong response to medieval painting, and the fact that, later on, one of my most intellectually formative periods occurred under the aegis of the late sixties, with its emphasis on the intuitive, non-rational and experiential. Psychedelia and its derivatives eventually co-opted much Celtic, Teutonic and medieval imagery, and its fascination with the mystical and hallucinatory have continued to exert an influence on my work. With the decline of organised religion, and the fact that a science-based materialism is still the quasi-official orthodoxy of Western society, the arts remain perhaps the most important single repository for the fantastic and

"irrational". Here, the absurd, the weird, the non- material or paradoxical "other" may find its heterodox expression by heretics still dangerously safe from burning. This explains part of my faith in fiction. As implied by my discussion of Bosch and Bruegel, I also suspect that another motive for my writing is the attempt of my adult self to re-enter imaginative worlds encountered vividly in childhood, to make them more fully a part of me by recreating them. Indeed, if reality is a 14 social construct, the act of publication becomes an extension of this process, an attempt in part to reify our imaginative creations by involving others in them.

Finally, there were the slightly more hard-nosed, professional motives for choosing to write Widdershins.

For some time I had been feeling the need to write larger, richer and more complex works of fiction. I had exhausted my interest in writing short fiction for the moment, and wished to move on to a reasonably substantial novel. I had recently made a couple of attempts at this, but was satisfied by neither of them. Both had explored that liminal area where realism shifts slowly into fabulism, where the distinction between the two blurs and grows confused. In one, a rather leaden realism had dulled and dominated the fantasy, whereas the other had a lively inventiveness which failed to engage because the characters and their motives were unconvincing. So I looked closely at the stories I had written which seemed to deal successfully with this area. The one holding out the most hope, partly because it sustained its themes and mood almost to the length of a novella, was Marco the

Molasses Man, a story about the ultimate contortionist travelling with a rundown circus through a vaguely medieval world.

Partly for the reasons I have already discussed, the more

I thought about it the more the medieval period seemed the best time to choose in order to explore the merging 15 of material and imaginative realities. I came to see it increasingly as a period in which complex emotions and abstract concepts often took the most vividly concrete forms. Then I read Eco's The Name of the Rose, which finally convinced me. Eco's work also confirmed that, if

I wished to play the game of the historical novel, I would have to do the research, something I had barely attempted as yet in my fiction. Now, as a complete novice in the field, I would need to examine historical texts and select the most fruitful sources of information. It is these source materials with which I wish to deal in section B. 16

B. Sources and Texts

I now knew that I wanted to write a novel set in the

medieval period, a novel real enough to be credible and

involving, yet somehow lit by the weird light of Bosch,

with fantastic shadows constantly thrown across its

narrative. Not only was I unsure of how I was going to

achieve this, but I also had little real knowledge of the

period about which I was presuming to write. So I began

to do some reading in the area. Given the extremely vague

shape and subject matter of the book at this point, I

decided that the only option was to start with some

highly general texts, in the hope that these would

quickly reveal more sharply focused themes. My task was

somewhat narrowed by the fact that I had made an early

decision to centre the story on Italy, unless some

blatantly more interesting prospect arose. This was

because, three years previously, I had spent almost three

months wandering about the galleries, museums and

medieval towns of Tuscany and Umbria. Not that I'd then

had any notion of writing the present novel, but my

memories of the trip remained quite strong. I was also

into my fifth year's study of Italian and, besides, the

main characters of Marco the Molasses Man had been called

Marco and Scarlatti, which might well have been

auspic ious.

So, with the sense of starting out on a long and rather

mysterious journey, I began my visits to the libraries 17 and bookshops. Initially, I wanted an overview of the period's major events, central figures and grand narratives, as well as the main political, social and economic trends. This all seemed rather plodding and laborious, but I did feel a need for some sort of map, no matter how incomplete, before venturing into what I suspected could well become a labyrinth of tortuous little cul-de-sacs. I read the relevant chapters of

Procacci's History of the Italian People,1 Le Goff's

Medieval Civilisation,2 Evans' The Flowering of the

Middle Ages,3 Hyde's Society and Politics in Medieval

Italy,4 Matthews' The Medieval European Community,5 and

Waley's The Italian City Republics.6 These more or less general texts provided me with a much better sense of the period and of where I wanted to go in it. I was now convinced that the Italian city republic of the mid- fourteenth century was where I should centre my narrative. These communes were self-contained, yet highly networked and outward-looking; they were small, tight knots of progressive energy in a Europe that was still largely feudal in its structures; they were wealthy and creative, yet often consumed by internal and external rivalries; they were financial and productive powerhouses looking to the future, while their instability embodied the threat of chaos and decline which seemed so constant a factor in the medieval world. And by the mid-fourteenth century, conditions were such that this instability had become a dominant factor. 18

The Italian commune of that time seems like a microcosm of the most creative and chaotic aspects of the late medieval period. Thus, for a novelist, it suggests a potential combination of a wide range of historic forces with a remarkably tight narrative focus. A single, relatively small town, divided off from the rest of the world by its ramparts, provides a rich yet manageable setting and cast of characters. I now had a strong general sense of the historical trends and pressures which such a town would have faced: the increased power of the merchants and bankers, the decline of the nobles, the continuing struggles between the Guelfs and the

Ghibellines, the financial crises, the reclamation of unproductive Church lands, rapid population growth, predatory mercenary companies, disastrous winters, growing famine and land degradation, and finally, in

1348, the arrival of the Black Death. I also had a striking, yet vague, picture of the period's eschatological concerns, the cults of the saints, the competing world-views of orthodoxy and heterodoxy, the netherworld of magic and herbal hallucinogenics, guild lore and the rites of Carnival and carivari. By this stage I was up to writing a fairly long essay, but it was all too general and abstract, lacking the vivid particularity required by fiction. So I cast about for books with a sharper, narrower focus.

I now wanted texts that would give me a more concrete sense of individuals interacting in a specific milieu, 19 that would flesh out the medieval world with objects and people which one could visualise and become involved with. I read Tuchman's A Distant Mirror,1 which contained some fascinating insights, both historical and historiographical, but wasn't quite the concrete text I wanted. There was Rorig's The Medieval Town,8 containing usefully specific information but still rather abstract.

A book with a tighter focus was Brucker's Renaissance

Florence,9 which was very helpful on such details as furniture, clothing, houses, currency, legislation, the structures of communal government, the cloth industry and the maze of guilds. Yet again, it did not really attempt to give the reader a sense of living individuals in a strongly imagined world.

When I read Ladurie's Montaillou,1 ° however, I saw that I had found a book that did precisely what I wanted. Based on the Inquisition Register of Jacques Fournier, Bishop of Pamiers, Montaillou is the consummate social history of its eponymous Pyrenean village from about 1310 to

1325. It creates the religious, emotional, political and sexual life of this small world of individuals, so that we quite intimately come to know such characters as the philandering priest, Pierre Clergue, the saintly Cathar missionaries, Pierre and Guillaume Authie, the hypocritical preacher, Belibaste, and the generous shepherd, Pierre Maury. Not only are we told what they were like and what they did, but we hear them speak from the record of their evidence before the Inquisition. 20

Thus we have Ladurie the historian's definition of

Catharism, the heresy of which so many villagers had been

accused: "Catharism accepted the (Manichaean) existence

of two opposite principles, if not of two deities, one of

good and the other of evil. One was God, the other Satan.

On the one hand was light, on the other dark. On one side

was the spiritual world, which was good, and on the other

the terrestrial world, which was carnal, physical,

corrupt."11 Simultaneously, we have the far more

colourful words of Belibaste, the preacher, suggesting a

kind of Cathar transmigration of souls: "When the spirits

come out of a fleshy tunic, that is a dead body, they run

very fast, for they are fearful. They run so fast that if

a spirit came out of a dead body in Valencia and had to

go into another living body in the Comte de Foix, if it

was raining hard, scarcely three drops of rain would

touch it! Running like this, the terrified spirit hurls

itself into the first hole it finds free! In other words

into the womb of some animal which has just conceived an

embryo not yet supplied with a soul; whether a bitch, a

female rabbit or a mare. Or even in the womb of a

woman."12 I eventually used the ideas expressed by both

Ladurie and Belibaste, but it was the imaginative, vivid language of the preacher that I found most helpful in my depiction of Brother Corvo's heresies.

Another example of this concerns the Catharist endura.

Here is Ladurie's definition: "...once they were 21 hereticated...they had to embark...on a state of endura or total and suicidal fasting. From that moment on there was no escape, physically, though they were sure to save their souls. They could touch neither women nor meat in the period until death supervened, either through natural causes or as a result of the endura."13 Here is Brune

Pourcel's evidence, which gives a narrative explanation of the endura: "Fifteen or seventeen years ago, one dusk, at Easter, Guillaume Belot, Raymond Benet and Rixende

Julia of Montaillou brought Na Roqua to my house in a piece of canvas; she was gravely ill and had just been hereticated. And they said to me: Do not give her anything to eat or drink. You mustn't! That night...I wanted to give her some broth made of salt pork, but we could not get her to open her mouth. When we tried to, in order to give her something to drink, she clenched her lips. She remained like this for two days and two nights.

The third night, at dawn, she died. While she was dying, two night birds...came onto the roof of my house. They hooted, and when I heard them I said: The devils have come to carry off the late Na Roqua's soul!"1*

Again, Ladurie's use of the individual's own words is far richer, more vivid and explanatory than when he reverts to the more traditionally analytic language of the historian. Such is also the case in his evocation of the lifestyle and values of the Pyrenean shepherds. This he achieves through the evidence of the shepherd, Pierre

Maury, which I used in the novel for part of the 22 background of Jacopo Passero. Reassuring as it was to have found a book which evoked a medieval world so minutely, there was, however, one major problem:

Montaillou was about a tiny agricultural village in the

Pyrenees, whereas I wished to write about a commercial town in Tuscany. Of course, there were ideas in it I could use, but what I really needed was for Ladurie to use the same technique on an Italian city republic.

Unfortunately, he had not. So I began looking for his

Italian counterpart. For a while I had no luck with historians. Instead, I decided to read Boccaccio.

This turned out to be a good idea. Certainly, the stories in The Decameron15 can be a bit thin by modern standards, the depiction of Florentine sexual liberality sometimes reads like wishful thinking, and the style, particularly in the more idyllic tales and descriptions, often seems highly artificial and self-conscious; yet the value of the collection goes far beyond these rather anachronistic judgements. Florentine values and attitudes are vividly depicted even - perhaps, especially - in the most fantastic of the stories, while the earthier tales concerning ordinary people display a world that frequently remains invisible in the chronicles and later histories. There is also a wealth of concrete detail, the kind of thing disdained by historians intent on grand narrative and analytic discussion, though it may form the bedrock of both fiction and daily life. As well as using details of fact and attitude, I also adapted some of 23

Boccaccio's narrative ideas to my own work. Though I had no qualms about the ethics of this (after all, it didn't seem to bother Boccaccio), I was worried that it might compromise the originality of the novel. But then it seemed to me that, since a book is inevitably a compendium of influences, it would be interesting to make this one a somewhat more self-conscious collection of medieval paraphernalia, not just the spells, nostra, cures, religious beliefs, and so forth, but some of the best known stories as well. Not that I took this very far, though I did use an altered version of the ninth story of the fifth day16 - in which Federigo degli

Alberighi sacrifices his hunting falcon for the woman he loves - as a model for the pledge which Gaia extracts from Baldassare. I also used the tenth story of the sixth day17 - in which "Friar Cipolla promises a crowd of country folk that he will show them a feather of the

Angel Gabriel..." - as part of the model for Fra Lippo

Peppo's dubious use of "relics". Also in relation to Fra

Lippo, there is the second story of the fourth day,18 where, as punishment for adultery, Friar Albergo is covered in honey and feathers, then taunted as an angel.

I too used this as a punishment for my duplicitous friar, though I think that, overall, Mark Twain's King and Duke were more on my mind as I paired Jacopo with Fra Lippo to play on the pious gullibility of the villagers (besides, the King himself was tarred and feathered). In fact, it was not Boccaccio's fictions that had the greatest influence on Widdershins, but his eyewitness- style account19 of the Black Death's course through

Florence. It is a powerful, chilling description, with absolutely no attempt to vindicate the behaviour of his fellow citizens (indeed, he has sometimes been accused of painting too dark a picture). For instance, there is the following discussion of the Florentines' response to the pestilence: "It was not merely a question of one citizen avoiding another, and of people almost invariably neglecting their neighbours and rarely or never visiting their relatives, addressing them only from a distance; this scourge had implanted so great a terror in the hearts of men and women that brothers abandoned brothers, uncles their nephews, sisters their brothers, and in many cases wives deserted their husbands. But even worse, and almost incredible, was the fact that fathers and mothers refused to nurse and assist their own children, as though they did not belong to them."20 Or there are the descriptions of the breakdown of urban infrastructure, like the following: "Such was the multitude of corpses

(of which further consignments were arriving every day and almost by the hour at each of the churches), that there was not sufficient consecrated ground for them to be buried in, especially if each was to have its own plot in accordance with long-established custom. So when all the graves were full, huge trenches were excavated in the churchyards, into which new arrivals were placed in their hundreds, stowed tier upon tier like ships' cargo, each 25 layer of corpses being covered over with a thin layer of soil till the trench was filled to the top."21

Such descriptions are so horrific that they become nightmarishly bizarre and unreal as detail follows detail. Of course, for a writer who wants to both write about a fourteenth-century Italian commune and sketch realities that seem to veer into the fantastic, there was clearly no question but to use the Black Death as a subject. Imagined, let alone experienced, it remains a challenge to our capacity to incorporate reality into any bearable worldview. It is an apocalypse that undoubtedly fed the visions of Bosch and the Bruegel of The Triumph of Death. Thus I would now seek out further accounts of that event, as well as texts that evoked life in an

Italian commercial town with the immediacy of Montaillou.

The book that probably best satisfied this latter criterion was Iris Origo's The Merchant of Prato,22 a study of the fourteenth-century Tuscan merchant,

Francesco di Marco Datini, based on a huge cache of his business documents and some 150,000 letters discovered in

1870. It is a fascinating account, giving us detailed insights into the character of this merchant, as well as the workings of the cloth trade, the nature of business dealings, family relations, moral attitudes and the daily mundanities of bourgeois life in a small fourteenth- century Tuscan town. And like Montaillou, much of it is in the language - admittedly the written language - of 26 the people themselves. Origo provides a detailed account of the structure and processes of the cloth industry: the guilds involved in both Prato and Florence, the hierarchies and countless regulations, the entire commercial cycle from the import of the wool, through the industrial stages of making the cloth, to the marketing of the finished product. The wealth of detail is invaluable. For instance, here is a passage dealing with the dyes Francesco imported: "Woad was used not only for dying blue (in particular the best deep blue called perse) but as a foundation for other colours; madder

(robbia) served for a tomato-red, while the two together produced the various shades of dark red and purple so often seen in medieval stuffs: violet, 'sanguine' (blood- red), and burnet (almost black). But the colours admired above all others were the reds obtained with the rarer red dyes - brazil, vermilion, and, above all, grana

(grain), the brilliant and lasting dye obtained from the small grain-like Mediterranean insect, coccus ilicis.

This was mostly used for the fine cloth called scarlet; so that gradually the name of the cloth came to be applied to the colour itself. Yet other dyes in common use were the lichen called oricello (orchil), which

Francesco imported from Majorca, and saffron, which at that time was grown near San Gimignano in the Val d'Elsa and in the Abruzzi, but which Francesco also imported from Catalonia. Lotus, also mentioned in the Company's books, was used only for the cheaper stuffs, for local consumption. And finally, through Francesco's branch in 27

Genoa, the Company was able to import from the Black Sea alum, the indispensable mordant for fixing the dyes."23

The wealth of terms and information, the sheer concreteness of this writing, made the possibility of fictively realising medieval life seem somewhat greater than when I had been reading the more general texts.

There were lists of trade goods and their provenance, descriptions of households, furnishings, wedding clothes, credit arrangements, banquets, even recipes, such as the following: "Rice was also one of the chief ingredients of the bramagere, which included, in a recipe for twelve people, '4 fowls, 4 pounds of almonds, 2 pounds of lard,

2 pounds of sugar, and an eighth of a pound of cloves.

