The Orphan of Florence

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  She nodded, lips pressed unhappily but sympathetically together. “Can I talk to you in private for a moment?”

  Reluctantly, I stepped outside and waited as she followed and shut the door on Tommaso and the perplexed baby Ginevra.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said. “You seem all right, but there’s a lot you’re hiding from me.”

  “Everything’s okay,” I countered. “I just … I need for you to do me a favor. I want you to go ahead and get that house, and clear out of this room. Offer your landlord a tip to serve as your escort and help you negotiate. Or tell him he can keep the rest of the rent I already paid him. But don’t stay here anymore.” I was thinking of how Ser Abramo had made me swear on the lives on my friends. I was thinking about what might happen to those friends if my performance went badly the following day.

  She shrugged. “You saw all the new things I bought. We’re comfortable enough. And we’re eating well.”

  “You’re not really safe here.”

  She shrugged. “I admit, living next to a tavern isn’t the best situation, but nothing has happened so far—”

  “Cecilia,” I said emphatically. “You and Tommaso. You’re not safe. I want you to move right away. Today. Or at least by tomorrow morning. You don’t have to move everything, but I just don’t want you staying here for the next few days.”

  She fell silent and lowered her pale chin to study me carefully. For a long moment she didn’t speak.

  “Giuli, what sort of business have you gotten yourself into?” she finally asked. “If Tommaso and I are in danger, what does that say about you?”

  I glanced down at the tips of my well-polished boots and tried to think of a reassuring answer.

  “Listen,” Cecilia said urgently. “We’ll buy a house. Somewhere where your so-called employer can’t find you. I can’t let you risk your life getting involved in God knows what sort of illegal business—”

  “It’s not illegal,” I said without thinking. “Not … civilly, anyway.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s bad. We don’t ever want to lose you, Giuli. Stay with us. Let’s go back inside.” She caught hold of my wrist.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  The hardness in my tone made her turn back around and stare at me in silence, waiting.

  “I’m his apprentice, Celia. He’s teaching me everything. I’ll be rich. And so will you, and Tommaso, don’t you see? It’s worth a little risk. What’s the point of going on living this way?”

  “At least we’ll be living.”

  I took a deep breath. “I swore not to betray him. On my life. On yours.”

  Her eyes were already large and round; they got even larger and rounder. “So you’re involved with a murderer, then. An assassin. Giuli, is he training you to kill people?”

  “It’s worse than that,” I said. “He’s a magician.”

  I meant it as a sort of joke, but Cecilia didn’t take it that way. She took a step back and touched the little cross at her bosom.

  “Witchcraft?” she whispered.

  “Hebrew magic,” I said. “God and archangels. It can’t be bad if there are angels, Cecilia. But it’s secret. You can’t tell anyone. You can’t ever tell Tommaso.”

  She was no less aghast. “You lied,” she said, her voice still low. “You said it wasn’t illegal.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Well, it’s against canon law. Heresy. The Church punishes that sort of thing.”

  I shrugged. “The Church is in Rome. This is Florence. Besides, the Church only has jurisdiction over Christians.”

  “So now I have to worry about your immortal soul as well as your life?”

  On the other side of the closed door, baby Ginevra let go a gusty wail. Cecilia instinctively put a hand on the leather door pull.

  “Cecilia,” I said, stopping her in midstep.

  “If you knew the man I worked for, you’d know he’s as good a person as anyone,” I said as earnestly as I knew how, even though I still wasn’t completely sure of it. “Better than most, I think. This job, it’s a gift.” My tone grew businesslike. “I’m going to leave now. Go and find somewhere else to stay for a few days. I just have to prove myself to him, that’s all, and I’ll be back.”

  I turned to leave. Behind me, Cecilia said, her tone conciliatory, “I’ll pray for you to be safe.”

  God doesn’t hear you, I wanted to retort. And if He does hear you, He doesn’t care.

  Instead, I left without looking back.

