Chiara – Revenge and Triumph

by Gian Bordin

  "Yes, I will, but you’re such a good and blameless woman, there’s nothing that God can reproach you of."

  "I have sinned… I haven’t gone to confession… I’ve been envious…"

  She opened her mouth to say more and then lapsed into unconsciousness. Lorenzo was sobbing silently at her side, holding her hand. A while later, Alda brought a bowl of oil. Chiara dipped the tips of her fingers in it and then lightly touched Maria’s eyes, nostrils, lips, and hands, murmuring at the same time: "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, we forgive you your sins and pray for God’s forgiveness."

  Then she too broke into silent sobs.

  By morning, Maria’s delirium abated. She fell into a state of extreme prostration. Her breathing irregular, wheezy. She opened her eyes. They did not seem to recognize anybody and then they glazed over. She had stopped breathing. Alda wiped a hand over Maria’s eyes, closing them for the last time. Lorenzo remained slumped next to his wife’s body, looking at her face, his eyes drained of tears, murmuring time and again: "She was a good woman."

  They buried her later that morning, wrapped in her cloak. Pepe dug the grave, and Chiara said a prayer. The two shepherds stayed away. In fact, they tended to walk away whenever one of them came close.

  Later that day, Pepe went down to check on their carts. He reported that they had been partially uncovered and various things, mostly belonging to Giovanni and Carlo, had been removed. He had put things in order again and covered the carts.

  Lorenzo was not himself anymore. He sat in the corner where Maria had lain, completely oblivious to his surrounding. When asked a question, he seemed to come from afar and rather than reply would simply repeat: "She was a good woman."

  Chiara was not surprised when he too developed a high fever and lapsed into delirium. Antonia admonished Chiara and Alda for staying so close and sponging him off. Does she expect me to abandon him now?

  He never regained consciousness and died in the morning of the following day. Chiara performed the last rites shortly before his last breath. Pepe reopened Maria’s grave and they laid him next to her.

  Chiara and Alda sobbed on each other’s shoulders, sharing their grief. Antonia told Pepe to remove all the bracken and burn it. He, Chiara and Alda collected new bundles. The physical activity had a healing effect and took their thoughts at least temporarily away from the deaths.

  Over the next few days, they all watched each other, looking for signs of the disease, praying that they would be spared, fearing that they might not. Chiara and Alda talked about dying, about their regrets of all the things that they still would like to do and now never might. A week passed and their hopes of being spared rose. Even the shepherds did not avoid them any longer and sold them more of their goat cheese.

  10

  Via Flaminia, summer 1348

  We followed Antonia’s advice to remain in our refuge in the hills well into the beginning of summer. She said that the pestilence traveled slowly from place to place before it ran out of victims to carry off, although the speed with which this plague had conquered the Peninsula, it surely must have exhausted itself more quickly.

  The four of us settled into a routine. Pepe looked after the supplies of wood for our fire. Alda and I foraged in the forest and pastures for edible mushrooms, greens and roots, and the tender new shoots of bracken and dandelions, to supplement our slowly dwindling supplies of grains. And Antonia? The winter had not been kind to her. So we told her to guard the hut and sitting in the sun when the skies were clear. We bought cheeses and even the meat of several lambs and young goats. The only thing we missed was a cup of wine with every meal.

  Up in these pastures, protected from the censure of people, I enjoyed once more the freedom offered by my boy’s tunic and breeches. Alda cut my hair to shoulder length and I loved wearing it loose. Occasionally, I took the horse for a ride to visit the shepherds higher up in the hills. I even ventured down to the Via Flaminia. This is how I discovered that the plague had run its terrible course. Travelers reported that towns and villages were mere skeletons of what they had been before. Some villages had emptied out completely, and many towns had lost half or more of their population. The disease had spared neither rich nor poor, peasants nor nobles, nor did it spare the priest who had wanted the Inquisition to save Antonia’s soul.