And when it is cooked and you serve it, sprinkle rosewater over the bowls, and sugar and white fried almonds and cloves. This dish must be white as snow, and thick, and potent in spices.'"24

Not only do we get accounts of the business and lifestyle of Francesco, but his letters also give us insights into his character and attitudes. In some of his earlier letters, when he was separated from his wife and working in Avignon, we see the fact that he genuinely misses her translated into rather querulous complaints about the food: "I eat nothing that pleases me, and nothing is to my liking, and the bowls are coarse. Were you here, I would be more at ease. And perhaps this is the last time

I shall have to stay away from home, and it is good to endure it; our own bread at home will taste the sweeter."25 Later in their marriage, however, this carping quality comes to predominate: "Remember to draw a little of that white wine every day, and remember to send to the mill the sack of grain that was left over...Tell me if the mare is ready to be fetched and if she has been shod...And remember to water the orange-trees as we used to do, or they will be burnt up in the heat...And remember to keep the kitchen windows shut, so that the flour does not get hot."26 And this letter is closely followed by another: "Tell me if you took the water out of the verjuice; for you know it is your habit to let water get into it, or else to let it leak away."27

Nor is such remonstration confined to his increasingly resentful wife. Here is an excerpt from a letter to his business partner, Cristofano di Bartolo, who had committed the "great error" of lending seven hundred reali to a Venetian sea-captain: "I tell you once and for all, beware lest such things occur again, for they will be set down to your own account; and the first thing I shall set into the company's agreement, will be this clause. I mean to bind you in such a manner that if one of you behaves himself as you have done here, it will fall upon himself."28 However, we do see a more generous side to Francesco; for instance, when he was obliged to dismiss a peasant from one his farms: "But my cowardly or compassionate soul (I do not know which) does not know how to say to Moco, 'Look for another farm'...And 29 therefore I pray you, tell me within eight or ten days if you have anything for him."29

Toward the end of his life we see his fear for his salvation, and his use of good works to buy himself a place in Heaven. For instance, when he flees to Bologna to escape the plague, he sends Fra Giovanni Dominici - a preacher back in plague-stricken Florence - a butt of his best wine, and as much oil, bread and money as he required: "Of these things I will let you have no lack...And I beseech you, pray to God for me, for Our

Lord will hearken to you and not to me, who am a thief and an ungrateful traitor. And therefore I beseech you, be my advocate."30 Even so small a number of snippets from his vast correspondence suggest the complexity of the man, whose life appears, nevertheless, to have been ruled by one overriding emotion: anxiety. He mistrusted his partners and captains, he feared that his ships would suffer piracy, plague or shipwreck, he fretted over his taxes, fines and investments. And, as Iris Origo suggests, with old age came the last and worst anxiety:

"the overwhelming fear of what would happen to him in a future life."31

Though I was also to use Judge Antoine Guerin from

Ladurie's Carnival in Romans32 and the printer Jacques

Vincent from Darnton's The Great Cat Massacre,33 this portrait of Francesco di Marco Datini was by far the most important resource for my creation of Tuccio, the 30 merchant, who plays such a central role in Widdershins. I now had a clear notion of one of the novel's central characters, my fictional town of Topomagro and the industry about which so many events would revolve.

At this point, having gleaned some social attitudes and solid factual detail concerning aspects of medieval life,

I now decided to concentrate upon its more convulsive, apocalyptic side: I would spend some time on the bubonic plague. I reread Thucydides' vivid account of the plague that struck Athens during the time of Pericles. I read

McNeill's Plagues and Peoples,34 Boyle's The Age of

Calamity35 and a useful article on the bubonic plague by

Colin McEvedy.36 A particularly helpful book was

Ziegler's The Black Death,37 which concentrates almost exclusively on the overwhelming outbreaks of plague in

Europe from 1347-1349. It contains not only facts, figures and reasons for the Black Death, but also some fascinating accounts from contemporary chronicles. For instance, we have Michael of Piazza's description of what happened when the Patriarch Archbishop of Catania finally agreed to bring the blessed relics of St Agatha from his cathedral to plague-ravaged Messina: "The aforesaid

Patriarch landed at Messina carrying with him the holy water...and in that city there appeared demons transfigured into the shape of dogs, who wrought grievous harm upon the bodies of the citizens; so that men were aghast and dared not go forth from their houses. Yet by common consent, and at the wish of the Archbishop, they 31 determined to march devoutly around the city reciting litanies. While the whole population was thus processing around the streets, a black dog, bearing a drawn sword in his paws, appeared among them, gnashing with his teeth and rushing upon them and breaking all the silver vessels artd lamps and candlesticks on the altars, and casting them hither and thither...So the people of Messina, terrified by this prodigious vision, were all strangely overcome by fear."38 Of course, the least strange thing here is the people's fear. Indeed, the whole passage is a wonderfully fantastic response to a set of near-fantastic realities, as if the central events of the plague are so outlandish that almost anything might reasonably be imagined round them.

Yet, if we are concerned that this might result from the fancy of an overly imaginative cleric, we seem to land on territory no more familiar when dealing with the beliefs of the physicians and men of science. Lindberg's Science in the Middle Ages,39 Camporesi's Bread of Dreams,4° and sections concerning medieval medical practice in a variety of more general texts indicate some remarkably imaginative medical notions. For instance, quoting

Muratori, the Milanese physician, Camporesi lists some of the following beliefs: "Some... exalt and call a marvellous preservative the wearing of a dried toad hung from the neck - or burned and reduced to ash and enclosed in a pouch - during times of contagion. Others in the same manner recommend the wearing of Quicksilver, well 32 closed and sealed with wax inside a walnut...and they tell of its wonderful effect. According to others,

Emerald, Sapphire, Hyacinth and other gems, hung...in such a way that they touch the external regions of the heart, so frightens the plague that it dares not approach."41

Of course, it is quite probable that any period reasonably remote from us will, upon a more or less close examination, appear fantastic in its beliefs and outlandish in its customs. It seems reasonable to suspect that those historical accounts that concern themselves with broad-ranging political, social and economic analyses, usually in terms of some recently evolved model, will tend to make the past less "strange" than it actually was. A corollary of this notion is that writers of historical fiction, who also happen to be concerned with that imaginative area where the "real" merges with the "magically real", may need to do no more than pay close, sympathetic and faithful attention to the detailed realities of the period about which they are writing.

A further such example - one concerned more with events than perceptions - comes from the chronicler, Gabriel de

Mussis, via Philip Ziegler. This is an account of a

Tartar seige of Kaffa, the Genoese trading station on the

Crimean coast: "The Tartar army settled down outside the walls and prepared to bombard the city into submission... Their plans were disastrously disturbed by 33 the plague which was soon taking heavy toll of the besiegers. Fatigued, stupified and amazed, they decided to call off the operation. First, however, they felt it was only fair that the Christians should be given a taste of the agony which the investing force had been suffering. They used their giant catapults to lob over the walls the corpses of the victims in the hope that this would spread the disease within the city. As fast as the rotting bodies arrived in their midst the Genoese carried them through the town and dropped them in the sea. But...the plague was (soon) as active within the city as without....(The) inhabitants ... took to their galleys and fled from the Black Sea towards the

Mediterranean. With them travelled the plague."42 This account of a conventional seige turned into an early form of bacteriological warfare seems to me to contain just those kinds of circumstances in which ostensibly "real" events can appear quite surreal. It was enough to make me decide upon including the Kaffa seige as an additional scenario in my putative novel. This led me to consult such books as Barney's War in Medieval Society,43 Brent's

The Mongol Empire,44 Fleming's The Mongol Conquests,45 and Warner's Seiges of the Middle Ages.4e These in turn, partly as a result of earlier reading, induced me to include a band of mercenary soldiers under a German condottiere, which then led me to read Trease's The

Condottieri41 and Reid's Weapons through the Ages.48 Thus was born the character of Baron Schwanhals and a further series of plot developments. 34

I was also drawn to the following description from the

Flemish chronicler, De Smet: "In January of the year 1348 three galleys put in at Genoa, driven by a fierce wind from the East, horribly infected and laden with a variety of spices and other valuable goods. When the inhabitants of Genoa learnt this, and saw how suddenly and irremediably they infected other people, they were driven forth from that port by burning arrows and divers engines of war; for no man dared touch them; nor was any man able to trade with them, for if he did he would be sure to die forthwith. Thus, they were scattered from port to port."49 This description, along with the need to provide some nexus between Kaffa and Topomagro, suggested the existence of the itinerant Jacopo Passero and his voyage from Kaffa to Amalfi.

Despite what I have said about the period's "strangeness" some curiously modern parallels seemed to be emerging: an era of unprecedented growth beginning to discover its limits; financial crises, overpopulation, land degradation, frightening climatic phenomena, diverse contending heterodoxies, commercial and military raiders attempting to exploit the instability; and the rising shadow of a mysterious, incurable illness. In addition, there were those crowds of figures that seemed constantly present behind, or at the edges, of almost every text I was reading - the migrant armies of the dispossessed, the paupers and the vagrants. In an attempt to get a closer 35 look at them I read Mollat's The Poor in the Middle

Ages,50 which was helpful, particularly with reference to the role of the mendicant orders, and the distinction increasingly made between the vagabonds and the

"deserving poor". However, the book I found most imaginatively vivid and evocative - if controversial in its central thesis - was Piero Camporesi's Bread of

Dreams.51 It focuses closely on the wandering destitute in pursuing the contention that a semi-permanent state of hallucination - induced by hunger and the consumption of breads adulterated with hallucinogenic herbs - was the crux around which revolved the lives of the pre-modern masses.

Independent of whether this thesis is acceptable or not is the wealth of fascinating primary material presented by Camporesi. For instance, in suggesting the great etiological importance attributed to worms by medieval physicians, he quotes Moreali's Delle febbri maligne, e contagiose: "As long as the worms lie placidly in the intestines without being irritated, or reside there in moderate numbers, they cause no harm, at least not noticeable; in fact, they are peaceful and innocent guests. But if occasionally, because of food overabounding in proportion to them, they over-reproduce, or if they are irritated by something unwelcome and harmful to them, they will try to change location, moving away from their home nest, or will climb upwards or across in order to look for a new refuge and shelter. 36

Bumping against the intestinal walls with fury, they sometimes eat into them, or at least violently distend them, which causes pain, as also from just their wiggling and harshly stiffening up are born the most pernicious symptoms and sometimes death."52 In other words, happy is the man whose worms are happy, but woe to him whose worms are full of woe. I could not resist placing a compendium of these vermicular reflections into the mouth of the character, Lapo Tromba, since they are so grotesquely bizarre and comic. Indeed, Camporesi asserts, these

"absolute masters of human equilibrium had penetrated so profoundly into the popular... medical debates...as to inspire popular cosmologies."53 Such an assertion is born out by the evidence of Carlo Ginzburg in his study, The

Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century

Miller.54

Closer to my more central concerns, however, is the following contrast between the vagabonds and the deserving poor. According to the Roman abbot, Carlo

Bartolomeo Piazza, the vagabonds were " wandering beggars, ill-mannered rogues, noisome mountebanks, artful swindlers, cheating charlatans, superstitious inventors of sainthood, fraudulent cheats, sellers of tales, dealers in falsehoods, slothful hypocrites and cunning quacks... insolent in wretchedness, bold in their rags, fraudulent in their distress, rash in nakedness, pompous in misfortune, eloquent in abjection and fearlessly ingenious in their practised frauds."55 It goes without 37 saying that he hardly considered them worthy of Church charity. But the far smaller number of "humble paupers", deserving handouts from the parish poor-box, he described as "battered by the outrages of fortune, lying on the bare earth with faint voices, on dung-heaps, with hollowed-out caverties of lost eyes."56 Clearly virtue is worth fewer words than corruption.

Through the eyes of an anonymous writer we see an attack on the oven of the Casse district of Bologna, as in a miniature popular epic:

It was Taccon who, with six boys, started the scuffle at the ovens and frightened the court, it was Tagliatella who unhinged the doors of the baker's shop and caused such an uproar.

It was Matterel who, with great efforts, brought chaos, ransacked pitilessly, and caused the death of the cavalryman by throwing the beds from the balcony.57

Here we catch glimpses of the individual poor as they participate in one of the riots against bakers, a group much hated by the poverelli ("little poor"). This passage suggested one small scene amid the Mardi Gras rebellion of carders in the second section of Widdershins.

Camporesi himself paints a remarkable picture of the poor and dispossessed: "The masses of the pre-industrial era - 38 suffering from protein and vitamen deficiencies, poorly protected from the attacks of infectious diseases by precarious and inadequate diets, tormented by shingles

(particularly widespread in the areas of rye consumption), subjected to sudden attacks of convulsions arid epilepsy, the deliria of fevers, the festering of wounds, ulcers which ate away at the tissues, unrelenting gangrene and disgusting scrofula, the crazed patterns of

'St Vitus' Dance' and other choreographic epidemics, and the constant nightmare of worms and choleric diarrhoea - also suffered the harmful effects of 'ignoble' breads, the toxic deliria of impure flour mixtures, and the stunning, demented stupidity and dullness of food poisoning. A hallucinating scenario, in which the feeble minded and demented, the insane and the frenzied, dazed and drugged, the chronic and temporary drunkards, tipsy on wine or - most incredibly - on bread, wandered about alongside cripples, the blind, scrofula sufferers, fistulates, those with sores or ringworm, the maimed, the emaciated, those with goitre, abdominal pains and dropsy."58 The image of this tormented procession - backed up as it is with a mass of documentary support - suggested a variety of scenarios in Widdershins, most particularly the army of vagabonds collected by Brother

Corvo.

The disorder so constantly depicted by Mollat and

Camporesi induced me to read Mollat's The Popular

Revolutions of the Late Middle Ages,59 and Darnton's The 39

Great Cat Massacre.60 The frequent invocations of Carnival also led me to Ladurie's Carnival in Romans.61

This last influenced the novel greatly. With its detailed account of a Carnival uprising of drapers in sixteenth- century Romans, its subtle analysis of the manipulation of traditional Carnival symbols by both drapers and worthies, its imagery of class warfare between masked and painted armies, its investigation of the simultaneously traditional and quite unique nature of Romans' 1580

Carnival, and finally, with its portrayal of the personal animosity between Paumier, the drapers' leader, and Judge

Antoine Guerin, the leader of the bourgeoisie, it was vital to my conception of the carders' rebellion in

Topomagro and the role- of their leader, Geri Pinza. The Great Cat Massacre, too, was very helpful in providing a picture of the rituals and relationships in a small workshop of journeymen and apprentices. My scenes in the carders' "chapel" were greatly helped by such passages as the following, a conversation recorded by Contat, an apprentice printer: "'Isn't it true,' says one of them,

'that printers know how to shovel it in? I am sure that if someone presented us with a roast mutton, as big as you like, we would leave nothing but the bones behind...'

They don't talk about theology nor philosophy and still less of politics. Each speaks of his job: one will talk to you about the casse, another the presse, this one of the tympan, another of the ink ball leathers. They all speak at the same time, whether they can be heard or not. "62 40

In Ladurie's account of combatants got up in Carnival regalia, divided into Carnival kingdoms, or "reynages", and using traditional rituals as both mask and means of their mutual insults, we have social and political realities constantly expressed in the language of the fantastic. Such is true even for the most minor details.

For instance, we have Judge Guerin's description of a questionable Candlemas bear (whose emergence predicted how much longer winter would last): "Paumier, wearing a robe of bear skin, went to the town hall and took a rank and seat which were not due him and which he had never before taken...(All this) made those who saw farthest ahead think what they had always suspected, that he must have elaborate schemes."63 Darnton's description of the printers' cat massacre similarly reveals the expression of social resentments in a complex, bizarre language of symbolic actions. Even his more general discussions swerve toward strangeness. For instance, the surreal blend of cruelty and celebratory joy in the following:

"Cats also figured in the cycle of Saint John the

Baptist, which took place on June 24, at the time of the summer solstice. Crowds made bonfires, jumped over them, danced around them, and threw into them objects with magical power, hoping to avoid disaster and obtain good fortune during the rest of the year. A favourite object was cats - cats tied up in bags, cats suspended from ropes, or cats burned at the stake. Parisians liked to incinerate cats by the sackful, while the Courimauds 41

(cour a miaud or cat chasers) of Saint Charmond preferred to chase a flaming cat through the streets. In parts of

Burgundy and Lorraine they danced around a kind of burning Maypole with a cat tied to it. In the Metz region they burned a dozen cats at a time in a basket on top of a'bonfire."64 Clearly animal liberationists were not big in pre-modern times. And so the descriptions go on, ritual realities straight out of a Boschean nightmare. I adapted such details to a number of sequences in

Widdershins, most obviously to the carders' celebrations on the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, who happened to be the patron saint of the Florentine wool merchants' guild.