  * * *

  As I went down into the shop, I worked hard to erase all emotion from my face. Ser Abramo was standing in front of the large, lovely blue and yellow vase putting a gold coin into the open palm of the beaming potter’s wife. She slipped it into her apron and listened, nodding and rapt, to his instructions for delivery, to the house of one Giovanni de’ Benci in the wealthy banking district. She appeared not to see me at all, but instead focused entirely on Ser Abramo as, fawning and excessively grateful, she took his arm and helped him out the door. I followed closely, trying to make it look like sheer coincidence that I happened to be going out the door at the same time.

  The encounter with Tommaso had left an ache at the back of my throat, just behind the roof of my mouth, as if a string were attached there and someone was pulling hard in an effort to bring tears to my eyes. I cursed myself for such silly weakness and shook off the reaction. But I couldn’t quite shake off the unbearable sense of anxiety as I slipped my unsteady hand into my pocket.

  “Do you have it?” Ser Abramo asked beside me.

  I nodded and reached into my cloak pocket to pull out the talisman, but he immediately laid a restraining hand on my forearm.

  I glanced up, surprised. His expression was cold and utterly unreadable.

  “Not here,” he said flatly. “Not in public.”

  “But my friend,” I protested. “He’s crying. Can’t you look at it now so I can give it back to him?”

  He wouldn’t look at me. “Keep it in your pocket and don’t speak another word. Come.”

  He leaned heavily upon his cane and I took his elbow like the dutiful grandson I was not. Without a further word, we walked the length of the city and crossed the crowded bridge into the Oltrarno, me carrying the burden of Tommaso and my unknown heritage all the way.

  Nine

  During the long walk home, Ser Abramo’s hardened stare remained steadfastly fixed on the road ahead; not once did he glance at me. The afternoon sun illuminated his craggy profile, showing every line etched by age; the dark intensity in his exposed eye unnerved me. The presence of the talisman had changed him into someone I didn’t recognize.

  When we finally arrived back at the Magician’s lair and entered the dark room outside the kitchen, I pulled the talisman from my pocket and hung my cloak up.

  The minute I turned toward him and opened my palm, he snatched the talisman and closed his fist over it without a glance. Still in his cloak, he unlocked the door and strode into the kitchen, his expression remaining that of a grim stranger—one who could see anything but me.

  I followed and bent down to greet Leo properly with a pat, but Ser Abramo hurried past us, through the kitchen and the sitting room with such long strides and speed that I couldn’t keep up. Leo and I made it into the storage room just as the wooden hatch to the cellar closed over him with a thump.

  I ran to the hatch despite the sound of wood sliding against wood beneath it. Tugging on the big leather strap did no good.

  He had locked me out.

  * * *

  For an hour, perhaps more, Leo and I sat beside the hatch, my arm flung over the mastiff’s broad back as we waited for Ser Abramo to emerge. He would appear soon, I told myself, and apologize for his coldness. He would explain the powers of the talisman, why it had been made, and—most importantly—who had asked for it to be made. It had been eighteen years, but he was the Magician; he surely could remember everything. A name, that’s all I wanted. The name of a f
ather. A mother.

  But he never came out that long afternoon.

  And that was when I began to worry: Was the talisman all they had ever wanted from me? Was there some significance to it that went beyond me and my true identity, one so important that everything, including the lessons with Niccolo and my apprenticeship to Ser Abramo had all been part of an elaborate charade?

  * * *

  Staring at the hatch, I finally realized that sitting only encouraged my imagination to move toward the sad and fearful. The path to sanity was to busy myself. I checked the kitchen to make sure the bag of fresh pig’s blood was kept cool in a bucket of cold water and then went up to the weapons room to practice my role in the next morning’s drama. I drew my dagger a hundred times, counting each the better to distract myself. A hundred times, I did the fatal dance Niccolo and I had practiced; a hundred times, I feigned the look of horror as an imaginary blade pierced my heart and, a hundred times, fell down with the abandon of the dead.

  Fell down wondering whether Niccolo’s blade might not stop at the pig’s bladder, now that I’d been relieved of the talisman.

