by Edale Lane
Her black silhouette faded into shadows as Florentina made her way stealthily toward the Viscardi warehouses. She ventured that he would not expect another strike so soon. She hadn’t planned a large heist for this evening, merely a mayhem mission to destroy his books and records. But as she slinked through the back alleys of Milan, she observed misery and want that in her world of academia and middle-class comfort were only ghosts of the past. She stepped over a man lying drunk in the street, the odor of alcohol so strong as to almost topple her over with him. She saw a young woman in a ragged dress, barely out of puberty, beckon to her, then an older woman with stringy hair and sores around her lips push in front of her and smile invitingly revealing a missing tooth. “Looking for a good time?” she called.
Florentina swallowed the revulsion that rose from her gut and kept moving. These poor people! she thought even as feelings of sympathy swirled in her heart. But it is their own fault they live like this, isn’t it? They could do better if they applied themselves, couldn’t they? She lowered her head and jogged on.
The next block was no better. An old woman coughing from consumption wrapped in a blanket rocked herself as she sat on a rickety barrel in the alleyway. She held a rag to her mouth as another series of coughs seized her. Florentina’s feet slowed without her even thinking about it. “You shouldn’t be out in the damp night air,” she said to the hunched figure. She hadn’t thought about how the Night Flyer should sound, as she had never intended him to speak, but she was inspired to form a deep voice, ambiguous to gender, and flavored it with a Venetian accent.
Sunken eyes stared up at her masked face. “I haven’t anything for you to steal,” came the scratchy, dry voice.
“I’m not going to rob you,” she insisted. “I am concerned for your welfare.”
“Got no home,” she wheezed. “Couldn’t pay the rent.”
Another cough sounded farther down the narrow passage followed by the sound of people stirring. There were more of them! Why had she never known there was this refuse of humanity that the city ignored? “Why don’t you go to an alms house?” she asked. “Why isn’t the Church looking out for you all?”
A few snickers and assorted sneers of disgust arose. The grizzled voice from a sliver of a man replied, “Not enough room at the alms house, and they have rules there. Can’t bring your wine, can’t bring your dog.”
“I’m too ill,” the tubercular woman added sullenly. “They say I’ll infect everyone else.” This is where Viscardi’s money is needed, Florentina thought as she felt her heart soften even more. This is where my money is needed.
“Something should be done to help you all,” declared the Night Flyer.
That brought even more laughs. “A masked criminal who stalks the night wishes to help us?” she heard one incredulous voice declare.
“Yes,” she replied resolutely, but with no clear notion of how. “I’ll be back another time,” she said and trotted on to the sound of laughter, coughing, and one disbelieving, “sure you will.”
Several blocks later she encountered a robbery taking place. The thug pointed a short sword at a well-dressed man as he thrust out his other hand. “Hand it over or I’ll cut you,” he demanded in a menacing tone.
Neither of them had seen Florentina and she flattened herself against the side of a building as she continued to creep nearer.
“I need this money for medicine for my sick child,” the man pleaded. “I’m on my way to wake the apothecary and beseech him to rise from his bed and help me.”
“You’re lyin’, and I don’t care about your ailin’ kid no how,” he answered poking the man’s coat with the tip of his sword.
Before either man was aware what was happening, the Night Flyer burst out of the shadows with a length of rope in her hands that she looped around the thief and pulled tight. His sword clamored to the cobblestones as the unwitting bandit cried out in surprise. “Hey, what’s this? Who are you?”
Florentina yanked him back, his arms pinned at his sides, and pressed the tip of her own dagger to this throat. The would-be victim’s eyes widened, and he took a step away. “You’re that arch criminal, the Night Flyer!” Fear drained all the blood from his face that turned as pale as death. “Don’t kill me! I’ll give you the money.”
“No,” she said in a firm low tone. “But tell me the truth, for I will know if you do not; is your child ill and in need of medicine?”
“Yes, yes!” he cried, as he leaned against the wall for support.
“And you,” she said shifting the dagger along the thief’s neck, “were going to take his coins and leave his child to die.”
She sensed him quivering in her arms and knew when the strength in his legs began to fail. “I, I have a child too!” she felt his terrified tears fall on her hands as she had not yet donned her gloves. Why is everything so complicated? She wondered. I used to believe there was right and there was wrong, but since I started this vendetta, I see the world with different eyes. They are so afraid of me! She marveled at the thought.
“You,” she said pointing her dagger at the shaking victim. “Go buy medicine for your child.” When he didn’t move she added darkly, “Now!” He scampered off, stumbling a few times as he steadied himself against the wall. “And as for you,” she mused returning her blade to the robber’s throat. “Find an honest profession with which to care for your family!” In a sudden swoop, she spun him out of her rope’s coil. As he fell dizzily to the ground, she sped away.