All of the above books were among the most helpful that I used for my novel. A number were useful for numerous topics which I have barely mentioned, such as food, drink and drugs. There were also other books for other areas, like magic, falconery and popular religious movements.

These texts too were important both for their detail and the background insights which they provided. I have included most of them in the bibliography. One final text

I would like to mention is Italo Calvino's collection,

Italian Folktales.65 Its sense of the marvellous, its light, mercurial mood, its essentially optimistic world of dangers and itinerant tricksters, had a decisive influence on my conception of Jacopo and his peripatetic cat, as well as on the fairytale tone of his relationship with Marina. 42

I would like to end this section of the annotations with a brief discussion of Widdershins' literary influences. I feel on less solid ground here, since no works of fiction had an influence comparable in directness with the historical texts discussed above. However, it should go without saying that, as a novelist, my work will inevitably be strongly affected by some of the novels I read. Clearly my whole concept of the historical novel will be determined by the examples I have read of that form. Of course, this question of what constitutes an historical novel is a fairly tricky one, and since such definitions played no part in my considerations when writing Widdershins, I see little point in spending much time on them here. Suffice it to say that there are novels which are quite obviously "historical", roughly beginning with the chivalric fictions of Sir Walter

Scott, and presently ending - at least in the popular genre - with the historical romances of Jean Plaidy,

Catherine Cookson or, far more impressively, Dorothy

Dunnet and Gary Jennings. Indeed, comparing the nineteenth-century tales of medieval chivalry with contemporary historical romances one could be forgiven for seeing very little change at all in the genre.

However, there have clearly been a number of very marked developments in the form. For instance, earlier this 43 century there was the attempt to achieve far greater intimacy and psychological depth in the depiction of historic figures. The novels of Robert Graves, especially

I, Claudius,66 are good examples of this trend. Margaret

Yourcenar's Memoirs of Hadrian61 is a similarly excellent novel. More recently, reflecting the shift in the academies toward social history, we have seen books such as Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose,68 with their stress on the lifestyle, perceptions and dynamics of significant groups of historically insignificant individuals. Then there are those still more recent

"historiographic" fictions, whose main aim seems not to be the fictional representation of their chosen historical period, but the questioning of historical truth itself. There is Paul Griffiths' Myself and Marco

Polo,69 in which Kublai Khan takes Marco on a tour of

Taidu in a taxi; or we have Christoph Ranpsayr's The Last

World,10 yet another novel about Ovid's exile on the

Black Sea coast, though in this one we have such events as the Emperor Augustus receiving a rhinoceros as a gift from the Procurator of Sumatra. Oh, really? Sumatra? A rhinoceros? Well, of course, since the aim of the intentional anachronisms - among other curiosities in these books - is to draw the reader's attention to the narrator's cultural misperceptions, self-serving misrepresentations, or a myriad other means whereby history distorts the past. There are also historical fictions influenced by magic realism. Italo Calvino's Our Ancestors1 x features three central characters: Viscount Mercardo who plays the despot in his Terralba castle after being bisected by a

Turkish cannonball on the plains of Bohemia; Baron Cosimo who, at the age of twelve, retires into a tree for the rest of his days; and Charlemagne's knight, Agilulf, who is an empty suit of armour. Jeanette Winterson's The

Passion12 plays similar games with Napoleon, though it is

Australia's Simon Leys who seems to find the most teasing narrative developments for this historic figure. By having Napoleon return from St Helena to a life of total banality in Paris, his military genius reduced to running a string of watermelon stalls, Leys finds an imaginatively powerful way of posing philosophical conundra about the nature of historical identity, genius and such romantic concepts as destiny and heroism.

Napoleon leads us to further questions. For instance, probably the most famous book in which he plays a part is

Tolstoy's War and Peace.13 This novel fictionalises highly familiar historic events and figures from the early nineteenth century. Is it an historical novel, or does its breadth and depth somehow cause it to transcend this mere genre into the general realm of "great works of literature"? Similarly, have the emphases of social history now turned the fiction of Dickens, or indeed

Proust, into "historical novels"? Are the most contemporary novels of the present moment simply 45 historical novels in the act of becoming? Are Rushdie's magically realised fictions symbolically historical novels of India, Pakistan and the seventh-century Medina, just as Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Macondo - in One Hundred

Years of Solitude14 and The Autumn of the Patriarch15 - might be seen as containing the "magical" history of

Colombia? Indeed, is there nothing that is not an historical novel?

The boundaries shift and blur, as will inevitably be the case when classifications of convenience are exposed to a paragraph or two of scrutiny. All this aside, however, I remain convinced that Widdershins is more or less historical fiction. Its concerns are essentially historical ones, dealing with a society that is relatively remote in time, concentrating on the social, political and ideological dynamics within a medieval town, rather than on individual psychology. My writing was a reaction to or against most of the above novels, among others, though none of them had any really direct influence on Widdershins. I was certainly conscious - mainly from my non-fiction reading - of the extreme historical conservatism of most popular historical fiction, with its stress on the world of kings, queens, lords, ladies, popes and bishops, on the performance of famous personages in famous events and love affairs. I wanted the novel to reflect the emphases of social history, and so determined to concentrate on the milieux of wool carders, burghers, friars and the wandering poor. 46

I also decided against the self-reflexive ploys - intertextual contradiction, intentional anachronism, historical pastiche and so forth - of the more post modern, historiographical novels, since inquiries into the nature of history and narrative were simply not my interest in Widdershins. I wished to create (or recreate) a large, powerful, apocalyptic vision of a certain point in time, and such trickiness would simply tend to get in the way. It was writers like Italo Calvino, Angela

Carter, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Salman Rushdie who most delighted me, though I was always mindful of the notion that any attempt to present a credible vision of a particular historical moment would necessarily be a series of compromises between different periods' versions of that time.

This notion that history is a construct, based on our current beliefs' remodelling of previous beliefs, suggests of course that I may owe deeper, more important debts to post-modernist concepts than a simple rejection of certain specific literary strategies. Indeed, the writing of such New Historicists as Louis Montrose, Jean

E. Howard and Stephen Greenblatt, in particular, must be of interest to anyone seriously writing historical texts of whatever sort. The notions that history is always narrated, subjective and multiple - a literary foreground in constant need of cautious scepticism, rather than a background against which literature occurs - are valuable 47 to both the historian and writer of historical fiction.

While dealing with the possible influence of literary theory on my work, I would also have to say that I have taken more than a passing interest in Mikhail Bakhtin's analysis of Carnival, and his related idea of the

"carnivalisation" of literary works. I suppose my reading of his Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics16 was my first conscious exposure to the notions of Carnival's oppositional, inversive, anti-authoritarian nature, a ritualised disordering of traditional hierarchies, as well as a spirit informing "polyphonic", multi-vocal, rather than "monologic", texts. Yet, in Renaissance Self- fashioning. From More to Shakespeare11 Greenblatt argues, for instance, that the Falstaffian Lord of Misrule is largely (all too largely) there for the audience to define itself against, a figure of disorder co-opted by the forces of order. It is interesting to note that

Ladurie mounts similar arguments about Romans' 1580

Carnival uprising, at least in relation to the strategy of inversion: "Rites of inversion... had the appropriate function - conservative, integrating, reinforcing the hierarchy - of creating a momentary inversion on feast days, the better to maintain order in the long run...Such inversion was ultimately counter-revolutionary."78

One other literary theorist I should mention is Georg

Lukacs. Though I could not accept his assumption of an ultimate Hegelian order in history, the more subtle concept of "intensional totality", discussed in The 48

Historical Novel,19 is an interesting one. This idea of an artistic totality arising from a rich and multivalent representation of the contradictions inherent in any historical period was a kind of faith underlying the writing of my novel.

However, Widdershins was not written with any literary theory consciously in mind, let alone as the fictive embodiment of some theoretical position. As I have said, my main mentors in the process of actually writing the book tended to be historians. Clearly, writers such as

Ladurie, Darnton and Camporesi are themselves strongly influenced by post-structuralist strategies, as indicated by their method of finding the heterogeneous perceptions and symbolic languages of a given period, rather than promoting a single, authoritative, "objective" narration.

My reading of such writers suggested so rich a range of voices that I simply wished to include as many as I could. It was artistic greed, not theory, that encouraged me in this. And, if there is any Lukacs-like "totality", it is the constant re-enactment of a process rather than an all-encompassing idea: the repeated, and increasingly profound, reversals of every paradigm of order, such as the way the Tartar beseigers become the beseiged, the way the nobles are overthrown by the merchants, who in turn are almost toppled by the carders, only to regain their dominance by using the nobles' original weapon (the condottiere) . And then their carefully re-established order is demolished for a time by the Black Death. Each 49 would-be order sets up its "King", culminating in the advent of Brother Corvo, the Pestilential King. Even that enormously successful authoritarian, Tuccio the cloth merchant, is no longer dictating events by the end, but seems rather to be left clinging to them like a wily flea oh the pelt of some huge, shrugging beast. Yet the beginning of the book shows us that the fate of even the leviathan is subject to reversals.

In conclusion, the novel's main motives, mood and vision are the result of the kinds of factors I discussed in section A, whereas the texts alluded to in section B elaborated and, to some extent, clarified those motives, while helping to provide the concrete detail, the narrative possibilities, numerous contending voices and, ultimately, whatever historical credibility that mood and vision will seem to have. 50

C. Writing the Novel

The actual writing of Widdershins began once I had the seedling images from which the rest would grow. These images were: a beached whale being devoured by famine victims, a voyage on a plague ship, riots during

Carnival, a pestilential king controlling the spread of the plague. It was these central images which gave me a concrete idea of the novel's tone and shape. From the images sprouted scenes, episodes and themes, and from the episodes grew characters. Of course, this is a highly simplistic way of putting it. Sometimes my reading had suggested some strong themes long before I had any real images of the book; at other times, as in the case of the merchant, I had a relatively early concept of a character. Yet, these vague notions only began to take on the shape of a potential novel once I had the seminal images. Essentially the process was image to episode to character, and then a series of cross-fertilizations once redrafting began.

These key images were, to a large extent, products of the factors discussed in sections A and B above. Some - such as the whale on the beach - I simply seemed to dream up; others - such as the Carnival riots - resulted from the way in which my imaginative preconceptions of the period interacted with my reading. In discussing my first "rush" 51

at the novel, I would like to include some examples of my earliest notes, scrawled fairly randomly in notepads or on scraps of paper, and later jotted down in the back of one of my lecture pads. Apart from notes concerning interesting references in the texts I was reading, these constitute the first actual writing connected with this book. They indicate that the birth of even the central images involved a slow and often oblique delivery. For instance ,^ the whale on the beach started as something both more bizarre and central to the book than it ultimately was. Here are transcripts of a series of brief scribbled notes, recorded in their order of occurrence, concerning this motif:

1. "Inside the whale - hallucinogenic world inside the whale - an entire community, a visionary monastery inside the whale, perhaps coming out in huge dreamlike kingdoms - a Land of Beulah?"

2. "Inside the whale - the image should, perhaps, be that of the church as a place of shelter, of retreat (eg, come in under the shelter of this red rock), a place of lush wealth and tacky decay, a kind of vision of the Avignon of John XXII. It might also include images of

Inquisitorial repression and torment, and it is here that the essential arguments of the Fraticelli can be thrashed out. " 3. The whale-dream could also involve the worm theory o sickness and even the worm-angels in the cosmic cheese cosmology described by the miller in Ginzburg's study."

4. "Opening - the whale on the beach. The town will be a

Pdsitano-like labyrinth of houses and lanes protected by wall and sea. There is a beach. A whale is washed up on the beach and people go down to slowly strip it of meat, after period of interest and wonder. This can eventually lead to sequence of Inside the Whale."

This sequence indicates that it took four notes concerning this motif to get the strong, simple image that the novel ended up using. In fact, the sequence as presented here is actually interspersed with numerous notes on other areas of interest. Clearly, in the earlie notes, I was attempting to establish some link between

Bosch-like imagery and historical themes. Indeed, in the book's first draft I did have Tuccio dream a satirical nightmare about his society inside the belly of a beast floating on the lake of Hell. But I abandoned it as too abstract and tediously programmatic. These abandoned notions seem to stem from some blend of George Orwell's famous essay and the various images of Hell as a vast organism with a "Hell-mouth". Also, note 2 appears to be attempting the incorporation of some of the schismatic struggles considered in The Name of the Rose (the reference to the Fraticelli, in particular, suggests this). In the final draft, there are some images used by 53

Jacopo, comparing Topomagro to a huge floating plague ship adrift on a landless ocean, which suggest a combination of Tuccio's dream and note 1 above. Finally, however, I abandoned all these "whale" notions but that single, more realistic image of the whale dismembered for its meat upon the beach.

This is the first of what I have suggested are the novel's "seedling images". I will now briefly examine the provenance of the last - the pestilential king who rules the plague-stricken town. Unlike the other three, this involves a central character as well as a scenario, namely Brother Corvo. However, I have never really seen

Corvo as a character in the way that, say, Tuccio,

Jacopo, Marina and Geri Pinza are. Whereas these latter can be seen to act according to personal, political or commercial motives, we never really gain any psychological insight into Brother Corvo. He is essentially an image, a Gothic grotesquerie, a metaphysical force of inversion and disorder. At any rate, this is certainly the intention, so that the fourth of these key images remains basically that, an image free of the usual concerns of character.

The genesis of this image is almost as tortuous as that of the whale. It was eventually to become the focus of the hallucinatory, necromantic, diabolical, Bosch-like motifs; yet the first notes that concern these have nothing to do with pestilence, wandering gangs of vagabonds or Brother Corvo. Note 1 above is the initial such reference, and indeed, the first note I made concerning the fictional content of the novel. It refers to the "hallucinogenic worlds" and "dream kingdoms" whic come to be the almost exclusive territory of Brother

Corvo (with the exception, of course, of other characters' occasional dreams, or the dream-iiice descriptions of some episodes during the plague or

Carnival). Thus, the Corvo sequence begins with that first note about the world inside the whale, then branches off into the following notes, once again extracted from a plethora of other notes and transcribed in their order of occurrence:

1. "Kingdom of the Cats - associated with witches' sabbath and hallucinatory episode - a place in which cat rule, cats as smart and large as people, cool, cruel and sensual."

2. "The book should be a blend of realistic depiction of the late Middle Ages, a Tuscan commune and a Bruegel-

Bosch-style representation of that place, with witches' sabbaths, hallucinatory and eschatological visions. Thus the depiction of this slice of time gives us both the matter and style, the life and perceptions of that life in one picture."

3. "You could include a noble's castle or palazzo, monastery, merchant's house, as well as a witches' 55 covern, a wandering group of witches wreaking havoc.

Monastery and covern could be combined - a heretical monk may join with witches."

4. "Threads of the novel might involve political thread following merchants' family, a thread following a contingent of mercenary soldiers such as Monreal's, and a thread following a group of the poor, vagabonds who express their resentments through witchcraft and magic."

5. "A motif which can now develop from the witch sections is the Black Lord(?) King of the Dead(?), etc, who sets himself up as the cause and creator of the plague, the demon general of a destructive, invincible army. At first he is a dishevelled outcast, but as the plague ravages the city he grows increasingly megalomaniac, taking over the Palazzo degli Signoria (sic), throwing orgiastic parties and sending out his minions to hunt down victims in the streets. This figure could perhaps link the condottiere thread with the witch-covern thread, just as you may get someone (the character with the cat, say) to link the merchant and witch-covern thread."

6. "This self-styled Black Lord may have rather purist

Cathar-style beliefs, ie, that the cosmos is divided between a good and an evil god. Clearly in this plague the "good" one is losing out, and the "evil" one is in the ascendant. He is choosing His rulers on earth, His generals and minions, and destroying all others. The 56

Black Lord and his followers are being chosen for great things. The good God is Christ and the evil God is Satan."

7. "The covern could have a banquet (probably when their

Dairk Lord is in power) which parallels and mocks the banquet in the wealthy bourgeois household."

8. "Large dogs, some possibly rabid, could get loose in the city, as in the Minorite friar's description of

Messina. The city is beset by plague, and by its familiars, rabid dogs like avenging demons."

9. "Your 'Dark Lord' could also hunt people with the shadow hounds at the height of the plague. This might be a particularly vicious aspect of the sabbats, which might originally have been aligned with quite valid critiques of the society."

