The Blessed (28 page)

She paused. “And who are you?”

“We, m'lady, are your new family. Your protectors and friends, here to aid you in fulfilling your call. On the morrow, you shall know all.”

 
“WHY did you not take me with you?” Vincenzo asked lowly.

“I thought it best to leave you to your rest,” Abramo said. He moved forward and paused, bending over at the waist and gasping in pain.

“M'lord, you are hurt,” Vincenzo said.

“Nay.” He held out a hand, keeping Vincenzo from taking another step. “That foul man of Daria's merely managed to inflict a wound upon me.” He patted the belt beneath his leggings and tentatively took the overcoat off. A bloodstain seeped across his thigh.

“M'lord!”

“Nay, nay, it is all right.” Abramo sighed and rinsed a cloth in a basin of water. “The Gifted have nothing to do with this. It is a gift from Cardinal Morano, a bit of corporal mortification, my means of ensnaring him.”

“We must take it off you.”

“Nay. It remains where it is. To be truthful . . . I find the pain pleasurable. It has been some time since I have felt this alive.”

Vincenzo sat down on the edge of a chair in the corner of the room. “And it is your means to garner the cardinal's good graces?”

“Yes. We have the five others. This cardinal demands the utmost in piety. I confessed to him that I have lain with many women and could not control my carnal urges.”

“And he offered the belt as absolution.”

“Indeed. In addition, a flagellant's whip. If one's mind is on the pain, if every move inflicts more, then it is rather difficult to consider being close to another.”

He turned to show him his back, crisscrossed with wounds. It reminded Vincenzo of Daria, and of Hasani, of how flayed their backs had been in the prison cells of Abramo's castle. They made Abramo's wounds appear as mere scratches, but he did not doubt his master had suffered under the whip.

“And so the cardinal will see your stripes and remain confident in your piety, regardless of what the Gifted claim.”

“Indeed. By my own stripes, I am healed.” Abramo reached for a fresh, clean jerkin and eased it over his broad shoulders. “And the good man has also agreed to find me a wife.”

“A wife?” Vincenzo asked. “You do not prefer to choose among your own faithful?”

“Nay,” Abramo said. “It will be good this way. The Church can choose my wife, the one who will carry my bloodline and be blessed. Should my new wife one day wish to join us in our ceremonies, so much the better. Yet she'll have to understand that in the dark, of the dark, I am shared by more than one woman . . . I am the lord of all.”

“Your people must have access,” Vincenzo said dryly.

“And I to them.” He pulled on his surcoat and stared into the mirror. “It is a suitable arrangement. My hope is that the good cardinal chooses one of his own kin for me. That will tie him more firmly to my side.”

Vincenzo shook his head. “You venture very close to the line, Abramo.”

Abramo smiled. “It is daring, yes. But I always flourish where I dare. Now come. You must accompany me to the cardinal's home. He will welcome you, along with me, for dinner. I shall report to him about my progress with the belt, and we will be fully prepared to meet the Gifted on the morrow . . . or when they dare to near. They are coming in waves, and we must be prepared for each one. The men and girl were not the first to arrive.”

“Who else is here?”

“Ambrogio Rossellino. He is at work in the
palais
.”

Vincenzo paused, obviously surprised.

“Our enemies are not foolish. They will use every asset they have. Hasani knew what would transpire with the old woman,” Abramo said bitterly, gruffly pulling on his gloves. “They were surely an advance party—by the look of them, they'd ridden hard all day.”

“So we can expect the priest, the de Capezzanas, and others later.”

“They will not tarry. We have seen how they favor staying together. They shall arrive this night or on the morrow at the latest.”

“And you believe we are ready?”

“Oh, yes. Here, the Gifted shall meet their end. We shall haunt their every move, make their nights a misery. Use the Church to destroy them. And if the Church fails us, we shall do it ourselves.” He whirled out of the house and strode toward the stables.

