Chiara – Revenge and Triumph

by Gian Bordin

  Dawn sent its delicate hues over the waves. The hills seemed still a long way on the horizon. She tried to guess. Two, maybe even three leagues to the east? Had she, in fact managed to get any closer after a whole night of swimming? Then a dreadful thought entered her mind. Maybe she was still drifting in a northwesterly direction in which case she would never make it ashore.

  Her anxiety rose, and she was verging on panic. Hadn’t her brother once told her, that the worst thing to do when in trouble was to panic and that the best way to fight panic was to fill the lungs fully and breathe slowly until it passed? She took deep breaths and after a while could think clearly once more. Why not deal with her more immediate problems first; the solution to the bigger problem might come by itself. She could only hope that, rather sooner than later, the wind might shift in the direction of the land and would help her get there. Did not the warming of the land usually bring with it a breeze from the sea? Hope filled her again.

  Her most immediate problems were thirst, a full bladder and getting cold. There was little she could do about her thirst. She was just about to let go when she recalled her father telling about crossing the parched, barren valley in Spain. It took them three days. When they ran out of water, their guide advised them not to pass water, that this helped the body. And vigorous action was the best remedy against the cold. So she continued swimming with more determination, taking regular rests. She did not realize how fortunate she was that the water was so warm. A bit colder and the sea would have claimed her.

  By midmorning she noticed a change. The waves were traveling with her, overtaking her, rather than coming from the side. There was also no doubt that the hills looked closer than at dawn. She hoped that this was not just wishful thinking. Early afternoon the breeze had become stiff and the occasional wave was cresting. One moment she was on top with a clear view all around, the next she was in a valley of water. But her progress toward shore became noticeably faster and her spirits rose. She saw a sailing ship, similar in size to the Santa Caterina, closer to shore. They would not be able to spot her from that distance. After a while it disappeared behind trees. She guessed that they had entered a river — the Arno? she wondered. The vicinity of a big river would explain all the flotsam she encountered. Later, she also could make out several small fishing boats coming out to sea farther south. But they were only visible whenever she crested a wave.

  It took her till late afternoon before she was close enough to be sure she had made it. Soon, she saw the light-colored bottom of the sea with here and there green plants performing a graceful dance in tune with the waves. A few minutes later she touched soft ground and literally crawled up the beach, beyond the tide. She had drained the last of her strength and simply sank into the dry sand, welcoming its warmth.

  4

  On the road to Pisa, early June 1347

  I recall little of that long desperate swim to the Tuscan coast, helped along by a change in the wind. When I woke to the light of the moon, I was lying face down on the beach. The sand had lost its warmth. I felt cold, although my clothes were dry, stiff and sticky from the salt. My mouth was parched. Every muscle in my battered body hurt, but at the same time I felt cleansed, as if the brine had washed away my dishonor, lifted the memory on my skin where he had touched me.

  "I made it, I made it," my mind kept repeating. For a while I simply lay there, marveling at my good fortune. Did God help me after all, I wondered? But why would he have delivered me right into the hands of the two men who were the cause of all my trouble? They say God works in mysterious ways. No, my escape from them was all my own doing, without any divine intervention. Even the cork bark that helped me stay afloat had nothing to do with God. It had been ripped from its trunk days before I even set out on my journey. If God had put it there, this meant that everything was preordained, even my own thoughts, and that such a life would have no meaning, reducing me to a mere spectator. I was too stubborn a person to accept such a fatalistic view of life. Did Dante not assert that all creatures of intelligence, and only they, are endowed with the freedom of the will? That piece of flotsam was only a lucky coincidence. And never again would I pray to God or the Madonna for help. From now on I would solely rely on my own strength and reasoning, and keep events under my own control as much as possible. I might say a prayer of thanks if I was successful.

  Thirst drove me up. I needed food and water, but water foremost of all. Maybe I could find a farmhouse. People would surely help me. Then I remembered that I had lost all my belongings, except the clothes I was wearing. My mother’s jewels, my knife, my cloak and women’s garments, my belt with the few coins I had, all in the hands of Sanguanero. How was I to get food without money? But what I regretted most was the loss of the precious little book that I had taken along as a symbolic link to my father.

  First I thought of going inland to find a road, but quickly discovered that the bushes and brush behind the beach were almost impassable and swampy. The moon was of little help. So I walked south along the shore, to the river the vessels had entered. If it was the Arno, all I had to do was to follow it upstream and I would reach Pisa.

  A short time later, I crossed a little creek and scooped some water into my cupped hands. It tasted foul and, thirsty as I was, I spat it out again. As I walked along, I could not help reliving what had happened on the boat. I knew that I had taken a terrible revenge on that horrible man. Maybe the price he paid was beyond the gravity of what he had done to me. Would I not be subjected to something only little less loathsome if I were given in marriage to some stranger of my father’s choice, as is the customary fate of most girls of my social standing, even if that man were of noble birth? I knew of girls who were married to older men. Then I recalled that father and son Sanguanero had actually planned to throw me into the sea to drown. So, I had only defended myself — a right even God would not deny me. If I had not done what I did, I would not be here to tell you my story, my precious child. However back then, this did not really ease my pangs of conscience. I had never purposely set out to hurt another person physically. Oh sure, I was no saint. How often had I played a trick on my grandmother or my brother? How often had I hurt him with unkind remarks that went beyond mere teasing? I still feel bad about the time I told him that the Latin ‘magniloquus’ means ‘distinguished’, when in fact it is ‘boastful’, and he promptly greeted our teacher with ‘salveo magister magniloquus’ rather than ‘magnificentimus’, only to be severely scolded. But he did not betray and shame me. And now I had taken away the joy of sight from an old man.