10. "Remember - plague was thought to be carried by corrupted air blowing in from the south and east. You could include a scene in which the covern burns evil substances on a mountain and swirls them over the town below, convincing themselves that they are creating the plague."

It is clear from these transcribed scribblings that the concept of a pestilential king took some time to evolve

(indeed, the term itself still has not surfaced by note 57

10). Though there is mention of an apostate monk in the third of these notes, the notions that he will be the covern's leader and the plague's personification are not in evidence till the fifth. Unlike the gropings involved in the whale motif, however, there are few ideas in this pestilential-king sequence of notes which I did not end up using in one form or another.

Of course, some of my initial jottings also concerned the book's central characters, though again my earliest notes indicate my primary interest in the fantastic and eschatological. For instance, the first reference to

Jacopo is really also that note about the Kingdom of the

Cats, since it is ultimately he, under the influence of psychotropic drugs at one of the sabbats, who approaches nearest to this vision. So, starting with a repetition of that note, here is a sequence of early notes concerning

Jacopo Passero:

1. "Kingdom of the Cats - associated with witches' sabbath and hallucinatory episode - a place in which cats rule, cats as smart and large as people, cool, cruel and sensual."

2. "Burial alive - man with plague is buried alive in heap of bodies. Somehow he survives, but meanwhile he has a vision of Hell as the place underground to which he has gone after death." 58

3. "Have a central character who possibly connects two threads in the book - say, the wealthy middle-class merchant family with the covern of vagrants. This linking character could have a cat companion (a la Dick

Whittington or Puss in Boots), which would link back to cat theme - Kingdom of Cats, cruel use of cats in

Carnival, cat story of the Canary Islands."

4. "Central figure with cat can be a 'cat burglar', who breaks and enters wealthy places to make a living, sending in his cat as his X-ray eyes. Clearly, when this pair becomes involved with the covern, the cat may act as a kind of familiar - at least initially an impostor familiar - and under the influence of , say, some drug of the covern's, the thief may "enter" or "join" the soul of his cat and thereby enter the Kingdom of the Cats, perhaps seen as a cat cosmos, a cat hell and/or sensual heaven."

5. "You could p.Q..s..S..i.b.JLy. include a scene in Kaffa on the

Black Sea, where the Tartars beseige the Genoese and lob plague-ridden bodies over the wall. One of the people on the ship, maybe the guy with his cat, could sail back to your fictional town on one of the Genoese galleys."

As for the whale, the ideas surrounding Jacopo start with the fantastic and move toward the more realistic and historical. Where the bizarre gains increasing focus and elaboration in the Brother Corvo sequence, it tends to 59 contract for Jacopo, partly because light rather than shadow came to predominate as my concept of this character was clarified. In the novel itself, a sense of fantasy surrounds his later episodes, but here I was aiming for the lightness of touch associated with the gentler, more romantic folktales, certainly not the darkness of Bosch or Dante's Inferno.

As these examples indicate, my first considerations in the conception of Widdershins were the imaginative locus of the novel and the extent of its thematic concerns. The initial notes tend to grapple with the problem of how to integrate the fantastic into the historical presentation of medieval Tuscany. They then explore panoramas, scenarios and social groups, linking these with historical themes. The characters, as well as more sharply focused details, tend to arise out of these scenarios and social groups. There are two main ways in which individual characters emerge from this broth of history and imagination: they are either representatives of competing social groups and orthodoxies (Tuccio of the moneyed merchants, Geri of the rebellious labourers, and

Brother Corvo of subversive heterodoxy and disorder itself); or they serve as linkages between the disparate themes and groups (Jacopo between merchants and covern, order and disorder, money and magic; and Fra Lippo between the Church and the outcasts, orthodoxy and heterodoxy). Though the drafting process inevitably leads to complex interactions between the various aspects of a 60 novel, I see a combination of key images and historical themes as primary factors in the evolution of Widdershins.

After the reading, thinking and scribbling of notes, I had a set of central images and themes, some rather general thoughts about my - mostly unnamed - main characters, and a vague notion of what most of these characters were going to be doing. In an attempt to place some kind of coherent structure on this unruly mass of ideas, I now decided to brainstorm a much more detailed set of notes. Firstly, I would name and list my main characters - taking note of others I met along the way - so that I could discuss them efficiently and consistently. I would then describe and carefully sequence the book's main episodes, jotting down the additional plot and character ideas I imagined as I went.

The primacy of themes, imagery and major episodes tended to generate further themes, images and episodes, so that the content of the characters' introspection was largely a reflection of what they did, rather than the other way round, while their motives were driven less by their individual, idiosyncratic psychology than by their social role. Indeed, for characters as closely enmeshed in their society as Tuccio and Geri, I saw individual psychology and personal values as very closely associated with their social role. Thus this second, more detailed set of notes tended to provide explicit information about events and episodes, and implicit information about character. 61

Following is a set of three examples with which I hope to give some sense of the process involved in this second set of notes. One concerns the whale motif, another the theme of the pestilential king, and the last the character of Jacopo Passero, thus corresponding to the above three earlier sequences, and thereby attempting to provide a glimpse of how the second set of notes developed the first. Here is the one which deals with the whale, constituting a summary of what would be the first chapter of the novel:

"This first section - early spring, 1346 - starts with the whale on the beach at Topomagro. This is an episode focusing on the merchant, Tuccio, and his problems, as well as placing emphasis on the more general problem of bad harvests, cold and growing poverty. The next scene is at Kaffa, with Jacopo and Scimmi, thus establishing the essential narrative pattern of this whole section, which is an intertwining of the situation at Topomagro with the picaresque adventures of Jacopo. At Topomagro there are the incipient and insidious problems of the poor, the growing number of rural refugees, the increasing agitation of the poorer workers for better conditions, lower taxes, a guild to represent them and some say on the general council. The more immediately pressing problem, however, is the struggle that's looming with

Cardinal da Parma over some property that the Church had virtually abandoned and which the town has taken over in 62 order to rent it out to farmers on a share-cropping basis

(these farmer have also achieved their freedom from work- dues to the Church by becoming citizens of Topomagro - an old dispute). Cardinal da Parma is in contact with some

Ghibelline nobles, as well as some relatively powerless, oiit-of-favour bourgeois families, in order to destabilise the town and teach the Priors a lesson. It is also rumoured that he is doing deals with the condottiere, Baron Schwanhals."

It is interesting to note that though this is largely a summary of concerns expressed in the book's first chapter, it only touches on the image of the whale. This is because I had imagined that image so fully that I did not feel a need to elaborate it in the notes. I firstly remind myself that the whale on the beach will open the book, then say that the chapter will be about Tuccio, and finally set down what the narrative structure of the whole first section will be like. From there, it is all about clarifying the main themes and issues, since these will be developed throughout the novel, and will also provide me with the details of Tuccio's thought processes. Thus, though the whale is the image that dominates the first chapter, this note is more concerned with the ways in which the chapter will relate to the rest of the book, the dilemmas already encroaching on the town and, by implication, the worries they will create in

Tuccio. Indeed, in the final form of the first chapter, 63 the stripping of fat from the whale becomes a metaphor for Tuccio's own fears.

The following example is a note dealing with an early chapter of the book's third section. It discusses the theme of the pestilential king, a role which Brother Corvo has only recently taken on:

"Start with a description of Corvo and his motley troops striding through the streets by the western wall. They are an invasion from another world, an army of fantastics. Describe the emptiness of the street down which they're walking, houses shut, smells of putrefaction, sense of people peering timidly through windows. He senses the flight of souls through the air about him, spririts in search of a vacant womb. This is essentially Cathar ideology. He considers each soul's malleability, its nakedness and susceptibility to the strongest molding hand. Now, at this moment, the hand is

Jehovah's. The plague has not yet conquered the world of flesh. Corvo's kingdom is not quite imminent. But soon the flesh will be destroyed and the kingdom of the spirit will prevail under Lucifer, the Lord of Light.

"At the next street they discover a drunken, debauched party in progress, where people attempt to forget their fear, though the master of ceremonies is wearing a death- mask from All Souls' Eve. Then they come to another street, apparently deserted by all but a heap of 64 suppurating corpses; and then a funeral cortege comes down the street, led by priests. A woman bursts from one of the houses and begs the priests to take these bodies with them to the graveyard. Others emerge from the houses and an argument ensues, broken up by Corvo's snarling dogs as his procession marches through the stalled cortege."

This note is far more concerned with imagery and eschatology. There is nothing here of the previous example's stress on historical themes and social tensions. This is because the Corvo sequences are the main repository of the darkly fantastic imagery that served as one of the book's initial well-springs. Of course, the plague itself provides plenty of nightmares, but the episodes that focus on the pestilential king add the supernatural visions of delirium. Thus the emphasis is on both the appearance of the vagabond parade - its rich grotesquerie thrown into relief by the streets' bleak emptiness - and the mystical visions of Brother

Corvo. There is the outlandish trauma of the Black Death, but such chapters as these strive to add a further, eschatological dimension, to create a sense of some vast spiritual upheaval of which the plague is a physical reflection. There is no attempt to psychologise Corvo - he is here purely for the subversion he represents, and the heterodox images and philosophy he provides. 65

The final example is a note about a chapter from near the end of the novel. It deals with Jacopo's conflict over leaving town or staying to look after Marina:

"Jacopo cares for Marina - this is a key scene for

Jacopo. It is his decision between self and other, opportunist and healer, thief and lover. Have him looking at her racked body, her thirst, her pain. His first impulse is to leave, to take what he can and, like the wealthy, clear out. Even her father has. His purpose was to steal her and thereby take his vengeance; now he can leave it to death, the greatest thief of all. She wouldn't even know, so lost is she in her pain. He thinks of Lucia to fill himself with further anger. Yet she is so like Lucia, twisting in her suffering. Then he thinks of Laura on the boat, of how he kept his distance and she died. Then he sees Marina's lithe body climbing up a wall behind him, ducking in a window, crying in triumph over some rich thing, like the most beautiful of thieves. He thinks of her twining round him and of entering her, like a burglar entering some rich mansion. She is so quick and sweet and bold, he can't simply leave her as she is, like those others he has seen, like her father. And he finds a cloth to wipe her brow.

"Leave a gap, then describe the process of the disease, his care, unselfish risks and the final bursting of the buboes, the stench extinguished for him by her fragile smile. End with a description of his love for her." 66

Compared with the previous two examples, this note is more concerned with explicit motivation and thought processes. There is very little emphasis on either imagery or historical themes. As a vagabond Jacopo is a social outsider, and as an adventurer-thief he is often more interesting for what he does than what he thinks.

However, his outsider status means that his motives and values are less determined by his position in a tightly- knit social order than are, say, Tuccio's or Geri's. Nor is he overtly representative of heterodoxy in the way

Brother Corvo is. For instance, he shares many of

Tuccio's material values, as indicated by his later temporary willingness to be conscripted into the merchant's milieu. As far as this is possible, his character represents no group or philosophy. Whereas

Tuccio may be seen as representing a type of capitalistic individualism, Jacopo is about as close as you could get to an individual spirit wandering through the world. The focus of his inner conflict is less obviously ideological than are the concerns of Tuccio or Corvo. He must make the highly personal decision about whether the freedom and constraints implied by his lack of attachment (apart from that to his cat) are worth sacrificing for the freedom and constraints involved in a loving attachment to Marina. Though his character more or less conforms to the folkloric type of the trickster, he is clearly one of the less "historical" elements of this historical novel. 67

Hopefully, the above examples successfully illustrate the degree of development which the second set of notes brought to my understanding of the novel, particularly with regard to narrative structure, thematic clarification, conception of the major characters and the elaboration of events and images. At least, having completed these notes, I now felt ready to write down a structural plan. The following is a transcription of that plan, including a rough indication of the degree of redrafting involved in arriving at the final draft of each chapter. Such a rough indication is necessarily problematic, since "the degree of redrafting" is hardly equivalent to the number of lines omitted or significantly changed, since a change to one or two key sentences, for instance, may radically alter the entire meaning of a chapter. However, using as a guide the number of lines omitted or altered significantly (another tricky word), I have endeavoured to take these difficulties into account. In the transcription of my plan I have used the following key to indicate the degree of redrafing of each chapter:

Normal typeface indicates less than 10% redrafting.

Italics indicate redrafting of between 10% and 25%.

Bold type indicates over 25% redrafting.

Struek-through type indicates chapters finally omitted.

The following is the plan as I first conceived it: 68

SECTION ONE - "FLOTSAM"

1. The whale on the beach and Tuccio's musings 2. Jacopo burgles the Kaffa house

3. Hawking with Baldassare

4'. The coming of the Tartars

5. Baldassare visits Tuccio's house

6. The coming of the plague and Jacopo's departure 7. Corvo murders the scullion

8. From the Black Sea to the Bosphorus

9. Cardinal with envoy plus Corvo in the kitchen 10. Tuccio visits his carders

11. Laura contracts the plague 12. Laura's delirium

13. Tuccio meets Montagna on the beach

14. The Cardinal meets Schwanhals

15. Tueeie-dreams-he-is-inside-the-whale- 16. The Straits of Messina, then Amalfi

17. Baldassare asks for Gala's hand

18. Jacopo meets Fra Lippo

19. The Priors meet to discuss the cardinal

20. Rollo-dreams-up-a-nightmare-savieur

21. Jacopo and Lippo work their first village

22. A demon Scimmi at the second village

23. The cardinal switches rooms

24. At an inn - Lippo's heresies

25. Catastrophe at the third village

26. The apothecary plus Baldassare's proposal

27. Jacopo and Lippo encounter Schwanhals 69

28. The fall of Frederico dalla Montagna

29. Frozen armies plus Lippo wants to cook the cat

30. Tuccio does a deal with Schwanhals

31. The cardinal on his barge

32. Corvo confronts the cook

33. Jacopo at the gates of Topomagro

SECTION TWO - "A SPORT OF KINGS"

1. The initiation of Guido

2. Corvo is Joined by Maria, Moloch and Bui fas

3 . Gaia-is-guilty-abeut-Baldassare

4. Guido with Lucia

5. Corvo plays saviour and preaches a hempen sermon

6. Carders and dyers brawl then parley

7. Jacopo meets Lucia

8. Baldassare in bird markets at Livorno

9. Jacopo and Lucia talk

10. Corvo reaches Topomagro and sets up his kingdom

11. Jacopo and Marina make love

12. Saint Martin's Day mayhem

13. The wedding feast

14. The carivari

15. Trial and mock trial

16. Corvo meets Lucia

17. Priors discuss increasing disorder

18. Carders' Carnival preparations and parade

19. Worthies prepare, suborn and parade

20. Mardi Gras riots - the return of Schwanhals 70

21. Corvo contemplates the hanged carders

SECTION THREE - "THE LORD OF LIGHT"

1. Corvo and covern on dawn hilltop

2.' _...Troub±e-±n-the-marriage-of -Gaia-and-Baldassare 3. Jacopo enters Corvo's kingdom 4. Tuccio is poisoned

5. Corvo's apotheosis as the Pestilential King 6. Jacopo watches Lucia's execution

7. Fra Lippo discovers a case of plague

8. Corvo and his minions enter Topomagro 9. Lippo's death

10. Jacopo enters Tuccio's house and finds Marina 11. Gaia's death and funeral

12. Jacopo and Marina make love

13. Corvo's sextons bury the living and the dead

14. Tuccio discusses the plague with his physician

15. Tuccio leaves town and Marina stays with Jacopo

16. Corvo burns a priest

17. Jacopo nurses Marina

18. Corvo holds court in the Palazzo dei Dieci

19. Jacopo and Marina are pursued by Corvo's troops

20. Brother Corvo's reverse Gethsemane

21. Jacopo and Marina ride through the ruined contado

22. The death of Brother Corvo

23. Jacopo and Marina reach Tuccio's country villa

24. Epilogue 71

Armed with a map, I now felt ready to set off into my book's first draft. This plan gave me a fairly ready, immediate access to the novel's likely structure. It would help me to keep the book in balance, the narrative in perspective, the shifts between characters as even- handed as I felt was appropriate. I was particularly eager to give the reader a sense of a richly diverse society, an aim which I felt would be better achieved through the swings of viewpoint suggested in my plan than by sticking to each character until his or her narrative thread had been tied off. This structure also seemed to have the advantage of a kind of contrapuntal build-up to large inclusive episodes, such as the Mardi Gras riots.

