Authors: Lisa Hilton
My hood was lost, I was bewildered, I thought perhaps I ought to run, run as far as I could until I crossed the river, then I felt a hand on my arm and saw Cecco’s face, blood on his
forehead where a rock must have caught him.
‘Mora! Come!’
He pulled me into an alleyway, one of those Florence runnels where the sun never touches the flagstones. The air felt as cool and thick as water. We squatted, gasping, the shrieks of the crowd
seeming suddenly far away, mounting as they passed and then falling as they raced for the Signoria.
‘Cecco, what’s happening? You’re hurt!’
He pushed impatiently at his brow, where the clotting blood dulled his hair.
‘It’s nothing. We need to get home. You can come to my family’s house. We’ll be safe there.’
‘Safe from what? I don’t understand.’
‘They say that Piero went to the French king, that he offered them Pisa and the fortresses if he would leave Florence alone.’
‘So why are they so angry?’ I asked stupidly.
‘He’s not a king, Mora. He had no right. The Signoria refused to receive him. The Medici will be finished in Florence, now.’
‘But how?’ I thought of the palazzo, of its treasures, of the statues and the paintings, of the army of slaves, the coffers of gold. How could Piero be finished?
‘It doesn’t matter. Giovanni de Medici is calling himself
Il Popolano
now, they’re already tearing the palle off the walls of the houses. We have to go, Mora. Can you
run?’
‘Of course I can.’
He looked at me and grinned. ‘Of course you can. We’ll get away, Mora, you’ll see. We’ll go with Messr Piero and when he comes back to fight for Florence, I’ll be
with him. Come on.’
There was no need to run. We walked quietly out into the Via Larga, empty and littered as though a carnival train had passed. All the houses were closed-up tight. We saw no one as Cecco led me
eastwards into the heart of the ‘Golden Lion’ district. His home was on the Via delle Ruote, the Street of Wheels, near the church of Santa Caterina, a quiet area with no shops, just a
few weavers’ workshops. Several of the houses seemed fine, as though gentlemen might live there, but even though we had crossed just a few streets, it was a world away from the palazzo.
Outside one of them stood a man on a ladder, chiselling away at an engraving above the door.
‘Papa!’
The man was almost knocked down as the door opened and a woman rushed out, followed by a gaggle of little children, all crying Cecco’s name and all with his same bright red hair.
Cecco’s mother held him tightly, exclaiming her thanks over and over that her son was safe, whilst his father stood by almost shyly, smiling quietly.
I saw the raw stone above the doorplace, half of a weathered Medici ball not yet chipped away, and realised that the news of Piero’s fall had spread even to this quiet part of the city. I
curtsied politely to Signora Corsellini when she asked me to step inside, but I was terribly conscious of how his little brothers and sisters stared at me.
We entered the house. It was neat and brightly painted, though sparsely furnished like most Florentine dwellings. Cecco’s father glanced quickly down the street before carefully bolting
the door, enclosing us in a smoky atmosphere thick with the scent of bean pottage. Cecco’s mother served the soup and thick floury dumplings stuffed with
bietole
and ewes’
cheese. We gobbled them down. All the time we ate, Cecco’s mother touched her son, exclaiming over his wounded head, making up a poultice, stroking his sleeve, his cheek. She shooed the
children into an upper room and suggested courteously that I might like to rest. Obediently, I lay down on the settle that made one of the room’s few pieces of furniture, and dozed to the
sound of Cecco’s voice describing the events in the Signoria, the riot, the rumours that Piero had capitulated to the French. So peaceful was that little home, so warm and stuffily snug, that
I slept awhile, exhausted by all I had seen. When I woke, I saw a circle of eyes around me. The children were watching me, solemnly chewing at hunks of bread and lard.
‘Are you a witch?’ asked one of them excitedly.
I pretended to consider.
‘Yes,’ I answered eventually. ‘Shall I turn you into a toad?’
They screamed and ran away to hide in the corners. I grabbed a twig from the log basket and pointed it like a magician’s staff.
‘Whoosh! And you’re a pig!’
They giggled and we began a game, each of them pretending to be a different animal, me ‘magicking’ them into ever more extravagant shapes, dragons and lions and turtles. We jumped
and romped and even Cecco condescended to join us as a bear and then a rhinoceros. We played until the thickening of the shadow beyond the shutters told us that night had fallen and I helped
Signora Corsellini to wash the little ones before she took them away to bed.