Vincenzo paused. He was too old for this. His mind, his body cried out for rest, for a place by the fire. This constant battle . . . and Abramo's most fervent desire to kill every last one of the Gifted wearied him. He did not feel sorrow or fear, but neither did he feel joy or pleasure. He felt dead. On leaden feet, he moved after his master, thinking back to the last time he had felt alive, felt pleasure. When had he last known love?

Daria, before she had seen that he was now owned by Amidei and the master. Before that, Tatiana. For a while, in Siena, when Abramo was first mentoring him, he had experienced power and pleasure like none before. But it was fleeting. Every attempt to surpass those weeks was met with defeat, frustration. His wealth, his power had certainly grown; never had his bank accounts been so fat, the business potential so grand. But every day, every hour felt like nothing more than more hours spent, acting as he was expected to act. What he had thought was to be his route toward glory, strength, failed him.

“How do you fare?” Abramo asked, staring at him in consternation. He had paused beside the stable door, watching Vincenzo move across the courtyard, lost in thought.

“I am fine, m'lord.”

Abramo clasped his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “You are in need of our ceremony. It will give you strength. We will sup from the cup and eat our fill of our devoted. Wait until you see this new cave. It is vast and magical, with golden stalactites clinging to the roof. Perfect for the mysteries of our ceremonies. It is the master's plan that we draw more than ever before . . . even now, our people speak of our secret meeting. They will come from afar. And we shall be renewed, you and I, ready for the battle at hand. Do not be troubled, brother, all will be well.”

Vincenzo forced a small smile to his face and nodded. Satisfied, Abramo turned. But all Vincenzo could concentrate on was the swirling, dark eddies of his master's cape.

CHAPTER TWENTY

AMBROGIO walked behind Cardinal Stefani, watching as his swirling crimson robe curved and flowed with each step, wondering how he might catch that on either canvas or wall. His work had new depth and vitality now, mayhap because he had experienced more of light and dark firsthand. Simone was openly admiring, seeming to hold little competition in his heart, only wanting to learn. Their days moved swiftly, and for hours at a time, Ambrogio lost himself in his work. He was thankful for the respite, for a taste of the world he had known before, a world he was glad to return to. Here he had stature, reputation, purpose. Following Daria and Piero and Gianni, he had known holy cause, but also pain and agony like he had never before suffered.

He glanced behind them, down the hall, thinking that Abramo Amidei would magically appear merely because the memory had slipped through his mind, setting his heart to pounding. But he was not in sight. In fact, Ambrogio had not seen him since that day in the Grand Tinel.

Cardinal Stefani waited at the doorway of the chapel, a question on his face as he looked back toward Ambrogio, who had slipped behind.

They had left the rest of the Grand Tinel to the work of apprentices, and checked on them daily. But their attention now turned toward one of the pope's private chapels, a lesser oratory than the Grand Chapel, but a lovely abode to be dedicated to the two Saint Johns—the north and east walls to depict Saint John the Baptist, forerunner of the Messiah; the south and west walls to depict Saint John the Evangelist, apostle and messenger to the world. He and Simone had spent all night on charcoal sketches, swirling, rough outlines of figures and placement, the beginnings of an architectural rendering to present to the cardinal, and after him, Pope Cornelius himself.

Simone's Saint John the Evangelist was fleshier, depicted like a man lauded and honored in every city he traveled through. Ambrogio's Saint John the Baptist was leaner, stronger, somewhat like Vito—a man who could survive under harsh conditions. Ambrogio wished he could bring Daria, Gianni, Father Piero, and Vito in to come and model for them when the Gifted arrived. It would gain them a sense of familiarity for the vast
palais
, a toehold before the battle was upon them.

If Cardinal Stefani approved of his direction, of course. It always came down to this—the wooing of the one in charge. Every chapel, every basilica, every noble hall he had ever painted required this step. The only difference was that Cardinal Stefani was a true patron of the arts, humble and accepting and encouraging. Never before had Ambrogio met a man such as he. It made him want to paint in these hallowed halls until the end of his days.

The cardinal allowed Ambrogio to enter and followed quickly on his heels. He was excited to see what the two artists were to present.

