Secrets of the Tower

by Debbie Rix

  ‘So we have no idea?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Oh, we have ideas…’ he said, ‘many people believe it to have been a sculptor at that time… Bonanno Pisano. But in my view that is mistaken. He was an excellent artist, but no architect. No…’

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Sam.

  ‘The Hunchback,’ said Moretti, smiling.

  ‘The Hunchback; yes, I’ve read about him. His real name was William of Innsbruck, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. The story goes that this hunchback built the tower out of alignment in retaliation for his own terrible predicament. Madness of course; it’s quite impossible that it was him. Then there is Gerardo… he was a builder… a master mason. A talented man, but in my opinion not talented enough to have created this extraordinary building. He worked on it though… that we do know.’

  ‘And Deotisalvi?’

  ‘Yes indeed... the great Deotisalvi. He is the man. The building has the same delicate touch as he used on the Baptistery. He was the only one with the skills for the job at that time.’

  ‘But he didn’t sign it…’

  ‘No, that he did not.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘That, my dear, is a mystery… impossible to solve.’

  ‘So you don’t know it was him,’ said Sam, ‘you are just making an educated guess.’

  The Professor turned to look carefully at the young woman.

  ‘I am… and it’s a good educated guess.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I just want to understand. There is another name associated with the Tower, but I can’t seem to find out anything much about her. The lady named Berta; can you tell me anything about her?’

  ‘Ah… the widow.’ The Professor smiled. ‘Now she too is a mystery.’

  ‘Why, who is she?’

  ‘Well, the woman who left the money to build the Tower of course…’

  ‘I know… but why did she do that?’

  ‘Here… I have something that might interest you.’

  He handed Sam a piece of paper.

  ‘I can’t read it… It’s in Latin.’ She looked helplessly at Dario.

  ‘It’s her last will and testament,’ declared Moretti dramatically, ‘I have an Italian translation somewhere.’ He rummaged around on his vast desk, moving books to one side, until he finally retrieved an old photocopy. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He handed it to Dario to translate.

  ‘In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, Eternal God,’ read Dario, ‘in the year from his birth 1172, 9th January. I am Berta, heiress of Calvo and daughter of Bernardo. I give and dispose of my assets in the following manner. I declare that the Uguccio family owes me fourteen and a half pounds and no more, and from this sum I donate sixty soldi for the stonework of the Santa Maria bell tower.’

  ‘The Leaning Tower,’ interrupted Moretti.

  Dario continued: ‘I leave this matter in the hands of Lord Archbishop Villani and Lords Guido and Benetto and Magister Marignani. I have requested Signor Ugoni, the notary of his Lordship Emperor Frederico, to draw up my will, which is hereby signed at the North gate of Pisa, near the house of the Santa Maria site where the said Berta lives. Signed by the hand of the said Berta who asked for this document to be prepared. Witnessed by the Signori Ugo Belacto, Guido Sardi, Phillippo Corso, and Gerardo, Magister of the Santa Maria site.’

  Dario and Sam looked at each other.

  ‘So, heiress of Calvo… what does that mean? Was she his ward?’

  ‘No, no they were married,’ the Professor said casually.

  ‘Professor, I’ve found an image of Calvo – this man mentioned in the will – with a woman. Could it be Berta, his wife? The image is in Dario’s father’s bookshop… Signor Visalberghi’s.

  The Professor shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, but I’d be happy to look at it for you.’

  ‘But don’t you think that’s extraordinary? That she left this money? Might she have been more significant than just the donor of the money?’

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘She was just a woman. She was a widow… she left the money. That’s it.’

  ‘But without it, the Tower would not have been built.’

  ‘Hmm yes, that may be true. But she was just a woman, just a widow.’

  ‘But why did she do it?’ persisted Sam.

  ‘An act of piety?’ said the Professor, peering at Sam over his spectacles.

  ‘But what about the people who witnessed her will – they sound very important… the notary of the Emporer… who was it?’

  ‘Frederico,’ said the Professor airily, sitting once again at his desk and beginning to write in one of his notebooks.

  ‘She was obviously important… to know such important people…?’ Sam persisted.

  Dario nodded at Sam. ‘I think it might be time for us to leave,’ he said, gesturing towards the Professor who appeared utterly engrossed in a manuscript on his desk.

  They rose in unison, and as Dario gathered up their notebooks and papers, Sam walked across to the Professor at his desk.

  ‘Professor, I am so grateful to you for your time. Might I call on you again?’

  He nodded benignly, without looking up, murmuring, ‘Si, si…’

  ‘I am very keen to understand more about this lady… Berta. I feel that she must be more important than you suggest.’

  Dario hesitated before translating her words, but did so nevertheless.

  Moretti, looked hard at Sam, peering at her over his glasses. ‘You must understand, young lady… this woman was of no importance. None at all. You must look to Deotisalvi for the answer to your mystery.’