  Another thought began to gnaw at the edge of my mind. Treasure? There was no treasure hidden on our property. What did he mean? A hidden stash of gold and jewels? Absurd! From where would my father have gotten it and why would he hide it? Unless it had been placed there ages ago, but I had never heard anything of an old treasure. Or could it be a treasure he rescued from confiscation by the French king while he was still with the Knight Templars? The only time I had ever heard my father refer to a treasure was when he proudly showed his library to the older Sanguanero. In fact, he was holding that precious little book that was now in their hands and said: "This is my greatest treasure." But I’m sure that all he meant was that he cherished it more than anything else, and I had deprived him of it and lost it.

  Or did they mean something else, such as a hidden gold mine or a seam of precious stones in the rocks above the castle? Roberto had found small pieces of dark-blue tourmaline and did father not display one as big as a pear on the sill of our hall window, where it caught the rays of the afternoon sun? Then it struck me and tears began to well in my eyes. "Our hall", I murmured. I had forfeited all right to think of it as ‘mine’ or ‘our’. I wished for the comfort of my father. Would I ever see him again? Somehow I doubted it, and that filled me with an even deeper sadness.

  After maybe an hour, I reached the river. It was more like the opening to a large inlet. Its shore soon veered north for a good stretch before turning east again.
I had no choice but to follow it.

  Shortly after it turned east, I reached a wide river that emptied from another shallow inlet. If this was the Arno, there was no way to follow it since the same swamps, I had encountered earlier along the beach, bordered the new inlet. Fortunately, the tide, although rising, was still low and I had no difficulty wading across the shallow water that hardly reached my waist.

  There was a hint of dawn on the eastern horizon, as I continued along the inlet, which ended in another small river. A short distance farther in, I finally reached a road. To my surprise it was at least six big steps across and covered by square paving stones. I had never seen such a wide road. I decided to follow it south to the village I had spotted earlier maybe a quarter of a league across the inlet. I approached the houses cautiously. My recent experience had made me apprehensive. Although it was light by then, there was no soul in sight yet. Most of the houses were windowless, clearly not lived in by people. Warehouses, I guessed when saw a wide river mouth between two buildings with half a dozen vessels — several galleys, two merchantmen similar to the Santa Caterina moored at the wooden wharf, and others anchored in the middle of the river. The rising tide was lifting their decks above the wharf.

  I kept to the wall of a warehouse when I reached the wooden planks of the wharf and peered across to the two merchantmen tied up starboard to port, groaning as their sides rubbed against each other. I recognized the distinctive deck lamps swaying gently with the tide. It was the Santa Caterina. In shock, I withdrew. Why did I always have to run into them? I had to get away from here as quickly as possible, no matter how thirsty or hungry I was. And that is what I did, backtracking north on the road I had come from and which, as I was to discover later on, would take me to Pisa.

  By midday I saw its walls and the church towers beyond. But If I had thought that anybody, but particularly a noble maiden, could pass through the gates unhindered, I was sadly mistaken. No, I was turned away, like any vagrant or beggar, told to go back to where I had come from. How naive I had been then in the ways of the world, a world with two faces, like a coin, one hideous and cruel, the other beautiful and kind, and the face to turn up is at the mercy of chance.

  * * *

  Chiara would learn later that the harbor she ran away from was Porto Pisano, Pisa’s new sea port for large galleys and merchantmen, which could no longer go up the Arno since its lower reach was silting up.

  By the time she had retraced her steps, the sun had risen, but she was grateful to be the only one about. Luck sent a wild duck scurrying from a bush nearby. It was holding one of its wings half opened as if injured. The bird did not fool her. The nest was hidden under the bush. It contained eight eggs — a second clutch? she wondered. She cracked one into her open hand, hoping that it was still fresh, and almost cried out in joy when she saw the clear liquid and its yellow yolk. She eagerly slurped it up, drinking another four right away, and took the remaining three along for later. She did not know if it was the nourishment itself or simply the thought of nourishment, but her stride showed renewed vigor. Farther on, she spotted a tree laden with wild cherries no more than fifty feet off the road and gorged herself on the tart, juicy fruit, sating the worst of her thirst.

  Initially the road led through a flat, swampy expanse of trees and stagnant pools. Raised two or three feet above the level of the plain, it was wide enough for two carts to pass each other and lined with poplars on both sides. It continued almost straight in a more or less northerly direction.

  It was midmorning before she heard the first travelers, two riders coming up from behind. They slowed as they passed.

  "Boy, you’re on the road early. On to Pisa?" one of them shouted.

  "Yes, sir. How much farther?"