It is something of a truism that plans should not become an inescapable commitment; yet it seems to me that some writers look down on careful planning as a sort of cheating or, at least, a compromising of their creativity. I could not disagree more. For me, the process of planning can be one of the most creative aspects of writing, urging me to think more critically about structure and the shape of shifting viewpoints. It can also be quite liberating for the process of actually getting down the first draft. I find that I can concentrate all my energies on imaginatively realising each part of the book, rather than having to worry constantly about such things as pacing and where I should be aiming to go next. I have already thought much of this out while my mind was uncluttered with the immediate production of the text; that is, when I had more space to think laterally.

Rubbing my hands with glee, I now set about writing the first draft, which I completed in just over twelve months, mostly during 1992. It largely followed the shape of my plan, consisting of 77 chapters plus an epilogue, and amounting to just over 200,000 words. Of course, one person's "first draft" can be another person's "third", since some writers take such an unhesitating rush at the initial draft that they barely look back until it is finished, whereas others agonise over every sentence as they write it. Of course, most of us fit somewhere between the two extremes, and I would place myself somewhat closer to the latter. I usually rewrite each paragraph at least once on the day I start it, though some rewriting is quite superficial. My supervisor, Ron

Pretty, received this draft in three instalments, first

Flotsam, then A Sport of Kings, and finally The Lord of

Light and the epilogue. I will now give a brief account of the drafting process, and the way it was, at least in part, a response to my supervisor's comments.

.SECTION ONE - .".FLOTSAM."

Ron was generally very positive about the book's first section, Flotsam. However, he stated a number of reservations and made a few suggestions: 73

1. Some of the conversations seemed too pedantic, as if their whole purpose for being there was to "educate" the reader about the period. The explanatory nature of these was also rather unrealistic, since, in attempting to provide the reader with certain explanations, they had the characters explaining ideas to each other which they clearly would already have known. Such was the case in some of the carders' dialogue in chapter 10, as well as in that between Cardinal Rollo da Parma and the papal envoy in chapter 9. A number of other sections contained dialogue that seemed too much like a series of rather long-winded speeches - some of the discussion, for instance, between the Priors in chapter 19, and some of

Lippo's sermonising in chapters 21 and 22.

2. Occasionally the writing became repetitious, often where it seemed that I felt I was onto a good thing, and could not resist giving the reader a bit more. The sequences in chapters 9 and 14 concerning Tozzo, the cardinal's jester, were sometimes like this, as if I had found my hyperbolic descriptions of his extreme thinness successful, and then attempted to reproduce originally vivid imagery to the point of overkill. The scenes on the galley in chapters 8, 11 and 16 also needed pruning, since the descriptions of "life on the ocean waves" were necessary, but a little too repetitious. 3. Though the novel was generally well plotted, the causal connections were occasionally unclear or hard to credit. For instance, in chapters 24 and 25 it was unclear how, and somewhat incredible as to why, the gang of villagers tracked Fra Lippo down and took their revenge upon him. Their method and motives needed fuller explanations.

4. The number and nature of the tense changes was questionable; for instance, within chapter 2 and between chapters 2 and 3. The reason for their being there, and the logic of their application, seemed unclear.

With the exception of this last reservation concerning the book's tense changes, which I will discuss later, these comments corresponded to a number of my own uncertainties about the first draft of Flotsam. I was very conscious of some long-winded speechifying that needed pruning, and had also been aware that I may have used too much dialogue as a more or less disguised means of providing historical background for the reader. Ron's comment that, in places, the book read like a Victorian

"educational" novel rang alarm bells, reminding me of my occasional tendency, in moments of insecurity, to use

Eco's Name of the Rose as a touchstone of the artistically daring and commercially successful historical novel. Did it not have long, explanatory passages, amounting almost to mini-theses? And didn't some of its dialogue, particularly that dealing with key 75 debates of the era, present page after page of argumentation? And wasn't it a publishing phenomenon, winning countless critical accolades and breaking into sales figures usually reserved for the crasser kind of best-seller? But, of course, the word "phenomenon" was the very point. It was a famous freak, a unique book that tended to make its own rules, many of which involved breaking the conventions of high-volume fiction. What might be considered fascinatingly detailed scholarship in a book whose major charms were scholarly, may very well be considered simply long-winded in a different sort of book, which mine undoubtedly was. I could not judge the effectiveness of Widdershins by the rules of Name of the

Rose. There was no point in attempting to be a little

Eco.

So my first round of redrafting began. I started with the chapter in which Geri Pinza and Alfredo Crostadura discuss the demands they are about to make on their employer, Tuccio. This occurs in chapter 10 of the plan above, but on pages 70 and 71 in chapter 9 of the novel's final draft. Ron's comment was that the dialogue had the carders explaining issues to each other that would, more realistically, remain as assumptions underlying their conversation. This lack of realism resulted from attempting to use the dialogue as a means of explaining these issues to the reader. I could only agree when I reread the text. So I made a number of changes, of which the following are two examples. 76

The original version:

Alfredo leaned from his bench toward him, glaring intently. "Maybe somebody should get steamed up, Geri.

How long do we put up with a wage that won't buy enough food? I'm sick of not getting steamed up."

The redrafted version: •

Alfredo leaned from his bench. "Maybe somebody should get steamed up, Geri." After all, how long could they put up with a wage that wouldn't buy enough food? "I'm sick of not getting steamed up."

Original version:

Geri gave him a level look, then shrugged. "Impatient?

That our wages don't change while the shortages drive up the price of food? Of course I'm impatient. I Just don't think getting hot-headed's the way to solve it."

"Well, I think we've been patient too long. There's a great mass of us in this town, clog-wearers who can't afford to pay the rent and buy food. Because we work our guts out we don't get registered at the city's poor tables, and the paupers live better than we do.

Redrafted version: 77

Geri gave him a level look. Impatient? That the shortages drove up the price of food? That their wages stayed the same. He shrugged. "Of course I'm impatient. I Just don't think getting hot-headed's the way to solve it."

"We've held back for too long." Alfredo thought of them all, the clog-wearing mobs that could neither pay rent nor buy enough food, and who, because they worked hard, remained unregistered at the city's poor tables. "The paupers live better than we do."

As the above examples indicate, I attempted to obviate the problem by relocating the background issues from the dialogue to the characters' thoughts, turning the passages of conversation into a combination of dialogue and internal monologue.

Another episode that seemed to suffer from similar problems was the conversation between Cardinal Rollo da

Parma and the papal envoy. My main strategy here was simply to cut out sections that seemed more tedious than necessary. The following is a brief example of a passage omitted from the final draft (page 47):

"It's true, Dom Pietro," he said, sipping at the remnants of his wine. "The councils of the Holy Father are full of complexities and shifting alliances that it takes all 78 one's energies to follow. Were human nature less factious, more time could be devoted to God Himself."

"Exactly, Your Eminence," smiled the monk, nodding comfortably at the truism, although Rollo wondered Just how condescending his formality was intended to sound.

"Clement too bemoans the paradox of a Church whose foundations arise from the City of God itself, yet which must maintain its influence here on earth by resort to the tactics of soldier and courtier."

Though these observations did not seem unrealistic in the manner of those exchanged by the carders, their very number tended to thicken the episode to the consistency of molasses. If the wading reader did not drown, he would at least grow decidedly uncomfortable. These cuts amount to about 1500 words and occur in chapter 9 of my original plan and chapter 7 of the final draft.

An episode which suffered from too much overly discursive material was that in which the Priors debated their responses to the scheming of the nobles and Cardinal da

Parma. It was simply too much of a talk-fest, and I made cuts like the following (page 112):

Original version: 79

The grizzled red face of the Gonfaloniere betrayed no hint of confirmation. "What do you think?" was all he said, and Francesco did nothing more than nod.

"Well, I know what I think," said Bartolomeo Chiaudano."I think that without those three this conspiracy would never have gone as far as it has, and it's about time they were brought in chains before the Signoria."

"Oh, that's all very well," cried Marco Martello. "But how can we be certain of the information of this spy? And besides, if this conspiracy is as well advanced as it's said to be, they'll be well stocked with arms and well supported."

"Yes," agreed Poggio Cerini, "any rash action may provide

Just the spark they need to ignite their rebellion."

"Well, I can vouch for my informant," said Agnolo. "I'm not so sure that I can vouch for the reactions of

Montagna and his friends. "

"Did you get any idea of how advanced the condottiere is in his preparations?" Tuccio put in. "Or whether things have even gone so far as his making preparations?"

The redrafted version of this omits its central four paragraphs; that is, from "Well, I know what I think..." to "...Montagna and his friends." Most of the quibbling 80 in this dialogue is rather unnecessary, since there is more than enough disagreement in the rest of the chapter to create an adequate sense of the Signoria's fractious nature. I made numerous other such cuts to this chapter

(chapter 19 in the above plan, but chapter 15 of the final draft), amounting to just over 1500 words.

Other episodes that habitually suffered from wordiness were those involving Fra Lippo's sermons; for instance, chapters 21 and 22 of the above plan (chapter 16 of the final draft). In the following passage, the section that was edited out is in italics (see page 123 of the final draft):

"Oh the Enemy is sly and secretive. He will find you out in the moment of your greatest doubt and baste you with soft words, ready for Hell's ovens. He will come in the freshness of spring like a smooth and silky woman, kindling you until you burn with lust, a pale reflection of the fiery Pit. He will slip into your heart like righteousness, then blaze against your enemies with a cruel intemperate anger." And he too is blazing there above them with an anger that seems more than righteous.

"Demons are in all the elements about us, waiting for the slightest sin to open like a doorway to your heart. They will lodge within whatvever part of you offers least resistance - within the gut, perhaps, until you crave for food with most unholy gluttony; or like parasites behind 81 the eyes, so that any innocent act might seem to you a conspiracy of enemies; or they will thicken in the blood, slowing your every impulse to action, consuming you with lethargy and sloth until each day is an exemplum of the sins of omission; or lodge within the throat as bile, breeding gossip and abuse; or in the ears, so that every word you hear becomes a cause for Jealousy." He leans at them across his little carven pulpit. "And there is no- one who is safe. Not the Pope or the Emperor or the least significant of serfs..."

There is a good deal of this rhetoric in the above chapters, and though it may create an authentic sense of the period's popular religious oratory, it can become very turgid very quickly, presenting particular dangers for these episodes, the essential emphasis of which is comic. Due to such cuts, chapter 16 of the final draft is about 1000 words shorter than chapters 21 and 22 of the first draft.

Where overly elaborated, unsubtle or unrealistic explanations tended to be a problem with some of the novel's dialogue, unnecessary repetition was occasionally problematic in the descriptive writing. Sometimes this was a result of too anxious a desire to establish atmosphere or authenticity, and sometimes of a rather self-indulgent overuse of particular sets of imagery.

Examples of the latter are contained in some of the 82 descriptive passages dealing with the cardinal's jester,

Tozzo. For instance, chapter 7 in the final draft devotes a significant amount of space to describing Tozzo's thinness, as does page 92 of chapter 12 in the same draft. In the first draft, however, just prior to the page-92 description, there is the following passage.

Original version:

The torchlight from the room lit the door's studded face, but the corridor beyond remained in shadow. Then from this darkness a long, gaunt figure came creeping with theatrical slyness, sliding on tiptoe from one patch of shadow to the next, holding a bowl in hands cupped before him till he looked, for all the world, like a mantis dressed in motley. He glanced from cardinal to soldier, putting a circumspect, twig finger to his lips in a gesture of conspiracy. Corvo noticed the mercenary's pleasure as he sat back, grinning, clearly comfortable with clowns and ready to be entertained. The Jester set the bowl of comfits down on the table, then straightened, once again applying a cautionary finger to his lips.

These comfits were zuccate - pale gold pumpkins boiled in sugar and hardened out of doors with honey - and

Schwanhals eyed them hungrily, no doubt famished after his long ride. But it was the cardinal's response that caught the attention of Brother Corvo. 83

A hush had descended on the close, high room from the moment of the Jester's entrance...

Redrafed version:

A'bowl of zuccate - pale gold pumpkins boiled in sugar and hardened with honey - now entered the room, perched on the Jester's splayed fingers. A hush descended as the long, gaunt figure crept through the shadows.

I chose to truncate the original since it added little to the descriptions preceding and following it. This logic applies equally to some of the passages dealing with life on the Genoese galley as it sails west from Kaffa, where nautical and meteorological imagery threatens to become repetitive. Page 74 of the final draft provides an example of such a cut (the passage in italics is the section that I omitted):

Long weeks passed by of crisp, fair weather, of gull flocks wheeling away to the south like crying white shadows, of waves that grew fins and turned into dolphins. Sometimes they sighted islands rising up from beyond the horizon, growing larger and clearer till they floated into the air as clouds, and sometimes there were cloudy masses that stayed rooted to the sea and turned into islands. They put in at Lesvos, Khios, Tinos... 84

Ron's concern about the lack of clarity as to how and why the villagers tracked Lippo down in chapter 25 of the first draft also made good sense. As it was, they did appear quite inexplicably, with no reason given for why they had gone to the trouble of tracing him. This was not difficult to set right. In order to explain how they discovered Lippo, I simply located a couple of them at the inn (chapter 24 in the plan above) during the visit there of Lippo and Jacopo. The most important inserted passages are in italics:

...But Jacopo's simply standing behind the taverner, making Scimmi snug inside her pouch.

They head for the door, passing the hearth and the dicers, so that Jacopo glances through the smoky air, seeking the face he thought he'd recognised, wondering if one last look might solve the small puzzle. And as he does so, he sees not only this man, but his runtish companion, whose face too seems strangely, even threateningly, familiar. They nudge and mutter as the friar goes by, yet Jacopo still can't place them.

Outside, the cold air hits him with a moment of exhilaration, then starts settling down into his bones. A light snow is falling, but they decide to keep going.

"After all, we've got money enough to satisfy the greed of any peasant farmer," says Jacopo, comfortably patting 85 the innkeeper's purse under Scimmi's curled purring.

Then, Just as he's grinning with self-satisfaction, he knows where he's seen those faces before - in the gang from which he'd rescued Fra Lippo.

These brief additions seemed to adequately explain how the men had located Lippo. The next task was to indicate why they wished to avenge themselves on him. But I was reluctant to create some sort of mini-narrative to make this clear. It would cause obstructions in an already fairly complex narrative. So I made the following brief insertion (chapter 25 in the plan above), which seemed to provide a motive without slowing down the action:

"He's the one!" the big man's roaring through the chaos, pointing his finger at Fra Lippo. "He's the false preacher, the one who came to Sottile and seduced my poor niece, saying he'd show her the Virgin's girdle."

These changes occur on pages 130 and 132 (now in chapter

18) of the final draft.

Finally, there was the issue of the novel's tense changes, which occur within and between chapters. Ron had expressed the reservation that both their purpose and the logic of their application was unclear. I will firstly provide two typical examples of such tense changes. The first occurs within the opening paragraph of chapter 2: 86

Had you boarded a Genoese galley from the mole Just north of the Porta del Mare, sailing south to Civitavecchia, then on to Gaeta and Naples, through the Straits of

Messina, south-east across the Ionian Sea, past Kithira,

Crete, Khios and Lesvos, north through the Sea of Marmora, threading the needle of the Bosporus, past the smoky domes of Byzantium and over the Black Sea, it would not be too many months before you reached Kaffa, the

Genoese trading post, at the foot of the Crimean mountains. Here, with its century-old walls and its fortress, the small dome of its Armenian church and, at its heart, the proud marble of its Catholic baptistery and campanile, it funnelled the wealth of the East toward

Christendom, and kept at bay the hordes of Tartary.

Tuccio had an agent - Francesco Corsani - in the Genoese enclave, who frequently included consignments of spices, alum and brazil for Topomagro on board the galleys and cogs that plied southward. Yet the man we see standing in the alley below the Fanfani mansion is no friend, nor even acquaintance, of Tuccio di Piero Landucci. He is

Jacopo Passero, one-time shepherd, salt-scraper,

Jongleur, now turned burglar, and he is watching the lights go out.

He seems edgy...

The second example occurs between chapters 2 and 3. 87

End of chapter 2:

For a moment, Jacopo's chest feels tight with anxiety,

then he looks at the column of refugees, their belongings almost falling from their carts for the taking. He pats his cat, smiling.

"Rich pickings, eh, Scimmi?"

/ Beginning of chapter 3:

They rode their great horses in the green morning, and each young man had a hawk at his wrist.