‘Don’t mind their teasing, dear,’ she told me kindly. ‘We’re odd enough ourselves, goodness knows.’ Her face was as plain as a saucepan beneath her carroty
frizz, but I thought her the sweetest of women. She gave me a shift and a blanket and told me I might spend the night in their parlour. Before the family settled down for the night, everyone knelt
down and Cecco’s father said the Ave Maria, then we all prayed that God would protect the Medici.
‘Goodnight, Cecco,’ I said as he took his tallow light to follow his parents to the sleeping chamber. ‘Thank you for letting me come here.’
‘It’s not what you’re used to, is it?’ he asked shyly.
‘I think you’re lucky. And I am too, to have you as my friend.’
‘Go on with you.’ He blushed until his cheeks matched his hair. I don’t know what made me do it, but I leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the mouth.
‘What d’you do that for?’
I turned away, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. I meant nothing.’
‘No, it’s alright. See, I’ll give you one back.’ And he did, brusquely, his lips wet against my face.
So I watched the dying embers of the fire until I slept again, and thought that someone had kissed me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A
T DAWN, WE RETURNED TO THE PALAZZO. ONLY THE
scent of smoke suggested Florence was still a city of living beings, stirring
behind their barred doors, for we saw not a soul as we made our way westward towards the Via Larga. No carts were drawn up in the street, no anxious line of petitioners shuffled their feet in the
blue light of morning.
‘They’re gone, Cecco. I know it. They’re gone.’
‘Shut up! Ser Piero would never do so. As if he’d creep out of Florence like a thief!’
Yet the gates of the house swung wide and the courtyard was empty. We walked through an enchantment, a silent palace of treasures that belonged only to us. The kitchens were empty, the stoves
cold, only a few limp flour sacks cast aside on the floor to show us that the kitchen folk had made away with what they could carry. Slowly, we climbed the staircase, heavy with silence, and made
our way through the upper rooms, all vacant, shimmering in their lost loveliness.
‘They’re gone, Mora, they’re really gone.’ Cecco was bewildered, everything that made sense of his world had been taken from him.
‘We must leave too, now. There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go, please.’
‘What about Maestro Ficino. The books? He’ll need his books.’
I had forgotten my master, I had failed him again. Our footsteps sounded horribly loud as we made for the
scrittoio
, where the Maestro was desperately trying to cram a few more volumes
into a bulging sack, far too heavy for him to lift.
‘Last night,’ he panted, ‘they left last night. The best were packed, but my books, my books’ – his voice rose to a wail of grief – ‘I must save the
books!’
‘Save them?’ I asked stupidly.
Then I heard it. A great roar, swelling so that the walls of the palazzo vibrated with the rage of it, rushing on us like a storm. Ficino’s hands dashed frantically amongst the papers.
‘They’re here. Children, save yourselves, run!’ The first crash of shattered glass told me that they were inside, come to wreak their revenge on the fallen Medici tyrants as a
steady chant ‘
Liberta
!
Liberta
!’ built beneath us.
‘No!’ screamed Cecco, as he ran for the door.
I tried to stop him. I tried to pull him back. I thought we might go through the attic rooms, out onto the roof and hide until they were done. It was gold they wanted, not blood. But he was too
brave, and too loyal, and all I could do was stand petrified in the doorway and watch him as he ran for the staircase, his arms spread out before him as though he could calm them. Then I had to
look as that great crowd surged upwards, armed with a thousand greedy red mouths, yelling for Medici gold, a forest of staves closing over him, hands clawing him down, pulling at him as he
tumbled.
‘Palle!’ he yelled, ‘Palle!’, his defiance turning greed to hate.
They turned in on him, striking out with their boots, so the last thing I saw before the mob swallowed him up was the bounce of his bright hair against the marble, his blood spattering brighter
still, a second or two, on the pale stone.
I slammed the door, breathless. I could not think of what I had seen.
‘Help me,’ I spoke. Together, Maestro Ficino and I heaved the huge desk against the wall. The door was tried, rattled as we held our breaths, they passed on, baying in their
frenzy.
‘They’ll kill us, Mora,’ he whispered. ‘When they see this, they’ll kill us. Savonarola’s fanatics will have us burned.’