  Which was why I practiced a different dance a hundred times: My left hand gripping the imaginary wrist of Niccolo’s dagger-wielding arm, my left leg moving blink-swift behind his right, forcing that knee to bend and him to fall before his blade had the chance to break my grip and kill me. If he meant harm, I’d use his own trick against him and wouldn’t blanch at drawing blood once he was down.

  Well, not much.

  I worked until the sun began to set. Sweating, I kept my baldric on and switched my dulled dagger for a keen new blade. I went downstairs hoping that Ser Abramo would be waiting for me with a happy tale to tell.

  But the lamps were unlit, and the sitting room and kitchen were empty, as was his bedchamber. Disheartened, I went back downstairs and tried the cellar hatch again; it was still bolted fast.

  I stirred the fire in the sitting room and lit a lamp in the kitchen, where I pulled off the leg of a roast capon on the spit and ladled a bowl of pasta with broth from the cauldron. I poured a generous cup from the wine carafe left on the table. I ate solely for strength, but food tasted unappealing and drink bitter. With the lamp in my hand and Leo in tow, I went to the storage room and gave the cellar hatch one last try, to no use.

  There was nothing more to do but go ahead with the rehearsed plan in the morning and try to protect myself as best I could, whoever the enemy. I shut my bedchamber door and set my baldric and dagger on the table next to the bed, less than an arm’s reach away.

  I told myself, as my head found the pillow, that Ser Abramo would be downstairs when I woke the next morning and everything would be all right.

  Everything all right. Remember to repeat this a hundred times, I told myself, until you believe it.

  Everything all right, I said silently. One.

  Everything all right. Two.

  And then I remembered nothing.

  * * *

  At some point I fell into a nightmare of being drowned or smothered or both; my arms thrashed as I fought a hulking giant to free my face, to get air.

  I opened my eyes just as the tip of Leo’s wet tongue found the inside of my nostril. I groaned in disgust and moved to wipe my nose, but my arm felt heavy, the effort great. I let it drop and shut my eyes, wanting only to sink back into the bliss of sleep.

  But his kisses were insistent, like that of a mother cat cleaning its newborn kitten; drool dribbled down my nose and made me cough until I reluctantly sat up. The fire in the hearth had died to glowing cinders, but even in the gloom, Leo’s massive bulk was unmistakable.

  “Okay, dog,” I murmured. “Enough.” I sat up languidly against the pillows and drew the back of my forearm across my dripping face. Immediately, my arm dropped and my eyes closed of their own accord. I could easily have fallen asleep again right there until Leo whined.

  It was an unhappy sound full of urgency. That whine brought me to my senses, enough to realize that I had been dosed with the poppy, that Ser Abramo must have emerged from the cellar with news, and—most fog-dispersing of all—that this was the morning that I was to meet Niccolo for our scripted duel at the instant of daybreak.

  “Do you need to go outside, boy? Are you hungry?” I mumbled. It wasn’t like his owner to neglect the dog’s needs, but Leo responded to neither suggestion. “Where’s your master? Where’s Abramo?”

  At the last question, the mastiff jumped off the bed and sat, expectant.

  I reached for the baldric and dagger I’d left on the night table. Gone.

  Gone, and my chamber door wide open. At that instant, I remembered, as if in a dream, hearing the muted bells of the cathedral Santo Spirito in the Oltrarno greet matins, the first hour of the morning. Dawn would have been ninety minutes away then. Had I overslept?

  I scrambled gracelessly out of bed. While Leo panted and paced anxiously, I pulled on my undershirt and leggings as fast as my wooziness allowed and opened the shutters.

  Outside, it was still black, but despite the poppy-induced lethargy, my body knew dawn wasn’t that far away.

  I called for Ser Abramo. At the name, Leo let go another whine filled with such pathos that I half ran, half stumbled to the Magician’s bedchamber, convinced something horrible had befallen him.

  The bed curtains were parted, the bed itself empty and undisturbed. Leo at my side, I staggered full tilt up to the third floor, to the weapons room, thinking to arm myself again in case the Magician was in danger. And even if I’d read Leo falsely and Ser Abramo was fine, I still intended to show up for my pretend duel with Niccolo, just in case it really was the patriotic thing to do for Florence.