Considering Ron's comments, I reread a number of such

examples. Despite his observation that, once noticed,

they risked distracting the reader, I decided to risk it anyway. The second of the above examples is the simpler,

so I will deal with it first. The general rule for changing the tense here is that the episodes dealing with

Tuccio should be written in the past tense, whereas those concerning Jacopo be written in the present tense. The reason for this is that I wished to differentiate strongly between them, especially in the initial sections of the book, providing the reader with signals about each chapter's subject matter, not only through the narrative, but through language as well. However, I did not wish to go so far as to create a wholly different diction for each persona, since this would run the risk of 88 fragmenting the text, particularly when further characters and viewpoints were introduced. So one of the signals I chose was tense. Many of Tuccio's early chapters would be reflective, focusing on his past experiences and the history of his present political problems. The past tense seemed quite well suited to this introspective tone of detachment from present action. On the other hand, Jacopo tended to be involved in more urgent action, such as his first chapter dealing with his burglary of the Fanfani mansion. The present tense seemed more suitable for the speed and immediacy of such narrative, involving the reader in the present action, rather than encouraging the contemplation of political issues and personal history. Thus the change of tense would provide both a signal for a change of viewpoint and a suitable medium for expressing those respective viewpoints.

The first of the above examples, however, deals with a more complex issue. Here we have a tense change within one of Jacopo's chapters, something that rarely happens in those dealing with Tuccio. There are a reasonably large number of examples of this difference; for instance, on page 38 of the final draft, where we move from a general past-tense description of the plague in

Kaffa to Jacopo's present-tense confrontation with Lapo

Tromba and his dead child. There is a parallel distinction in the first example quoted above. Here we move from a general past-tense description of historic 89 sea routes to the immediate, present-tense situation of

Jacopo Passero burgling the Fanfani mansion. Thus, the more complicated logic of the changes within Jacopo's chapters concerns the shift from a general historical perspective described in the past tense (sea routes, the conduct of the Tartar siege and progress of the plague), to the more immediate, personal actions imbedded in that history and described in the present tense (the burglary, socialising with Lapo, finding a corpse, escaping the town). The aim of this shift is to give readers a sense of both the broad historic sweep of events and the individual lives intensely involved in the vivid particularities that those events create for them. The tense change - as well as other elements of style, such as the choice of imagery - aims at creating a linguistic equivalent to the visual shift of a zoom lens from a panoramic vista to one sharply focused element of the visual field. It is interesting to note that the inflections of Italian grammar, for instance, distinguish between the ordinary past and the historic past, between passato and passato remoto, as if in an attempt to create a linguistic distinction between a broad, impersonal, historic reality and the more intimate realities of individual experience.

For these reasons I decided that I would leave the changes of tense as they were. 90

.S.E.C..T.IQ..N. T..W.Q - "...A &P.QJBX....Q.E .KXN..G..S..."

Ron received the first draft of this section in June,

1992. He suggested that it generally worked well, but needed further drafting. This time some of his comments were more concerned with fundamentals, such as the structure of the entire section. The following constituted his major suggestions:

1. The structure tended to be too fragmented, particularly in the first half of the section, where rather short chapters involved numerous changes of scene and character. The danger here was that the fragmentation disrupted not only the narrative flow, but also our involvement with the characters. In a novel that already challenged that involvement with its multiplicity of characters, such further disruption of our empathy was unwise.

2. There were too many feasts and talk-fests. The descriptions of the religious feast days, in particular, were rich in detail and invention, but too much richness tended to pall. These scenes ran the risk of cancelling each other out.

3. Brother Corvo's rather lengthy religious speeches needed occasional pruning. 91

4. There was some confusion as to whether Brother Corvo and his minions had taken part in the Mardi Gras riots.

5. Chapter 3, where Gaia expressed guilt about her demands on Baldassare, added little to the book, while its brevity increased the risk of the section's early fragmentation. Perhaps it would be better omitted.

6. The descriptions, particularly during some of the main action, tended to become cluttered with a mass of detail, slowing the narrative down unnecessarily. The more turgid sequences could benefit from pruning, opening the text out to the reader.

I was initially more worried by these comments than by those on Flotsam, partly because some of them were more fundamental, and partly because they were concerns I shared but had tended to ignore during the planning and first rush of writing. Indeed, so concerned was I by the first point about fragmentary structure that I decided to do nothing about it for the present. It was the kind of problem that could get in the way of my completing the first draft, and I was determined not to become bogged down in too much revision and redrafting before I finished a draft of the entire novel. So I left the most important problem for later.

The second suggestion, however, was one with which I might deal immediately. The talk-fests seemed to have 92 become endemic, and I suspected that the splurge-and- prune technique was probably going to be the one that worked best for me in the writing of the more discursive dialogue. I had used it in the first section, and could no doubt do the same here. Similarly, the plethora of detail in the descriptions of the feast days was probably something better handled by judicious pruning than by ruthless omission. Indeed, though I agreed that these descriptions could be reduced, I was eager to keep the main events of all the feast-day episodes, since they would not only enhance the book's authenticity, but give the reader a great sense of the period's "otherness". For instance, I cut down what had amounted to more than 1000 words of detailed description to just under 500 words on page 192 of the final draft. The following paragraph provides an example of the omissions I ended up making.

Original version:

Geri casts a choleric eye over the fires in the square.

None is very big, yet each has its own circle of admirers. The smallest might have come straight from a kitchen, with families cooking sausages, pigeons and the occasional chicken on a variety of spits and griddles.

Another, a good deal larger, seems lit for no other purpose than to be admired, since the boys who built it do little more than stare and smile at their own handiwork, glancing frequently about them to discover what impression it has made upon the onlookers. At the 93 centre of the square stands the biggest of the bonfires, which has also attracted the greatest crowd. It's been burning for some time, yet still retains a towering stock of timber, so that those who dance about it - a double circle turning different ways - will have no need to interrupt their pleasure on a quest for wood. On the far side, nearest to the river, is yet another fire, into whose flames a crowd hurls objects of ill-omen - a knife, a counterfeit coin, a broken spindle, papers of some kind. Even as he watches, a woman carefully holds a sack which seems to struggle in her hands, heaving it up into the fire, where it howls as if the flames were screaming, then flares and disappears. He frowns, trying to hear the rhymes which they are chanting, but the dancers' squeals conceal them. The last, and nearest fire to him, is also used for dancing, but these are all youths, who do not dance about the fire, but instead leap through it, shouting. Geri is about to suggest that they might build a fire of their own...

Redrafted version:

Geri shakes his head and sips his wine. He watches the bonfires that have been lit on the piazza. Some are small, no more than cooking fires for the families gathered round them. Others are quite large, such as that round which a double circle is already dancing, widdershins and clockwise. On the far side of the square, nearest to the river, is one into the flames of which a crowd hurls objects of ill-omen - a knife, a counterfeit coin, a broken spindle, papers of some kind. As he watches, a woman carefully holds a sack which seems to struggle in her hands, heaving it up into the fire where it howls amongst the flames. He frowns, trying to hear the rhymes which they are chanting, but the dancers' squeals conceal them. He is about to suggest that they might build a fire of their own...

As this example should make clear, the aim of the redrafting is to preserve the tone and main ideas of the original, while omitting those parts that may threaten to bury the reader in a mass of relatively unproductive detail. My most extreme use of this technique was in what the above plan lists as chapter 12 (Saint Martin's Day mayhem), where the people of the Borgo Santa Caterina choose the King of the Cats. Though this episode amounted to over 3000 words in its original form, I pruned it back to about 1000 words, yet retained the central events - the battles around the Castle of Love and the procedures for choosing the King of the Cats (see pages 205-6 of chapter 7 in the final draft).

An example of this process applied to dialogue rather than description occurs in chapter 13 of the final draft, the eventual form of which was the result of pruning about 1500 words from the original version (chapter 18 of the first draft). The following is from pages 235-6 of 95 the final draft. The omissions are in italics, the insertions in parentheses:

Benno raises his wine, as if proposing a toast, and loudly announces: "The villages of Roccianera, Maria del

Poggio and Palude are willing and eager, and the breaches in the walls are complete."

"Yes, you were telling me earlier."

"Oh, did I, Geri?" he frowns, then flings out his arms.

"Well, I've had a few cups, so I'll say it again." And he raises his wine as if proposing a toast, then shouts,

"The villages are ready and the walls are finished," at which Geri starts forward, almost clamping his hand on his mouth.

"Shh, Benno." He (Geri) looks around, smiling. "I know these are friends, but we can't be too careful, can we?"

"We-ell...maybe," says Benno, now peering suspiciously amongst the feasters, whose eyes are rivetted, not on them, but on the dancers, all swooping in for the kill with loud shouts and much elaborate swordplay. "I can vouch for the peasants, and you can vouch for the carders. And I can tell you now that the fishermen have agreed to march early - " 96

"They have?" puts in Geri. "For certain? No more umming and ahing about breaking with custom?"

"No, not any more. They'll march on the feast of Saint

Blaise, and they've agreed to march after the carders, since it's your feast day. I think that's pretty reasonable. No, it's others I'm worried about."

("Oh, Geri, you know you can trust the peasants. And the fishermen have agreed to break custom to march with the carders." Then his tone seems to darken. "It's others I'm worried about.")

"What do you mean?" says Geri slowly...

The next suggestion concerned some of the religious speeches of Brother Corvo. The comments on his heterodox rhetoric were really much the same as those on Lippo's more orthodox rhetoric - it was important that the speeches were there, but they were too long and elaborate in their present form. As with Lippo's speeches, it was not hard to convince me that they could achieve their purpose less tediously if they were pruned back. The following example is from page 197 of the final draft.

The omissions are in italics, the insertions in parentheses: 97

Brother Corvo spoke to them of birthrights, disinheritance, the patrimony of the poor. He spoke of law as theft, and theft as restitution. He had them think how the inheritance willed to them by God had been swindled from their grasp by landlords, councils, prelates, magistrates, bankers, usurers, Jews, militias, bakers, butchers, peasants - anyone, indeed, possessing more than they. And wasn't this anyone at all? "But the question is Just which of these two powers - the God of matter, gross and heavy, or the God of light and spirit - has willed this world to you." And he went on to demonstrate before that crowd, whose bellies owed him their satiety and whose hearts owed him their pride, that it was Jehovah, God of the temporal world, who had so perverted the equality of wealth that bishops, espousing ownership of nothing, now lived in sinful luxury while so many lived as they. "The bishops serve not the Lord of

Goodness, but this God of dung and money," he would cry, and go on to remind them how, not only bishops, but priors, magistrates, condottieri, craftsmen, labourers, even the registered poor who Jostled for handouts at the

Church's poor-box, all served this servile God.

(He reminded them of how the bishops of Jehovah, Lord of matter, now lived in sinful luxury while so many lived as paupers.) "And who then are the children of the God of

Light, whose Kingdom is at hand?..." 98

Another problem concerning one of the Brother Corvo episodes was the potential for confusion over whether

Corvo and his minions had partaken in the Mardi Gras riots near the end of A Sport of Kings. This was fairly easily obviated by inserting the following phrase

(indicated by italics) into the paragraph describing Corvo's entrance on page 255 of the final draft:

Brother Corvo - who'd held his minions prudently aloof from the Mardi Gras disturbances - puts a finger to his lips...

Ron also questioned whether the episode labelled as chapter 3 (Gala is guilty about Baldassare) was really worth including, since it seemed to contribute more to the problem of fragmentation than to anything else. I tended to agree, but - as with the questions concerning structure in general - I decided to leave this problem until I had finished drafting the book.

Ron's final reservation concerning A Sport of Kings was that some of the action sequences were badly slowed down by the inclusion of too much descriptive detail and overly complex sentence structure. It was a problem of which I was aware, and clearly resembled the kind of overwriting already discussed in relation to the descriptions of the feast days. The fact that Ron had 99 remarked on an aspect of my work which I too was inclined to question spurred me to further revision. The following is one of many passages that I changed for the sake of flow and pacing. Bearing these qualities in mind, however, I will restrict myself to just the one example. It occurs on page 233 of the final draft.

Original version:

...Just as the wether comes clattering in.

The thing is wild-eyed and panting, slipping a little on the stones as the crowd turns toward it, raising a cheer.

It bolts for an opening on the south of the square, but the beaters there wave it away with their sticks. And so it goes for each of the half-dozen exits - the wether darting and lunging and shying aside as the beaters start shouting. Then the crowd gets in on the act, bleating, guffawing, waving their hands each time it comes near, while it dithers around, skirting the human sheepfold, until the first runner, club raised, arrives. Geri lets out a cheer. It's Bartolomeo, with Luca behind him as all the others come pouring in. Bartolomeo, swinging the club with his great clumsy arms, stampedes for the sheep. But the creature slips sideways, almost collapsing, then slithering back, as he lunges straight past it and into a mob of wine-tippling fullers, who topple like skittles.

The wether, legs sliding, charges a carder from one of the sheds of Serpe Cerini. He brings up his club, twirling it round as he starts on the downswing. But Luca nudges him hard with his shoulder, swiping the wether once, twice - while the falling man's club cleaves the air at his ear - then finally, thrice, crushing its skull with the blow.

Redrafted version:

...Just as the wether comes clattering in.

The thing is wild-eyed and panting, slipping about on the stones. Then the beaters close off the square, and the crowd gets in on the act, bleating guffawing, waving their hands while it dithers and shies. But Geri lets out a cheer as the first of the runners arrives. It's

After these various stylistic concerns, however, the problem of structural fragmentation, and its effect on both the flow of the narrative and our involvement with the characters, continued to nag at me. I vowed to make it a first priority when I had completed an entire draft, and manfully proceeded to ignore it.

S..E.Q.T..I.QN .T.HE.EK....-...... :'..IHE L.Q.R.D. Q.E LIGHT..."

Ron received the first draft of The Lord of Light and the

Epilogue in October, 1992. His comments were generally positive. A number of his suggestions, with which 1 concurred, were similar to those he had made after reading A Sport of Kings. There were some other points on which we have agreed to disagree. The following is a summary of his suggestions and reservations:

1. Parts of it, particularly toward the end, were too fragmentary.

2. Corvo's rantings were still too long-winded in places.

3. Lippo's sermons again needed pruning.

4. Tuccio's conversations were sometimes still too lengthily educational.

5. There was very little direct conflict or confrontation between opposing characters. 6. Jacopo s meeting with, and decision to steal, Marina was a bit too impulsive and hard to credit.

7. The epilogue tended to read too much like a summary, rendering the end of the novel rather flat and unconvincing.

Since Ron had made the first four comments before, there was nothing really surprising about them, except perhaps that he had needed to make them. Possibly I was a slow learner. In my defence I would suggest the following: The problem of fragmentation was partly a result of my not knowing just how long each chapter would need to be until

I had finished drafting it. Some chapters, particularly toward the end of the book, turned out to be far shorter than I had anticipated, thus leading to the fragmentary narrative. The volubility of Corvo, Lippo and Tuccio was also largely a product of the drafting process. I seemed to work best with their dialogue when I threw as many ideas and as much information into it as I could, pruning it back later to a readable length. My responses to the last three comments were somewhat different, and I will discuss them later.

As I have stated, I generally agreed with Ron's point about the fragmentary structure of the novel, and the danger it posed for narrative flow and the reader's involvement with the characters. Restructuring the novel, however, meant a fairly fundamental change to my original picture of it. So, having finished the first draft, I decided to get a wider range of opinion before embarking on this process. Once again, the restructuring was put on hold.

I have already provided sample prunings from the dialogue of Corvo, Lippo and Tuccio, so I will limit the following to two brief illustrations. The ensuing cut (in italics) from one of Corvo's speeches occurs on page 258 of the final draft:

"...Destroy this town, that waits in darkness here before

You, and grant Your servants the strength to lead it in the path of light. Grant us the knowledge of wise Machin and the potency of Your warlike captains, Bulfas and

Mermeut, that we might understand and act upon Your purposes. Send forth great Gemer, prince of sickness, to breed contagion in the bodies of the townsmen that their souls might be illumined. Guide him surely from the east and south into the north and west through Paymon, Oriens,

Amaymon and Egim, the powers of the compass; infect its people's blood with fevers..."

The following cuts (in italics) from Tuccio's conversation with his physician occur on page 305 of the final draft: Oh, I thought you'd never ask," Francesco chuckles, while his friend takes up the candle and heads toward the stairs. "But seriously," he adds, following behind, "the apothecary has more for you than the vintner. You could do worse than take a daily regimen of saffron pills, or even myrrh or aloes. And, of course, powdered emerald can be highly beneficial."

"Who to, Francesco? The apothecary? It's unbelievably expensive." Then his gaze darkens a little. "After all, it did Gaia little good."

"Well, once the pestilence takes hold...then it's not so easy. But, really, There's little beats a well-mixed theriac, especially those blended in Bologna by the university's physicians."