After the confusing and somewhat harrowing journey to Viscardi’s warehouse, the mission went off without a hitch. Using her grappling hook, she climbed up a rear wall, entered through a top-floor window, and crept to the office. A guard had been posted, but being a Sunday night, he was leaned back in a chair snoring. She thought of rapping him over the head, but that would make noise, so she craftily picked the lock. Next, she drew a small can of machine oil used in Alessandro’s production house and squeezed a few drops onto the door hinges before opening it. Once inside, she collected the ledgers and papers and soundlessly placed them in a barrel that seemed to contain the trash. She took out a tin of sulfur matches and lit fire to the papers. She waited long enough to be sure it wouldn’t go out, then crept out of the room, past the sleeping guard, and back to the window where her grappling hook and rope would speed her descent to street level. No sense wasting the display of her flight with no one there to witness it. By the time her feet hit the pavement she heard the alarm sound as men rushed to put out the fire. She had to smile to herself as she dashed away. Having been disturbed in her spirit by what she witnessed earlier, Florentina decided to take a different route home and rose to the rooftops skimming her way undetected from any below.
Madelena couldn’t sleep. All she could do was think of Fiore, of their sweet and passionate kisses, of how she would devise a plan to move to the next level of intimacy. She was toying with the idea of telling her brother before he found out on his own. She thought that would receive a much better reception, however she worried about the possibility that he would forbid the relationship. But why would he? He was not an overly religious man. Weren’t their thoughts on the subject bound to be similar?
She decided fresh air was the cure and stepped out onto her balcony which faced the courtyard. Even the chill in the breeze felt revitalizing to her skin. She walked to the railing and cast her gaze up to the stars. There were some lights burning in the city all night, but it was dark enough to enjoy the twinkling constellations of the Milky Way. She thought about the newest discoveries and how Florentina was sure to have read all about them. They are now saying that the earth isn’t flat after all, but round, she mused. If that is so, what keeps us from falling off of it?
Maddie closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the clean, cool air, letting it fill her lungs and wash over her like the breath of God. It was then that she heard a sound resembling one of the roof tiles slipping to break on the courtyard walkway. She opened her eyes in the direction of the
crash only to be arrested with the shock of what she beheld. She missed the landing, but there on her rooftop was the Night Flyer folding in wings as he nimbly danced in her direction. Her gasp was audible a hand rising involuntarily to her throat. But the thrilling tingles that cascaded through her body were not those of terror, she decided, but of fascination.
The dark figure stopped in its tracks and stared at her from behind a mask. It finished tucking in its wings without taking its eyes off of her and began to make slow, unintimidating steps in her direction with open hands held outward. Once closer, a voice spoke. “I am not here to rob you; I am not going to hurt you.”
She tilted her head in curiosity as the enigmatic character edged near enough to speak softly and still be heard, then stopped and crouched down on the roof above and to the left of where she stood. The vocal timber was neither deep nor high, maybe a tenor or contralto, and the accent, yes, Venetian, she recognized it. “Then why have you come?” she asked.
“I have been patrolling the city and your rooftop was convenient. I did not mean to disturb you and will be on my way.”
Standing so close to the infamous outlaw made her heart flutter. He was being blamed for every crime in the Milan, but as far as Maddie knew he had only attacked her enemy. “Patrolling?” she asked, not wanting him to leave. “Choosing targets, like crooked merchants and bloodthirsty men of power?”
She could have sworn she saw the Night Flyer’s mouth turn up in a smile. “House Torelli has nothing to fear from me, Good Donna. But if I may suggest, there are unfortunates dwelling in misery down the alleys off Slues Street. Your charity may mean another week of life for them.”
What an odd thing for a thief to say! she thought and was suddenly stricken as he started to scamper away. “Wait!” she called out, then covered her mouth, regretting the volume she had used. The Night Flyer looked over his shoulder to glance back at her from the pitch of the roof. “Will I ever see you again?”
“Time will tell,” came the response, and he disappeared from view.
Florentina was in a panic! She whirled down the access stairs and through the kitchen’s back door like one fleeing a burning building. How am I going to get back in my bed by the time Maddie bursts in to tell me about meeting the Night Flyer? Luckily, she had planned for such as this by hiding old clothing in several discrete places around the mansion, one being the bathing room. She knew it would be unoccupied at this time of night, so she rushed on tiptoe down the hall, around a corner, and into the small space locking the door behind her. Now she could breathe, but only for an instant. Next she was stripping off her black, stuffing her equipment into a linen chest, and throwing on the sleeping gown and robe she had stashed in here. Her heart was pounding so hard it seemed it would burst from her chest. There was water in the basin, so she splashed it on her face and dampened her hair. As she did so, she focused on her breathing. Slow down, she told herself. Slow, steady, deep breaths, that’s it. Calm. Just taking a bath. Odd time? No, I always bathe at midnight on a Sunday–God that sounds so ludicrous!
With her breathing under control, Florentina slipped from the bathing room and strolled toward her bed chamber. Sure enough, Madelena was standing outside her door with her hand raised to knock. “Looking for me?”
Maddie initially jumped at her voice, then turned around with a beaming expression. “You’ll never guess who I just met!” she gushed in subdued excitement.
Florentina put on a curious face. “Who?”
“The Night Flyer!” she couldn’t stand still from the exhilaration and threw her arms around Fiore’s neck so she could whisper in her ear. “He was here, on our roof!”
“And you aren’t afraid?”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t want to hurt us! He’s not a bandit at all, Fiore–he’s a vigilante!”