Three easels were set up in preparation. Simone moved to light five torches on the raw walls, illuminating every corner of the room. The sketches had been done on a series of light wood panels, canvases on which they would make their presentation. Ambrogio began first.

“Here on the easels, you can see a sampling of the pigments and dyes we have chosen for the frescoes. There will be spots of bright colors, but we are mostly seeking a harmony of colors. Since the figures will be predominantly pictured in natural settings, this will be simply accomplished.”

“Good,” the cardinal said, already moving on to the next easel.

“We plan to paint the Baptist to the north and east walls, over here,” Simone said, waving his arms up to their left, “and the Evangelist over here,” he said, moving to the right.

The cardinal bent low to look at each easel, one depicting in miniature the scenes that Ambrogio would take lead on—the Baptist, from birth to beheading—then the scenes Simone would take lead on—the Evangelist, from vocation to Jesus' recommendation of him to the Virgin.

When he straightened, they moved to replace the overview sketches with more detailed rough sketches of each panel, each scene.

“Their faces,” Cardinal Stefani said, standing back, chin in hand. “Their eyes . . . is it not a bit too . . . close? Too intimate? Should they not all be a bit more passive? As if they were above it all? I know that Pope Cornelius prefers—”

“Passive?” Ambrogio said in frustration. “How could they be passive?” He moved to the scene of the women with the babe, John. “Elizabeth had felt this child move, leap, when his cousin drew near! She is beyond her prime, and yet pregnant . . . and Mary, she had the
future of the world within her womb.
How could they be passive?”

“Ambrogio . . .” Simone said in warning.

Cardinal Stefani held up his hands. “Be at peace. I am only saying that these were people God used for a grand and glorious purpose . . . would that not set them apart?”

Ambrogio sighed. Mayhap this churchman was no different from any other. “Set apart? You mean when Salome asked for the Baptist's head? Or when the executioners sliced it from his neck, presented it on a plate?” Cardinal Stefani blanched, but Ambrogio continued on. “Do you believe that those people, Cardinal, were set apart? Nay, they were foul, common, sinful.
Us
. We need to show them as such.”

He riffled through the drawings and brought up the picture of Jesus upon the cross, the two Marys at his feet, John to his left. He stared at it for a long moment, as if he were being transported through time and place to stand with them. It grieved him, every time, to paint scenes of his Lord's death. He turned to show the cardinal, holding it in front of his chest. “My lord Cardinal, surely we cannot do one more depiction of this darkest of days, without feeling what these people must have felt. Trust me, please. Trust us. If we can show emotion, show the passion for a portion of what it truly was, it will move all who enter.”

Cardinal Stefani stared hard at him for a moment, angered by his insolence but softening in the face of his obvious devotion. He bit his lower lip and then dropped his hand from his chin, turning to go. He paused at the doorway. “I shall bring the Holy Father by on the morrow after breaking our fast. You shall present your ideas to him. But Simone must do it. He is aware of how we must speak in the Holy Father's presence. You,” he said, pointing a finger of warning at Ambrogio, “must remain silent. Agreed?”

Simone was nodding. Ambrogio hesitated a moment and then gave his assent.

“One more thing. Who is your model for the executioner?”

Ambrogio turned in confusion to the panel on the floor, to a knight who was striking the old man's neck with a massive sword. There was no detail, but it was undeniable who he had been thinking of when he sketched it. Thankfully the cardinal had not noticed the others. “Oh, no one in particular, my lord Cardinal,” he said smoothly. “Why? Does he appear familiar?”

“Indeed,” said the man, lowering his brow in consternation, unable to place him. “Well, no matter. See you on the morrow. Good work, gentlemen.”

He disappeared into the dark hallway, and Simone came close to clap Ambrogio on the back. “I think we convinced him. It will go a long way in convincing the pope.” His eyes slid to the executioner's panel. “Who is your model? Come. You can tell me.”

Ambrogio smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You will see his face clearly when the fresco dries.”

Simone shook his head. “Now, Brogi, if you get us in trouble—”