There remain Ron's final three comments. The first of these concerns the fact that there is no real personal conflict, and certainly no personal confrontations, between the main characters representing the various contending milieux. Ron suggested that this was not a criticism of the book, but an observation. It was one that I too had made, somewhat to my surprise. It is a rather interesting feature of a book in which there is such a sense, I think, of almost universal conflict. The merchants are pitted against the nobles and the forces of

Cardinal Rollo da Parma. The Tartars are battling the Genoese. The carders are locked in their struggle against the merchants. Brother Corvo takes on the forces of order, be they the Church, the town worthies or the ordinary citizens of Topomagro. Yet Geri Pinza's only meeting with Tuccio is a forelock-tugging affair near the very beginning of the carders' dissatisfaction. Tuccio does no more than brush by Frederico dalla Montagna's stallion, face wreathed in a brittle smile. Brother Corvo meets neither Tuccio nor any other of the town leaders. y The nobles have lost before his arrival, and his only meeting with Geri is when the carder is dangling from a rope. And for all the dislike he evinces, Jacopo does not actually meet Tuccio during the novel's three main sections, but only in the relative remoteness of the epilogue where, indeed, he briefly becomes the merchant's protege. The closest we come to such confrontations are

Baldassare's duel with Stoldo dalla Montagna, his struggles with Guido during the abortive caravari, and the far later scene where Brother Corvo and his gang chase Marina and Jacopo through the streets. This latter might almost qualify as a confrontation between two major opposing figures - Corvo the representative of chaos, and

Jacopo, who has so recently made his commitment to love - except for the fact that they barely glimpse each other in the melee, and Corvo has no idea who Jacopo is. Thus, at best, we have either only glancing moments of personal confrontation or confrontations by proxy. 106

There are numerous confrontations, however, both between and within groups. Within the merchants' group we have the eternal bickering between such men as Tuccio and

Agnolo del Leone on the one hand, and Marco Martello and

Poggio Cerini on the other. We also have the emotional power struggle between Gaia and Baldassare. Amongst their opponents in the book's first section we have the haggling, the ideological disputes and ultimate betrayal between the cardinal and the condottiere. Within the y workers' group we have the constant arguing over tactics between Geri and Alfredo, and more importantly, the disputes between Geri and the dyer, Bernardo Zoppo. We also have the various disagreements between Jacopo and

Fra Lippo, Marina and Tuccio, Agnolo and Tuccio, as well as numerous other minor instances of conflict. But the general tendency is for the personal confrontations to be either within each group or, if they are between groups, only by proxy (for instance, Baldassare for Tuccio, Guido for Geri, Stoldo for Frederico dalla Montagna). The real confrontations of the novel are those between massed forces, contending ideologies, or humanity facing cosmic upheavals.

I do not see this as a fault in the book. Indeed, it seems a perfectly realistic representation of a world that had long since abandoned any serious commitment to the concept of the "national" champion. However, my discovery of this "lack" did initially concern my more conventional self. After all, there is a certain basic audience satisfaction to be gained by having a climax which pits Errol Flynn against Basil Rathbone, Luke

Skywalker against Darth Vader or, for that matter, Hamlet against Claudius or Macbeth against Macduff. But I resisted the temptation to a more personally contended climax. Ultimately, the book is about contending forces, factions, beliefs. To reduce it to a more purely personal conflict would be, I think, to reduce the book's entire vision. After all, in the paintings of Bosch and Bruegel

- from which Widdershins may well have begun - there is no Renaissance focus on the individual, since the sheer mass of detail constantly draws our eye toward the whole.

The next of Ron's comments was more a criticism than an observation. It concerned the fact that Jacopo's decision to "steal" Marina (chapter 10 of The Lord of Light in the above plan, and chapter 6 in the final draft) was all a bit sudden and difficult to credit. In this episode he enters Tuccio's house in order to find something to steal as a means of taking his burglar's vengeance on the merchant. He simply happens upon Marina, and impulsively decides that she is what he will steal. Ron's suggestion was that it would be more realistic and believable to have him see her somewhere in the town, decide upon his plan and then put it into operation. This would require no more than the inclusion of a relatively short scene.

This is undoubtedly a very reasonable point. However, I decided against it for two reasons. The first was a fairly superficial one: unless it was absolutely necessary, I did not wish to add any further episodes to an already long and complicated novel. The second was the more important: it was my intention to create the atmosphere of a folktale around the later chapters dealing with Jacopo and Marina. Such writers as Italo

Calvino, Angela Carter and Jeanette Winterson had shown that this could be done without sacrificing the strength of their writing. To have Jacopo suddenly struck by the beauty of Marina asleep in the moonlight, and to have his y plan then hit him with the impetus of a revelation, contained echoes of such tales as Snow White, Sleeping

Beauty and their myriad variations. I wanted this moment to be the seed of a lighter, more positive fantasy that would grow out of the dark, grim nightmare of the surrounding plague. I was eager to achieve this "magical" quality at this point in the story, even if it threatened to compromise the realism of the characters' motivation

(though I was not convinced that it did). Ultimately, the novel's power would stem not from its historical realism, but from the interplay of its imaginative motifs. For these reasons I left the episode largely as it was.

Ron's final reservation concerned the final chapter of the book, the Epilogue. He felt that it included far too much material in too brief a space, reading more like a summary of a sequel than a satisfying conclusion of a long and detailed novel. He suggested that the attempt to pack so many events into so few pages tended to produce a tone of rather flat reportage, distancing the reader from the characters. Thus, it was his opinion that it would be wiser to omit the Epilogue altogether, ending instead with the penultimate chapter and the scene where Tuccio and his wife are rushing down through the vineyard to greet Jacopo and Marina. My response to this suggestion is that the book is certainly quite a large one, too large in fact to be brought to a conclusion as abruptly as would occur with this alternative ending. It needs a longer braking time if it is not to sunder too violently the reader's involvement with the narrative. The Epilogue is intended to provide this gentler deceleration. The other alternative, of course, would be to lengthen the

Epilogue, thus obviating the danger of its being too brief and concentrated. In my opinion, however, this would indeed run the risk of too greatly flattening the tone of the novel's conclusion, leading to a sense of anticlimax rather than resolution. 1 certainly agree that the Epilogue is discursive, tending to distance the reader from the characters and events. In fact, this is partly the effect for which I was aiming. After the close focus of some of the later scenes, I wished to finish with a sense of panoramic perspective. I did not want a dramatic end dominated by towering characters, but a landscape inhabited by a myriad individuals, all enacting their idiosyncratic lives within history's shifting limits .

Ron also suggested that the ending is too pat, with its final image of Jacopo and Marina riding off to see the world. I suspect, however, that this is largely a matter of taste. It is intended to create a sense of openness, of a freedom that is deepened rather than compromised by

Jacopo's commitment to Marina. I particularly like the final imagery of their practising their thieving skills once more, then riding off into the starlit night, so it is not something I would easily change.

I now had a somewhat redrafted novel. I had already acted on many of the suggestions made by Ron, and had also decided not to act on some, at least for the present. His brief comment that it could afford a good deal more pruning was still ringing in my ears, while I remained aware of having done nothing so far about the narrative's fragmented structure. Restructuring and further pruning would probably be fairly arduous tasks, and I didn't wish to take them on till I felt convinced that they were absolutely necessary. It was time to test the book on other readers.

The Victorian branch of the Federation of Australian

Writers was advertising for submissions to its Alan

Marshall Award, a prize awarded annually for an unpublished manuscript with a strong narrative content.

This seemed like a good opportunity to test the market, so I sent it off to them. I also gave it to my agent, Lyn

Tranter. Widdershins won the award, and the judge,

Dorothea Cerutty, was very encouraging, though she suggested that some of the chapters should be combined, and that I needed to reduce the length if I was serious about getting it published. Lyn Tranter made a number of minor suggestions, most of which amplified comments already made by Ron Pretty, and two major ones: firstly, there was a plethora of short chapters, many of which could be combined; and secondly, if I wanted to give myself a chance of publication I would need to cut the length by, say, 50,000 words.

I seemed to detect a common theme in all this. Well, Ron,

Dorothea, Lyn, you were all so unanimous that I could procrastinate no longer - without further delay I decided to reduce the number of words and chapters. I carefully reread the manuscript, making notes as I went, then proceeded with the task. So far there had been a first draft which, in the light of Ron's comments, I had rewritten as a somewhat briefer second draft. Now, after a more radical rewriting, there was what I have been optimistically calling the final draft. The first draft had been divided into 78 chapters and had consisted of over 200,000 words. The final draft contains 55 chapters and about 160,000 words. I felt that I had grabbed the novel by the throat and shaken it, until it had spat out every unnecessary word (and maybe a few more).

I began by considering my original plan of the book, looking for chapters that might profitably be combined, or even omitted altogether. In this latter category were two chapters describing nightmares and two dealing with the relationship of Gaia and Baldassare. In the book's present form the nightmares had turned out to be important neither as points at which past events culminated nor as the means of generating future events.

I found their imagery interesting in itself, but rather isolated and static in relation to the rest of the narrative. If anything, they tended to weigh it down.

Similarly, the relationship between Gaia and Baldassare, though important for certain key narrative developments, y had been somewhat eclipsed by more pressing themes and events. The two chapters I was considering were no more than elaborations of their relationship, and quite unnecessary to the central drive of the narrative. They were the vestiges of a narrative possibility that had never eventuated. So I decided to cut all four chapters from the novel, although I was rather partial to some of the imagery, particularly Rollo's encounter with his

Saviour. In the original plan, these chapters are chapte

15 (Tuccio dreams he is inside the whale) and chapter 20

(Rollo dreams up a nightmare Saviour) of Flotsam; chapte

3 (Gaia is guilty about Baldassare) of A Sport of Kings; and chapter 2 ( Trouble in the marriage of Gaia and

Baldassare) of The Lord of Light.

The merging of chapters was most important in the second and third sections of the novel, where there was the greatest fragmentation. Nevertheless, I also made some rather obvious, simple mergings in the first section: chapter 7 (Corvo murders the scullion) + chapter 9 (Cardinal with envoy plus Corvo in the kitchen);

chapter 11 (Laura contracts the plague) + chapter 12

(Laura's delirium);

chapter 16 (The Straits of Messina, then Amalfi) + chapter 18 (Jacopo meets Fra Lippo);

y chapter 21 (Jacopo and Lippo work their first village) + chapter 22 (A demon Scimmi at the second village);

chapter 24 (At an inn - Lippo's heresies) + chapter 25

[Catastrophe at the third village);

chapter 31 ( The cardinal on his barge) + chapter 32

(Corvo confronts the cook).

All the above mergings are of chapters involving either the same characters or characters connected by a common milieu. The same is true for most of the mergings in A

Sport of Kings, especially in the first half of this section, where the fragmentation threatened the reader's involvement with the central characters:

chapter 1 (The initiation of Guido) + chapter 4 (Guido wi th Lucia); chapter 2 (Corvo is Joined by Maria, Moloch and Bui fas) + chapter 5 (Corvo plays saviour and preaches a hempen sermon);

chapter 7 (Jacopo meets Lucia) + chapter9 (Jacopo and Lucia talk);

chapter 10 (Corvo reaches Topomagro and sets up his kingdom) + chapter 11 (Jacopo and Marina make love).

The mergings in this section seem fairly successful at increasing the potential for reader involvement with the characters. Not only are the episodes with Guido and

Brother Corvo longer and more substantial, but the reader is re-introduced to Jacopo earlier in the section because of the omission of chapter 3 (Gaia is guilty about

Baldassare) and the new position of chapter 6 (Baldassare in the Livorno bird markets) after chapter 9 (Jacopo and

Lucia talk). However, the merging of chapter 10 (Corvo reaches Topomagro and sets up his kingdom) and chapter 11

(Jacopo and Marina make love) combines chapters involving two different sets of characters. This anticipates the tenor of the mergings in the book's third section, The

Lord of Light, where there is an attempt to tighten and feature the interplay of motifs by combining them in the same chapters. As in the one example from section 2, this is almost exclusively centred on the Corvo episodes and the Jacopo/Marina episodes (the one exception being Fra

Lippo who, in any case, is always associated with Jacopo). The aim here is to set up a series of counterpointed contrasts between the increasingly chaotic anomy of the Corvo sequences and the increasingly loving commitment of Marina and Jacopo. As the section proceeds the chapters grow briefer, yet are combined in increasing numbers, the process aiming at a climactic build-up that culminates in the rapid interchanges of scene during the pursuit of the pair by Corvo and his cohorts. This is followed by the merged sequences of Corvo's delirious y death and the idyllic travels of Marina and Jacopo through the lands of good health. In Flotsam and A Sport of Kings the mergings tend to aim at consolidating the narrative and increasing our involvement with the characters. In The Lord of Light they aim more at tightening the thematic weave and heightening the sense of opposing moral forces:

chapter 5 (Corvo 's apotheosis as the Pestilential King) + chapter 6 (Jacopo watches Lucia's execution);

chapter 7 (Fra Lippo discovers a case of plague) + chapter 8 (Corvo and his minions enter Topomagro) + chapter 9 (Lippo's death);

chapter 13 (Corvo's sextons bury the living and the dead)

+ chapter 12 (Jacopo and Marina make love); chapter 16 (Corvo burns a priest) + chapter 17 (Jacopo

nurses Marina) + chapter 18 (Corvo holds court in the Palazzo dei Dieci);

chapter 20 (Brother Corvo's reverse Gethsemane) + chapter

21 (Jacopo and Marina ride through the ruined contado) + chapter 22 ( The death of Brother Corvo) + chapter 23

(Jacopo and Marina reach Tuccio's country villa).

y The above represents the most important changes between the novel's chapters. It did not involve arduous work,

but was more a matter of needing to make the right

judgements concerning structure. The hard slog would

begin once I moved into the chapters themselves in order

to optimise the quality of the writing and reduce the

novel's length. I decided to concentrate my first efforts

on cutting, since there was no point in trying to get a

passage perfect if I later resolved that it should go.

This cutting was the most painful aspect of writing the

book, though once the plunge began there was a certain

heady pleasure, even a sense of freedom, in simply

scrapping some of the writing over which I had previously

agonised. I had more or less decided that I would not

abandon any of the main motifs, themes or episodes. It would be a matter of scouring every page for paragraphs, sentences, phrases and individual words that could be cut. Since an attempt to detail this exhaustively would prove boring and unedifying for both reader and writer, I will restrict myself to mentioning a few of the more notable examples.

Some of the longest omissions involved conversations whose topics I had found historically interesting, but which tended to slow the narrative down, while revealing little that was worthwhile about the major characters.

For instance, there was a rather academic discussion of falconry, amounting to about 500 words, in chapter 3 y (Tuccio goes hawking) of the first section. In chapter 5

(Baldassare visits Tuccio's house) of the same section, there was a debate of about 2000 words between Father

Matteo and Tuccio's wife, Beatrice, concerning women's education and the affectation of French Books of Hours.

In chapter 24 (At an inn - Lippo's heresies), as labelled in the original plan, there was a 500-word discussion of the skin rash called St Anthony's Fire, relating it to the traditions of the Hospital Brothers of St Anthony.

These, and other such conversations, were excised from the final draft.

There were a number of episodes - primarily concerned with action - which were also easily isolated from the main thrust of events. In what was originally chapter 5 of the second section (Corvo plays saviour and preaches a hempen sermon), there was a scene in which it took one of

Maria's dogs about 600 words to pull up a mandrake root in the magically sanctioned manner. Another example comes from what is labelled chapter 8 (Corvo and his minions enter Topomagro) in my original plan of the book's third section. This cut consists of a 1200-word scene in which

Brother Corvo's procession meets a funeral cortege, which is subsequently importuned to add the bodies of further plague victims to its dead.

As well as unnecessary actions and conversations, there were numerous descriptions that could be profitably put to the knife. For instance, there was a total of about

2000 words detailing the contents of various rooms during

Jacopo's two major burglaries, the first at the Fanfani mansion and the second at Tuccio's house. I pruned almost another 2000 words from what, in the original plan, was labelled as chapter 13 (The wedding feast) of the book's second section. These cuts were largely to descriptions of food and gifts. There were a further 1000 words which could be cut from the descriptions of seasonal famines in what was originally labelled chapter 29 (Frozen armies plus Lippo wants to cook the cat) of the first section.

The Epilogue, too, provided prunings of about 1000 words in all. These came partly from an unnecessary repetition of details already used in descriptions of the plague, and largely from a rather irrelevant account of the plague's effects upon the Church.