  If it had not been for the terrible tragedy of losing Lorenzo and Maria, our time up in these lofty heights could have been a time of happiness and pleasure, a time of enjoying the rebirth of the land, feasting our eyes on the multitude of flowers and laughing at the frolicking newborn lambs and goats. I was reminded of that other spring full of hope and happiness in my previous life. It seemed that was so long ago, not simply the year before.

  Most days I would read aloud a few pages in "La Comedia" to my three companions and I studied the Latin translations of Sophocles’ ‘Electra’, which I had bought months before in Florence, enjoying the challenge of translating the verses into the Tuscan vernacular. Pepe built a little dam on the creek, hidden in the forest, where Alda and I bathed regularly and I felt clean as in my previous life as the lady of Castello Nisporto. The young shepherd lad discovered our hideout. We only laughed at his clumsy curiosity.

  But over it all hung a deep hurt, the demise of I Magnifici and the death of two people I respected and loved. Lorenzo, fair, competent, whose encouragement and approval had made what I am now, and Maria, the most private person I have ever known who could transform herself into such a powerful and convincing actress. Many nights before I found sleep, I raged against the injustice of their death. The way God allowed the plague to claim its victims made no sense. I began to doubt whether God even cared or whether he simply let dice decide who lived and who died. I had also lost confidence in the integrity of priests, worse, I had lost respect for them. They were no different from other men, driven by vices and corrupted by power. How could such people hear confession and absolve sins? I knew that I was treading on dangerous grounds. If somebody guessed these thoughts and denounced me to the Inquisition, my soul could become the subject of their investigations.

  But it went deeper. I began to wonder about God. Was there a God, as the Church asserted, as Saint Thomas of Aquinas claimed he proved? If God was the sum of all goodness, why did he create for every good thing also its opposite, hate for love, sorrow for happiness, anguish for peace, callousness for caring, avarice and greed for generosity, sickness for health. If he wanted us to be good, caring, loving, generous, peaceful, why did he give us the choice of the opposite? To test us? I would condemn a mother who deliberately tempted her child to be bad, callous, greedy, but told her that she would get a treat if she was good, caring and unselfish. Was this the God who cared for men and loved us all? I could not imagine that God omniscient would be that devious. So the only conclusions I could draw then were that there was no God and his experiment with humanity had gone astray, or that if God was omniscient and omnipotent then he was a cruel, rather than a benevolent God — a God who played with us like a cat plays with mice — or that there was no God at all, and I preferred that conclusion by far. And if that was the case, what was the purpose of the Church and its teachings? I did not even want to think on that thorny question. These thoughts kept me awake many a night.

  How I wished I could talk about this to my father! Although he was a pious man who strongly believed in God, he was also an open-minded man with a highly logical mind. He would be able to tell me if my reasoning was faulty and how. I remembered how we discussed Plato’s polemics deep into the nights, after I had read the Latin translation of ‘The Republic’. But was my father still alive or had the plague carried him away too? Whenever that last thought snuck into my mind, a forlorn emptiness invaded my heart.

  I guessed that Alda and Pepe worried about their daughter and her family in Prato. So I promised to send a letter of inquiry the moment we reached one of the bigger towns in Umbria.

  Although we had avoided talking about the futu
re, as spring turned into summer, we could no longer avoid it. Of I Magnifici only a pitiful rump was left, nor was it possible for the three able-bodied of us to travel with three carts. Some serious decisions had to be taken. We had ample money left. Lorenzo’s purse alone was almost as much as the combined possessions of us four. Furthermore, I was confident that the knife-throwing act could easily support us. I was still grieving for Lorenzo and not keen to team up quickly with other players to form a new troupe.

  Necessity forced a decision on us. We would take the three carts down to the Via Flaminia and sell a good portion of what we had to travelers and merchants. We would keep no more than what we could easily fit into the big cart, pulled by the horse. Antonia would ride the donkey.