  "You’ll make it there by noon. God be with you." And they were off at a canter.

  A short time later, she encountered five heavily laden carts, pulled by teams of four oxen each, traveling south at a slow pace. A group of young men and boys walking alongside eyed her with open curiosity. She overheard one of them say: "I bet he stole those clothes."

  When they had passed, she looked critically at her garments. The bottom of the hose was covered in dried mud. Pale skin showed through a large rip on the side. Her breeches and tunic, although dirty and creased were richly embroidered, in sharp contrast to their plain, woollen ones. And she had no belt or hat. She was a dubious-looking character, alone on the road and not carrying any belongings. It made her feel embarrassed, self-conscious. But there was nothing she could do about it now except hope that it would not lead her into trouble. At least, she was warned and could make herself inconspicuous whenever possible. She was though bemused that they took her for a boy.

  She rested for a while in the shade of a poplar, ate the three remaining eggs, and brushed off most of the mud from her hose. Swarms of buzzing insects drove her onward again.

  As the sun approached its highest point, the landscape changed. The swamps and forests, and occasional pasture, where sheep grazed on the lush grass, guarded by shepherds, yielded to cultivated fields and orchards, with farmhouses, partially hidden behind shelter belts of poplars. Men, women and children, in colorful clothing, were tending the crops. By the time she passed the little church of San Piero a Grado, a constant stream of carts, riders and pedestrians, farmers and their wives returning from the city after selling their wares, was coming toward her, while there was only a trickle of pedestrians and a few riders going in her direction. She continued attracting curious glances and had questions shouted that she mostly ignored or answered with a smile, which seemed to disconcert the questioners into desisting.

  In the distance, she could see several church spires, including the famous white tower of the Duomo of what surely must be Pisa. At the cluster of houses by San Giovanni al Gatano, the road joined the banks of a wide river which she guessed to be the Arno, with the Porta a Mare, the western city gate, coming into view. She slowed her pace, suddenly apprehensive. Would she get past the armed guards? All carts were stopped for inspection and assessment of customs. But they also seemed to scrutinize the people entering, occasionally stopping one or the other.

  She took a few deep breaths and approached the gate. As she wanted to pass by the guard, he shouted: "Boy, where the hell do you think you’re going?"

  She knew her anxiety showed and stuttered: "I, I, I am going home."

  "And where‘s that?"

  And now the easy quick wit of which she had always been so proud failed her. She did not know the name of a single street or quarter or church, nor could she think of one of the common names found in most cities, but then she was a simple lass from Elba, not a sophisticated city girl. Her only answer was to blush deeply and look to the ground.

  "You’re a vagrant or runaway. Get thee gone. The illustrious city of Pisa isn’t for the likes of you. Go back to where you came from."

  When she was slow to react, he shoved her with his pike. "Via, via!"

  She turned from the gate, stifling her tears. What was she going to do now? She needed to get inside the city. There surely was a convent where the sisters would have pity on her and offer her food and shelter for a few days. They might even help her find a place to work for a living. She had to try again, but at another gate. Maybe she could discover the name of one of the churches just visible above the city walls and say her family lived nearby. A child or peasant on the outside might tell her.

  Once past the bridge over the ditch that served as a moat outside the city walls, she took the road south that ran alongside it. She encountered few people, and the two children she questioned only looked at her puzzled and then ran away. At the other end of the walls she saw a forbidding fortress nestled into a wide bend of the Arno. To its left was another gate. Here the traffic was less busy than at the western gate, but as long as she did not know the name of a church, there was little point trying her luck a second time. She sat in the shade of a tree, waiting for something, something that might help her get i
n — a friendly looking person who might know the name of at least one church, or a large group of travelers she might join, pretending to be one of them.

  It was getting late when she saw a party of colorfully dressed people coming toward her along the river road. The man in front was leading a donkey hitched to a cart piled high with all sorts of strange gadgets and utensils. An old woman sat on a board at its back. Behind followed two smaller carts. The first one, loaded with a fair-size, polished wooden box, was pulled along by two young men with a young woman at their side, the second by a middle-aged couple.

  5

  Pisa, early June 1347

  There I was — I who only a few days earlier had been the pampered lady of the castle — called a vagrant and roughly shoved away from the western gate of Pisa, with no food, no money, nothing but the tattered garments I was wearing, getting ever more despondent. Was I going to spend another night in the open? I had heard of girls who only survived by selling their body. I shuddered at the thought that this might be my lot too. So, Cara Selva, when I saw a troupe of traveling players come down the road toward the city, they seemed God-sent. I did not even think twice to join them. My own clothing that had raised eyebrows before seemed to blend in perfectly with theirs. So I followed close behind and when they turned into the street leading to the eastern gate, I helped push the last cart up the slight incline — quite a strenuous job on the uneven cobble stones. While the man leading the donkey negotiated the entrance formalities with one of the guards, I lingered hidden behind the last cart. When the guard waved them in, I took up pushing again, pretending that it was hard, keeping my head lowered. I was anxious a guard would count the people in the group and raise objections that there was one extra person, but nobody even looked at me. I would never have imagined that it would be so easy to fool them.