  And with that he turned once more to his desk and began to write, waving his visitors away with an absent-minded hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  September 1171

  Aurelia awoke very early the day after Lorenzo’s funeral. The body had been taken for a burial service to the Duomo. Although not yet completed, the great cathedral was nevertheless open for business. Lorenzo had been a generous donor to the church over the years, bringing back spectacular ancient monuments from his trips abroad, which had been used to decorate both the interior and exterior. Only that year, he had provided a large donation earmarked for the creation of a pair of magnificent doors celebrating the life of San Ranieri, the recently sanctified patron saint of Pisa who had died in 1160. It was intended that the celebrated architect and sculptor Bonanno Pisano would design the doors – but that was only made possible because of Lorenzo’s bequest. As such, he was afforded the honour of a burial service in the Cathedral, and the Archbishop himself presided over the funeral. The great and the good of Pisa turned out for the event, which, as was the custom, was more of a celebration than a wake. Berta, magnificent in a scarlet silk gown, attended the coffin, walking through the streets of Pisa on its final journey to the Duomo, accompanied by musicians and her entire household. After the service, the body was laid to rest in a magnificent sarcophagus in the graveyard next to the cathedral. The business of the burial complete, Berta returned to the palazzo with one or two close friends, but retired to bed early, claiming a headache.

  Violetta, who had stayed on at in the palazzo in order to provide both emotional and medicinal comfort to Berta, slept deeply on one side of Aurelia’s narrow bed. Early the next morning, the girl rose silently, sliding out past her mother so as not to disturb her. She heard the bells of the nearby church of San Paolo toll for the morning Angelus, hoping they would not wake the household. Pulling on her dress as quietly as possible, she slipped out of the room, checking that Berta was not already awake. Her mother had provided a tisane for the headache and to help her sleep; judging by her gentle snoring, it appeared to have done its work.

  She ran down the central staircase and unlocked the front door, praying with each turn of the key that she would not wake one of the servants. She set off at high speed – not running, but at a brisk walk.

  When she arrived at Gerardo’s house, she hung back,
filled with remorse at her recklessness. With her heart racing, her stomach lurching with nausea, she paced up and down in the little lane opposite his house, checking the door every few moments and debating whether she should leave and go back to the palazzo. Within minutes, the old wooden door opened, and Gerardo, accompanied by his grandfather, came out. The two chatted companionably, and headed towards the Piazza.

  Aurelia felt a surge of relief that she had found him, followed by the now familiar feelings of anger and despair. Unable to confront Gerardo in front of the older man, she resolved to follow them. From time to time she had to duck into a doorway when one or other stopped for some reason – to tie the leather bindings on their shoes, or to speak to a friend in the road. Once they arrived at the Piazza, the two separated. She watched the young man hug his grandfather, and for a moment, her anger and jealousy melted, as she saw the intense affection he had for the old man. As soon as Gerardo was on his own, she quickened her pace. Following hard on his heels, just as he arrived at the Baptistery, she tapped him on his shoulder.

  He swung round and broke into a broad smile when he saw her.

  ‘Little flower… how wonderful to see you,’ and he leant down and kissed her on her cheek.

  She pulled away from him, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not your little flower; I know that’s just a lie… she is.’ She spat the words out and turned to walk away from him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, grabbing her by the arm and turning her to face him.

  ‘You know what I mean… I saw you with her… near the church… the night Lorenzo died. I saw what you did. I hate you, Gerardo, do you understand, I hate you. And I hate her too.’

  With tears running down her face, she wrenched her arm away from his grasp and began to run across the Piazza.

  Gerardo’s workmates called to him: ‘Gerardo, the capo wants us.’

  But Gerardo ignored them, rushing across the Piazza after Aurelia, and caught up with her in a lane that ran south to the river.

  ‘Aurelia, please you must listen to me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to listen to. You love her and not me, that’s clear. You were just playing with me. Because I am young and I am her maid… you think I am stupid. But I’m not. You can’t treat me like that, Gerardo. I loved you, but now I hate you; you disgust me.’

  Gerardo hung his head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hate seeing you so upset, Aurelia. I… maybe it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore. It’s hard to explain. I can’t expect you to understand. I’m sorry.’

  He turned and walked slowly back towards the Piazza.

  Aurelia, who had gone to the Piazza filled with anger, found herself bereft at his answer. She had expected an argument. Or an explanation. At best, she had hoped for a declaration of love. At worst, that he felt nothing for her. But she had received neither. He had simply walked away, provoked, she now saw, by her own impetuous anger. Deflated and sad, she walked slowly back to the palazzo.

  Berta was awake when she returned.

  ‘Aurelia, where have you been… I have been in need of you.’ Her tone was sharp. But she looked tired, exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I woke early and you were not here. There is so much to do, Aurelia. I am meeting with Massoud this morning. Lay out my clothes. Bring some hot water from the kitchen; I must bathe. Be quick, girl.’

  Within an hour, Berta, suitably dressed in dark blue brocade, her hair covered with a simple linen cap, was seated with Massoud at the big table downstairs, studying the protocolli, the books recording all the transactions that had taken place in the business over the last twenty years. Every item that had been transported, purchased or sold, was detailed in these hefty tomes, and Berta was determined to understand what had gone on in her husband’s business.