I cast my eyes quickly around the room, the books, the instruments, the jars of spices and ointments. He was right.
‘We could wait. Bar up the door better and just – wait.’
‘They’ll burn the palazzo unless the French king gets here to stop them.’
Above us, we heard the chanting, the smashing, as cabinets were toppled and hangings ripped from the walls. I smelled wine, they had got at the cellars.
‘Then I’ll get us out,’ I said fiercely.
His face brightened and I wondered for a moment if he expected a conjuring trick – a flaming angel from Toledo come to carry us through the window.
The window! It overlooked the street, a narrow thoroughfare running off the Via Larga. I scrambled up onto the ledge and gingerly parted the shutters. Craning precariously to the left, I could
see that the main street was packed with bodies, shoving to and fro, many of them trying to make away with bundles, others pushing forward to get at the spoils of the palazzo. But beneath us, the
street was empty. Too far to jump; we would be dashed to pieces from this height. I could not help remembering how I had stood, so bewildered, on another windowsill, with another fearsome crowd
below me. Then, sickeningly, I thought of that bright blood on the staircase just a few feet away.
There was time for this. I would live, we would live.
Desperately, I cast my eyes around the street for inspiration. There was a flurry in the stream along the Via Larga. A wagon being backed into the side street, the horses stamping and
protesting, their heads held by two women. A second wagon, then a third, squeezed cautiously into the tight space, the faded colours of their awnings almost buried in the November mist.
The
troupe
. Crazily, I thought that my old friend the wolf might even have heard me in my moment of need, might have sensed the shuddering fear in my heart with his own.
‘Annunziataaaa! Immaculataaaa!’ I bawled in a scream that tore at my throat. ‘Here, up here!’
Maestro Ficino may have thought I had taken leave of my wits, but I did not care.
The women turned about, wondering where this ungodly noise was coming from. Then one of them looked up and I pushed back my hood, leaning as far as I dared from the casement, hoping that my hair
would show in the dim light. If Annunziata was surprised to see Margherita’s dumb apprentice wailing like a banshee from the most dangerous building in Florence, she had the sense not to
hesitate. She raised her arms to me, questioning. I pointed, down, then raised two fingers. She nodded swiftly and eased her way round the head of the horse to the next wagon, beckoning. In moments
she, Immaculata and the twins had shinned up the creaking awning, their hands at their lips in a warning.
‘We will need money, Maestro. What is there of value?’ I hissed.
‘The books . . .’
‘The books are lost. Quickly. Little things. The ivory clock, the little gold sundial. Cinnamon bark, peppercorns, anything, hurry. Fill your pockets and do as I bid.’
He hopped about like a crow in his flapping robe, trying to move quietly, though the orgy of wrecking about us quenched any sound we could make.
‘Very well. Now take the stool, yes, climb up here where I am. Do as you are bid.’
His good old face was terrified yet he obeyed me awkwardly. I wriggled past him and shoved at his slippered feet to boost him onto the sill.
‘What is this? Who are these people?’
‘We will die if you do not do as they say.’
‘But they tell me to jump!’
‘Then they will catch you. Or you’ll die anyway. Go!’
‘I cannot.’
Behind me, I sensed a lull in the fury. They were calming now, questing about for what more they could despoil. They would try the door again in moments. I stood on the stool and shoved my head
through Maestro Ficino’s robe. Chellus and Gherardus were planted, legs apart, on the struts of the wagon top, the girls on their shoulders, leaning together to make a cradle of their arms. I
saw what they meant, but my master’s face above me was white with fear.
‘I cannot do it.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ll save the
Pimander
.’ Then I pushed him with all my strength.
I did not wait to see what had become of him. I dumped the books from his abandoned bag and rifled through until I found his precious translation. I wanted to take more, at least to find
something of my father’s, but one book was already heavy against my breast. In a moment I had the door open, pulled down my hood and shouted, ‘Here! In here! Sorcery! Here is the
devil’s work!’
I flew down the staircase before their feet could find me, keeping my eyes ahead, whipped out of the gates and turned right. I dived straight between the shafts of the backed-up wagon, knocking
Addio from his seat at the reins. From far above came a fluting chorus of shattering porcelain. They were in the
scrittoio
.