Chapter 13
The habitually unflappable Alessandro paced his front hall in an exceptional state of agitation, his strong shoulders bent and elegant face drawn up in consternation on Tuesday afternoon. The preceding night’s frost had compelled the last of the autumn leaves to be unfettered from their twigs and branches, drifting in finality to the damp earth and paving stones beneath. However, it was not the initial precursor of winter that filled his heart with trepidation.
He played the news over and over in his mind. There must be some mistake, he told himself. Whether he had been this way for minutes or hours he could not tell, but eventually Antonio returned home. Alessandro halted his disconcerted march, knowing the sound of his son’s footsteps and the scent of his bathwater. He turned searching eyes to Antonio. “Is it true?”
“May we speak in private?” he asked, meeting his father’s gaze with some trepidation.
Alessandro nodded, swearing to himself as this was all but an affirmation of the worst. “In the study,” he consented, and led the way. With the door to his private domain, his seat of power closed, Alessandro resumed his air of authority, standing straight with arms crossed over his tight chest. “What is this I hear about you joining the army?”
He eyed his son as the young man tried to decide upon a stance to strike. At first, he seemed apologetic, slouched with his head down. Then Alessandro witnessed a transformation, as with a deep breath he stretched tall, lifted his chin, and spoke with determination. “It is true, Father. I enlisted in the armed services of France in the Milanese division as an entry level artilleryman.”
Alessandro dropped his arms and his mouth as he stared at his first born in disbelief. “Why would you do such a foolish thing? Just a few weeks ago you were telling me you wanted to become an artist; a soldier is the farthest extreme in the world from an artist!” He didn’t even realize he had begun to shout. The self-possessed head of House Torelli never shouted.
“Si, well, I have my reasons,” Antonio retorted, his own temper sounding in his voice.
“Then tell me what they are,” he demanded. “What could possibly compel you to completely throw your life away?” Despite his desire to address his son’s faulty reasoning, Ally found he could not hold back the tide of fatherly lecture that gushed out of his mouth. “The army? Really?” He began to pace again. “I forbid it, simply forbid it! You have a life, a future, a good future to among the most important men in the Duchy, and perhaps pursue your art or other interests, but certainly to head one of the Great Houses when I pass. You possess an inheritance, hundreds of employees, this mansion, more wealth than God and the power to use it how you see fit. Don’t you know who you are, Antonio? And you would throw it all away, go off and get yourself killed in a war that has nothing to do with us or our security? That is fool-hearted folly! That is irrational! Didn’t you learn anything from your teachers? This is the age of reason–use your mind, son!”
By then Alessandro’s face was red, his blood pressure was elevated, and he shook all over. He stopped pacing and looked back at his son with pleading eyes. Antonio spoke more calmly. “Are you finished, Father?”
“No,” he muttered in dismay, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck. “But I would hear your reasons now.”
“Thank you,” he answered respectfully. “It would appear you have my life all planned out for me–what I will do, where I shall live, how I must present myself to the world. Have you chosen a bride for me as well? Will I come home one day to meet a stranger who is the daughter of some Great House and be expected to take her as my wife?”
Alessandro frowned. “I’ve not chosen a wife for you, and I would always consider your input to be of primary import in a decision such as that.”
Antonio let out a little laugh and shook his head. “Yet you admit you have all other parameters of my future selected for me. The fact is that I need to be in charge of my own life. I must make decisions for myself. I am of age, father, a man. It is time I stopped being Alessandro’s heir and started being my own man.”
“Independence is fine and good son, but not in the army. Do you possess any idea of the needless waste, the death and debilitation that aw
ait you?”
“I know it is dangerous, but I will acquire the essential skills. I have no intention of a permanent career as a soldier, although the Condottieri have gained much notoriety and power of late. Still,” he continued, “I am only in need of the experience. I want to learn to handle myself, to fight, to be able to stand up to any foe, whether foreign or across the street.”
Alessandro sighed and sank into one of the chairs. “You studied fencing and did well. Perhaps we can find you a more advanced course.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Antonio took the seat beside him. “There is no actual danger in such a setting, no chance anyone will be injured. I want to cultivate courage through real life trials. If I can stand up to the charge of a Spanish cavalry bearing down on my position and not flinch, just hold my ground, then I can stand up to anything and anyone. I promise you I would return a man you could be proud of.”
Alessandro looked into the eyes of his son wanting desperately to talk him out of this tremendous mistake while admiring his daring at the same time. “Antonio,” he said with a hitch in his voice, “I am proud of you already. I do not see you as lacking in courage or any other attribute–a bit headstrong, but when turned the right way can be a positive trait. You don’t need to impress me, or any man for that matter. You are bright, strong, handsome, talented, and at this moment possibly a bit mad, but any woman would want you, any father pleased to secure an arrangement for his daughter with you.”
Antonio shook his head and cast despondent eyes to the floor between his feet. “Not any father; not Don Benetto.”
All at once Alessandro was struck to the heart with the arrow that had pierced his son’s. “Ah, son,” he moaned in empathy placing a hand on Antonio’s knee. “Why of all the girls it would be Agnese?”