Clearly I encountered many other such examples in the process of pruning the novel by about 40,000 words.

However, the instances from my earlier redrafting, as well as those cited above, should suffice to illustrate the methods I used in achieving the necessary reductions.

In this period of concentrated revision it was inevitable that I would find passages which I wished not to cut, but to rewrite with varying degrees of alteration. Sometimes this rewriting involved a significant number of cuts, while at other times it could involve additions to the text. In the former case, however, the point was not to achieve a reduction of the text, but simply to improve the quality of the passage in question. The following are y a few, almost randomly chosen, examples of stylistic changes for clarity, flow and rhythm.

The first pair are from the opening chapter, both involving excisions (presented in italics, with insertions in parentheses) which are essentially aimed at improving the flow of the writing and ease of reading:

Tuccio di Piero Landucci sat in the office at the top of his house. He like to think of it as his library, though he lavished little of his money, in fact, on codices. If he preferred books in his own good Tuscan, he was also a man who liked even his self-indulgences to be a sound investment, so that, between the patriot and the merchant, he bought fewer books than he felt he should.

Not that he was reading now. (he wasn't reading now.) Far from it. He was sitting, pen in hand... I have redrafted the passage (page 1 of the final draft) in this way because the original seems to obstruct our introduction to Tuccio with a lot of rather tortuous pedantic detail. It also tends to concentrate on what he does not do, whereas the redrafted version goes straight to his present action. The following alteration (page 6 of the final draft) occurs a little later in the same chapter:

...There was something about the thought of the creature that unsettled him in a way not altogether unpleasant, something about the power lying hidden beneath the surface of things, as if the sea - with its haddock and mackerel, its fishing boats and dull, flat surface - in being able to suddenly open up and disgorge such a thing,

(as if the sea's disgorging of so strange a thing) were a sign that all the dull business, all the flat, intractable surfaces of his life, might suddenly open up to reveal something marvellous.

The redrafting here is aimed at simplifying the overly dense and long sentence. The visual details omitted are simply not worth the clotting of the language into such a

Chinese puzzle of clauses. The following two examples

(pages 55-56 and page 57 of the final draft) are all passages concerning Jacopo's memories. Original draft:

His thoughts drift through that time...when he'd scraped Provencal salt for a living, piling it up in the ice white marshes that swam in the heat, till the plains to the sea were full of salt pillars like a host of Lot's wives. The boat rocks beneath him, as if the marshes were truly adrift in the sunlight, and he thinks of the salt- tax, the hated gabelle, grinding his teeth till Scimmi y cocks her head at the noise. He sees the salt workers forced from the land, wandering foodless over the countryside in their salt-stiffened rags, like knights' errant bones, mail brittle with rust the colour of snow.

Redrafted version:

His thoughts drift through that time...when he'd scraped

Provencal salt for a living, piling it up into friable pillars like a host of Lot's wives on the ice-white plain. The boat rocks beneath him, and he thinks of the salt-tax, the hated gabelle, grinding his teeth till

Scimmi looks up at the noise. He sees the salt workers forced from the land, wandering foodless over the roads in their salt-stiffened rags, like knights' errant bones, mail brittle with rust the colour of snow.

The aim of these changes was to make the complex concentration of information and imagery more rhythmically flowing and a little less convoluted in structure. Virtually every page of the manuscript's final draft contains such stylistic changes. They constitute the common currency of the novel's revisions. A rather different sort of example occurs on page 141 of the final draft, where there is a reasonably large cut in the text, though more because the original is convoluted and stylistically intrusive than because it simply consists of unnecessary detail that can be conveniently omitted.

The cuts are in italics, the insertions in parentheses:

...Jacopo ducks and darts and dodges, while Fra Lippo plunges amongst trunks with surprising speed, a legged keg careening over pinecones, his habit aswirl. Shapes flicker and shout in the trees behind them, voices echo in the air and manifold shadows multiply about them like echoes of themselves. The pine forest loses definition, as if each pillared trunk, each fallen, rotting branch, each stone, were the reflection of some other, repeated endlessly about them, until the very air becomes a lake of images through which they wade, with no-one there but their own reflected selves. Jacopo turns himself into a branch, a sapling, a shadow - the friar is a hump, a tussock, a rock - till both become invisible amongst that maze of living mirrors, (They turn themselves to branches, saplings, humps or tussocks,) as their hunters fade to phantoms, miasmal, insubstantial, lost in the tangled clew (skeins) of their own shouting. One final brief example of those revisions that attempt

to simplify the construction and improve the rhythm of

descriptive passages comes from one of Cardinal Rollo da Parma's final scenes (page 161 of the final draft).

Original version:

y The last rays of the sun lit the cabin's slatted window,

while the Jester, Tozzo, performed before the doorway of

an inner chamber, and a group of silent deacons sat

awkwardly about on narrow chairs. The cardinal lolled

upon a throne of cushions, face striped with slatted shadows.

Redrafted version:

The last rays of the sun lit the cabin's slatted window,

where a group of silent deacons sat perched on narrow

chairs. The cardinal lolled upon a throne of cushions,

face tigei—striped with shadows.

An example of a redrafted combination of action and

conversation comes from the Mardi Gras riots, page 310 of

the final draft.

Original version: Got you!" laughs their leader, as he drags the butcher down onto the boards, yet turns at the sound of the woman's cries and sees her bolt out through the door. "Go on, get her!" he yells, as his fellows hurry after her, then gestures for the others to bring the butcher to the yard, where the wife, now pinioned by their hands, stands wild-eyed and panting: "No, no, let me go, no, please don't hurt me," till he slaps her once across the mouth with eight red knuckles. y

"Alright, you prick, " he says, turning to her husband, face wreathed in a smile that might almost be relief, "we've waited a long time for this moment."

"What, what is it?" says the butcher, knees buckling till it seems that he might fall, but for the support of his assailants.

Redrafted version:

"Got you!" laughs their leader, and drags the butcher down, turning as he sees his wife rush for the door. "Go on, get her! " he yells, hauling his man into the yard, where the woman now stands pinioned.

"We've waited a long time for this, " he says, face wreathed in a broken grin. What, what is it?" The man's knees buckle, and only his assailants stop him falling.

The aim of these changes was to both speed up and simplify the narrative, which is full of complex, constantly shifting details during the chaotic Mardi

Gras. A final example of my trying to clear the action's path comes from one of the Brother Corvo sequences on page 262 of the final draft. y

Original version:

The ring of witches narrows and then widens, twirling him about - the fire in his face, then red-hot at his back - while the other dancers flush and darken in their countei—clockwise spinning, until he feels that he is circling, not on rocks and earth, but high among the fiery spheres, himself a part of them, leaning out to let the energy of motion take him. He has no sense of passing time, since they turn against the clock, the shadow on the dial, the sun itself, as the horseman thunders in,

"he" of whom they spoke, enshrouded in his monkish robes upon his shying horse, which rises like a wave before the flames. . .

Brother Corvo sits his stolen mount and witnesses the frenzy. Groans and cries and gasps of exaltation stab the night, until he sees one dancer stagger forward on his face. Then he rowels the horse, which heaves beneath him, skin shivering with fear and the fiery light, while his dozen ragged grooms hold tight upon the harness, keeping it in check. He stands up in the stirrups, eyes roving round the ring, and draws a slaughterman's long blade out of his habit. The circle falters, slowing, some stumbling as they dance, heads twisted on their shoulders as he holds the knife aloft. Then, gripping the stallion's mane, he leans forward as it shies and draws the blade in one slow, silky pass across its throat. At first there's y nothing, no reaction, Just the dancers breathing where they stand, and then the creature seems to sprout a ruby collet, a thing so fine that it might well be some illusion, some reflection from the flames...

Revised version:

The ring of witches narrows and then widens, twirling him about in counter-clockwise circles, until he feels that he is spinning, not on rocks and earth, but among the fiery spheres. Nor has he any sense of passing time, since they turn against the sun; then "he" of whom they spoke rides in upon his horse, which rises like a wave before the flames...

Brother Corvo sits in stillness, witnessing the frenzy.

Besides the restructuring, pruning and stylistic y redrafting involved in the manuscript's final draft, I also added the brief rubrics at the start of each chapter. This was done mainly to make the shifts between characters and settings as clear as possible for the reader, and partly to create some degree of anticipation to compensate for the sense of interrupted involvement that such shifts inevitably produce. In general, though

40,000 words and a number of likeable episodes have been expunged from the book, I do not think that damage has been done to any of the major themes. The most significant diminution has been that effected upon the relationship of Gaia and Baldassare, since there is now very little concentration upon them after their marriage.

I am convinced that the gains to narrative focus and momentum outweigh this loss, since the theme of power within personal relationships remains in their courtship to echo the political power games enacted on the wider canvas of the town as a whole. I suppose that one of the chief ironies involved in omitting episodes which are barely connected to the main narrative thrust is that those episodes, as indicated by their very lack of narrative necessity, are often the ones which have most intrigued the writer. Given their contingent quality, why else would s/he have included them? As eminent a writer as J. D. Salinger has his character, Holden Caulfield, suggest that it is when people digress from the point at issue that they start to touch on what is meaningful to them. A number of the digressions that I later omitted - among others, a brief history of "familiars", the story of the cephalophoric

Saint Dennis, the traditional cures of Saint Anthony's

Fire - were probably not particularly "meaningful" to me, but they did intrigue me enough that I originally included them despite their apparent lack of narrative relevance. In answer to Holden's (Salinger's?) argument, one might suggest that it depends just what point is at issue. The main themes of my book are important to me, so that any digressions - interesting or not - that genuinely obstruct the development of those themes must be cut to the point where they are no longer obstructive.

Of course, such decisions are never clear-cut. It is always a matter of deciding just how intrinsically interesting and how obstructive these digressions are, and indeed, whether they are really digressions at all, or simply an unexpected avatar of a central theme. This is often where the advice of a good editor or supervisor can be helpful, since what appears as a fascinatingly quirky episode to a writer steeped in the material may well appear quite pointless to most readers. For such reasons, I have tried to be as open as possible to critical suggestions, though always under the assumption that I, as writer, must take both ultimate credit and responsibility for whatever decisions are made concerning the writing of the novel.

In section A of these annotations I discussed what I thought might be the root causes and motives behind

Widdershins. Among other things, I discussed the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch and the influence their imagery appears to have had on the book, urging me toward the fantastic and eschatological. As is indicated by the changing emphases of my original notes, the novel became somewhat less fantastic than I had originally envisioned.

This was partly the influence of my historical researches. Without ever losing sight of what I considered the medieval imagination, I became increasingly interested in the material events, social behaviour and varied lifestyles of the late Middle Ages.

There were many trends the period seemed to share with our own, as if what the first-world middle class now experiences globally, through the media, might then have been experienced directly, though intermittently, in the urban milieu. Yet these events, trends and lifestyles seemed so "other" as to be almost fantastic. Thus, rather than writing in a constantly fabulist mode, I chose a moment when historic events would need no more than a vivid evocation to achieve the apocalyptic luminosity I sought. Here was one of those points in time where there was not merely room for eschatology, but an eschatological imperative. No matter how closely planned, novels invariably turn out differently from how one imagined them. It is my present belief that Widdershins has ventured from my first imaginings only to be more faithful to the emotions that lay behind them. BIBLIOGRAPHY

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Marquez, G., One Hundred Years of Solitude. Trans, by G. Rabassa. New York: Harper, 1970. Marquez, G., The Autumn of the Patriarch. Trans, by G. Rabassa. New York: Harper, 1975. Matthew, D., The Medieval European Community. London: Batsford, 1977. McEvedy, C, "The Bubonic Plague". Scientific American. New York: February, 1988.

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1. Procacci, G., History of the Italian People. London: Penguin Books, 1971. 2. Le Goff, J., Medieval Civilisation. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988. 3. Evans, J.(ed.), The Flowering of the Middle Ages. London: Thames and Hudson, 1966. 4. Hyde, J., Society and Politics in Medieval Italy. London: Macmillan, 1973. 5. Matthew, D., The Medieval European Community. London: Batsford, 1977. 6. Waley, D., The Italian City Republics. London: Longman, 1978. 7. Tuchman, B., A Distant Mirror. London: Macmillan, 1978. 8. Rorig, F., The Medieval Town. London: Batsford, 1967. 9. Brucker, G., Renaissance Florence. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. 10. Ladurie, E., Montaillou. London: Penguin Books, 1980.

11. Ibid., page viii of the Introduction.

12. Ibid., page 291.

13. Ibid., page ix of the Introduction

14. Ibid., page 226.

15. Boccaccio, G., The Decameron. London: Penguin Books, 1972. 16. Ibid., pages 463-469.

17. Ibid., pages 505-513.

18. Ibid., pages 342-353.

19. Ibid., pages 50-58.

20. Ibid., pages 53-54.

21. Ibid., pages 56-57.

22. Origo, I., The Merchant of Prato. London: Penguin Books, 1986. 23. Ibid. page 69. 24. Ibid. page 287.

25. Ibid. page 164.

26. Ibid. pages 173-174.

27. Ibid. page 175.

28. Ibid. page 131.

29. Ibid. page 250.

30. Ibid. page 333.

31. Ibid. page 12.

32. Ladurie, E., Carnival in Romans. London: Penguin Books, 1981. 33. Darnton, R., The Great Cat Massacre. London: Penguin Books, 1988. 34. McNeill, W. , Plagues and Peoples. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1977. 35. Boyle, C, The Age of Calamity. Amsterdam: Time-Life Books, 1989. 36. McEvedy, C, "The Bubonic Plague". Scientific American. New York: February, 1988. 37. Ziegler, P., The Black Death. London: Penguin Books, 1982. 38. Ibid., page 41.

39. Lindberg, D.(ed.), Science in the Middle Ages. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1978. 40. Camporesi, P., Bread of Dreams. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989. 41. Ibid., page 91.

42. Ziegler, P., The Black Death, pages 15-16.

43. Barney, J., War in Medieval Society. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1974. 44. Brent, P., The Mongol Empire. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1976. 45. Fleming, F.(ed.), The Mongol Conquests. Amsterdam: Time-Life Books, 1989. 46. Warner, P., Seiges of the Middle Ages. London: G. Bell and Sons, 1968. 47. Trease, G., The Condottieri. London: Thames and Hudson, 1970. 48. Reid, W., Weapons through the Ages. London: Peerage Books, 1984. 49. Ziegler, P., The Black Death, page 17.

50. Mollat, M., The Poor in the Middle Ages. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986. 5Camporesi,1 P., Bread of Dreams. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989. 52. Ibid'. , page 152.

53. Ibid., page 153.

54 Ginzburg, C, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller. London: Penguin, 1982. 55. Camporesi, P., Bread of Dreams, page 182. 56. Ibid., page 182.

57. Ibid., page 106.

58. Ibid., page 123.

59. Mollat, M. and P. Wolff, The Popular Revolutions of the Late Middle Ages. London: Allen and Unwin, 1973. 60. Darnton, R., The Great Cat Massacre. London: Penguin Books, 1988. 61. Ladurie, E., Carnival in Romans. London: Penguin Books, 1981. 62. Darnton, R., The Great Cat Massacre, page 89.

63. Ladurie, E., Carnival in Romans, page 169.

64. Darnton, R., The Great Cat Massacre, pages 87-88.

65. Calvino, I., Italian Folktales. London: Penguin Books, 1982. 66. Graves, R., I, Claudius. London: Penguin Books, 1968.

67. Yourcenar, M., Memoirs of Hadrian. London: Penguin Books, 1986. 68. Eco, U., The Name of the Rose. London: Martin Seeker and Warburg, 1983. 138

69. Griffiths, P., Myself and Marco Polo. London: Chatto and Windus, 1989. 70. Ransmayr, C, The Last World. London: Chatto and Windus, 1990. 71. Calvino, I., Our Ancestors. London: Minerva, 1992.

72. Winterson, J., The Passion. London: Bloomsbury, 1987.

73'. Tolstoy, L., War and Peace. Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1955. 74. Marquez, G., One Hundred Years of Solitude. New York: Harper, 1970. 75. Marquez, G. , The Autumn of the Patriarch. New York: Harper, 1975. 76. Bakhtin, M., Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics. Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1973. 77, Greenblatt, S., Renaissance Self-fashioning. From More to Shakespeare. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1980. 78. Ladurie, E., Carnival in Romans, page 280.

79. Lukacs, G., The Historical Novel. London: The Merlin Press, 1962.