  I yanked on the door to the weapons room and swore when it failed to yield. It was bolted. I pressed my ear to the door and heard nothing but silence.

  I ran down to the storage room to find the wooden hatch to the dungeon unbolted at last. I lifted it and shouted for Abramo, but there was no reply, only blackness. I hurried to the sitting room, where the hearth was freshly lit, and then into the kitchen, where a simmering kettle of stew hung from a hook above the fire.

  A piece of thrice-folded paper sat on the long table across from the cupboard—the note I was to hand to Niccolo before our mock battle began. On top of it lay my old silver talisman, strung on a new leather thong.

  I slipped the talisman over my neck and picked up the note. Niccolo had told me there was no point in reading it—that it would make no sense to me—but to my surprise, my name was written on the outside in bold handsome script. I unfolded it and read.

  Dearest Giuliana,

  I apologize for yesterday’s aloofness and for seasoning your supper with a bit of the poppy. I had good reason for both, and much I need to tell you when I return.

  I forbid you to rendezvous with Niccolo this morning. Remain here for your own safety. Keep Leo by your side; he can protect you far better than any blade. Let no one enter the house—except Niccolo, and then only if you are certain he is alone.

  There is food enough for you and the dog, and you have your studies to entertain you.

  If I do not return by midday, find the key to the lockbox I showed you. You will find further instructions there. Know this: Death can never separate us. I am with you always.

  Be well.

  With sincere affection,

  Abramo

  A horrible feeling settled over me heavily, relentlessly. Somehow, everything good that had happened to me had just gone horribly wrong.

  Don’t panic, I told myself: Ser Abramo had simply gone to tell Niccolo that our little drama had to be postponed until a substitute could be found. Perhaps, after I had gone to bed and Ser Abramo had finally emerged from the cellar realizing that he couldn’t trust a mere girl to pull off the performance with Niccolo, he had left the estate and gone to search the streets in the wee hours to find a substitute to play my part.

  An expendable urchin like me, one bright enough that he could learn a
ll the fighting moves in one night. One that they could trust, one that trusted them enough, one that was thoroughly loyal to Florence and the Medici.

  Right. I was good at lying to myself, but that was one I couldn’t swallow. It had taken weeks to ascertain my loyalty and train me; someone fresh off the streets wouldn’t do. They needed someone with basic swordsmanship skills who could work with Niccolo, someone Niccolo and Abramo and Lorenzo could trust completely.

  There was only one other person who filled those requirements.

  On impulse, I moved to the part of the kitchen farthest from the hearth, where the day before Niccolo had left a bladder full of fresh pig’s blood in a metal bucket filled with freezing cold water from the Arno. I was to set the bladder on top of my padded vest under my tunic that morning.

  I stared down into the bucket, empty now save for murky river water, and recalled Niccolo’s words to Abramo.

  Watch your heart, old man.

  It was too good to be true, of course, that Ser Abramo really cared about me.

  My clever boy.

  Cared enough to protect me from risk, from danger. Cared enough to hide my weapons and the pig’s blood from me, to make it impossible for me to play my perilous role.

  Leo sat down and stared intently at the door leading out to the dark cloakroom.

  I followed his gaze and stood thinking, the note in my hand.

  Watch your heart.

  Leo looked up at me, gave a low, throaty whine, and looked back at the door.

  I drew a deep breath and set the note down. It seemed impossible. How could someone care enough to place himself in the danger meant for me?

  Who was Ser Abramo to me, and who was I to him, that he would do such a thing?

  It was too good to be true, and too awful, and I couldn’t let it happen.

  Because I didn’t want to give up a life of luxury, I tried to convince myself. Because the last thing I needed was the Medici family angry with me.

  Another lie that was hard to swallow. The simple truth was that Ser Abramo had done a spell to bring me to him. Someone, finally, had wanted me, cared about me, and I could let no harm come to him.