  ‘Signor Goro Dati, the silk merchant… he is threatening an action against us for non-payment. You must show me, Massoud… where are the relevant entries? Where are his goods? Why has he not been paid? I need to see an inventory for the warehouse. Did Lorenzo have other places he kept goods? Presumably much of what he transported was bartered or sold abroad. It is a huge task, Massoud, but if we are to save the business and Lorenzo’s reputation I must master it.’

  The notary brought out the records and talked Berta through all the figures. Her education stood her in good stead. She understood the Arabic numbering that he used, and proved a more able student than her husband had ever been. But there were times during the day when she felt close to tears: tears of grief for her lost husband, mixed with a kind of rage that he could have left her with such terrible financial problems.

  As the sun sank over the Arno that evening, she closed one of the vast books and sat gazing out at the ships that sailed up and down the river.

  ‘Massoud, it seems that Lorenzo has been a little reckless over the years. We will continue with our work tomorrow, but I have seen enough to realise that, while not a dishonest man, he has tried to make his investments go too far. There are debts and they must be paid. I need to know how much our goods are worth. I would like you to work out the value of what we have, what we are owed, and what we owe to others. Once we understand the full extent of the problem, we can make a decision about what we do next.’

  Massoud bowed and left, taking the vast leather books with him.

  Berta called to the kitchen for some supper. Once she had eaten, she sent for her maid.

  ‘Aurelia, I need you to do something for me. Please go to Gerardo, I need to see him… to discuss a project,’ she added after a moment.

  The girl, horrified at the thought of seeing Gerardo again, begged leave of her mistress. ‘Signora, I am not well. Please do not ask me to go. I have a fever, a sickness, please, signora.’

  Irritated, Berta acquiesced. ‘Very well. I will send Giuseppe. Thank goodness your mother has not yet left us. Ask her to give you something. Oh, and Aurelia, you had better go to bed. You look exhausted.’

  An hour later, the driver returned. Gerardo was not with him.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked impatiently.

  ‘He was unable to come, he said he was ill.’

  Aurelia, who had been listening at the top of the stairs, felt only a surge of relief and retreated silently to her bed.

  Berta, forced to spend the evening alone, sent for a jug of wine. As it began to numb her anger and loneliness, she called for vellum, quill and ink.

  Berta went to the large oak casket in the hall and brought out the roll of drawings she had borrowed from Deotisalvi some days before. She had not had a chance to show them to Lorenzo before he died, and after her day of reckoning with Massoud, she wondered if she would ever be able to fulfill the promise she had made the capo magister to fund the building of the new tower. She laid the plans out on the large oak table, holding down the corners with the majolica dishes that decorated the long dresser running the length of the room.

  His tower was elegant, it was true. The ground floor in particular was very pretty, consisting of sixty graceful arches, decorated with columns. But there was little of interest until the top storeys, where Deotisalvi had repeated a feature of the Baptistery by placing a concentric ring of blind arches, topped off by a bell chamber. The building was graceful, charming even. But there was nothing extraordinary about it.

  Berta took a fresh sheet of vellum and began to draw the bottom storey. Her draughtsmanship was good. She sat for some minutes, maybe as much as an hour, quietly sipping wine, considering the building. Her mind wandered to Gerardo. She yearned to see him, and yet she knew she must be careful. It was probably better he had not come that evening. He might even be trying to protect her reputation. She smiled as she thought of his hands travelling up her white thighs, touching the stockings, her soft flesh. She remembered his fingers pulling on the lacing at the back of her gown.

  She looked again at the original plan. It was not right. It was too plain, too austere, too masculine. She began
to draw another layer of arches above the first. She took great care to ensure each column was expertly drawn. They were smaller than the ground floor but, as she worked out the relative heights, tall enough for a man or woman to stand and look out over the city and its spectacular Piazza. Each column measured ten Roman feet. This tower, were it ever to be built, needed to be novel, different, to properly reflect the power of the city of Pisa. On top of the second storey, she drew another layer of arches, then another, in fact five more layers of arches were added before she judged it had the right proportions. With the bell chamber, she calculated that the tower would measure 100 braccie.

  The candles sputtered their last, and the sky glowed violet through to pink as the sun began its journey across the sky. A cart rumbled noisily past, its wheels clattering, crashing into the quiet of the early dawn, drowning out the birds as they began their early morning ritual. She had worked at the table all night, and was looking at a revolutionary vision of a tower which soared out of the ground like a delicate woven column.

  ‘Like a piece of Venetian lace,’ she murmured as she rolled the vellum and placed it carefully in the big oak chest.

  And blowing out the candles, she took herself, finally, to bed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  June 1999

  Pisa was approaching midsummer. It was June 15th and the weather was hot. Even in the early hours of the morning, Sam’s cramped pensione bedroom was stifling. She lay on top of the bed, her sheet thrown off some hours before, a faint layer of perspiration on her forehead. The phone rang – an insistent noise that woke her from a dreamless sleep. She fumbled with the receiver.

  ‘Good morning, darling… and how are you today?’ Her mother’s chirpy voice bounced loudly from the earpiece.