  In preparation for our departure, Pepe and I practiced our routines, adding a few new twists to our knife juggling act, such as having two additional knives travel in a high arc above the other four. The two shepherds were our faithful and appreciative audience.

  Late June we said good-bye to our refuge. I gave the old shepherd the promised second gold coin and slipped a few silver solidi to his nephew. I think they were genuinely sorry to see us go.

  When I looked into the mirror for the first time after four months, I saw a stranger. In my mind I still expected to see the chubby face of the innocent, trusting girl who lived in a little castle on Elba. The person looking back was a woman. At first glance, her age could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. Gone was the softness of the teens. Her face reminded me vaguely of my mother, more boldly cut. There was something hard and determined in her eyes, something I could only describe as ‘knowing’. Life had carved its marks, and I suddenly realized that it had also carved its marks on my inner self. I was no longer Chiara da Narni, the daughter of a minor seignior, but Chiara da Narni, the woman in charge of her own life and who would never again let other people decide her fate.

  I Magnifici gave the first performance in Cagli. It seemed we were the first group of traveling players visiting the city since the plague. The crowds were small but people seemed to be in a mood for frivolities, convinced that having cheated death they deserved to have fun. Alda played a convincing arlecchino, and people flocked to Antonia to have their cards read.

  On the second day, I noticed a girl of about fifteen and a boy a bit younger, covered in rags, eyes far too big for their emaciated faces. They had been there the day before and both were begging, shunned by almost everybody. When we were packing up after the show, they watched us. I waved the girl over.

  "Would you like to earn some money and help us carry our things back to the inn?" I asked.

  She only nodded. I let her carry the drum, while the boy helped Pepe with the wooden board. After stowing our things away in the court of the taverna, I gave her four denari, enough to buy four loaves of bread and invited her to share food with us. Clutching the money tightly in her dirty hand, she hesitated. Her brother nudged her and she nodded again. I saw her gulp down the bread. She did not even dunk it in the watered-down wine. I was reminded of another young girl, a year before, and could not help identifying with her. I also knew immediately what I had to do. So there were six of us when we left Cagli, slowly making our way to Perugia and from there back into Tuscany. Almost by default, I had fallen into the role of corago, a role I enjoyed.

  Veronica and Jacomo, the names of the pair, how many times have they repaid me for that act of charity and compassion, how richer has my life become through them?

  And I learned another of life’s truth, namely that the past has a nasty habit of catching up with me. A cousin of the bandit I slew when we crossed the Apennines on our dream to conquer Venice, another Baglione, wanted revenge, and I was forced to kill again.

  * * *

  Chiara watched the two youngsters devour the coarse bread and cut more slices from the big loaf.

  "Here, there is lots more," she said with an encouraging smile, taking a bite herself. "Take some sausage too."

  She shoved the wooden board with the sausage pieces to them. The boy looked at the pieces longingly, while the girl lowered her gaze.

  "Go ahead. It’s good."

  He looked at the girl and then took two pieces, putting both into his mouth. The girl also took one and murmured: "Thank you."

  "Do you live alone?"

  The girl nodded.

  "Did your parents die?"

  Again a nod.

  "Here, have some more." Chiara pushed the board all the way over to them. "Where do you live?"

  Both took more sausage, but neither answered. Even the smudged face did not hide the girl blushing deeply.

  No matter how Chiara tried, she could not get the two to talk.

  Alda joined them and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. "You’ve had a hard time, haven’t you? Are you willing to tell me about it?"

  Something about Alda’s motherly features seemed to win the girl’s trust. It transpired that their parents had been tenants in the countryside and both, as well as all their younger siblings, were carried away by the plague three months before. Since then they had lived from handouts and begging and often had gone hungry, spending the nights wherever they could find shelter.

  "Would you like to help us while we’re here?" Chiara asked and for the first time got a response of more than a nod.

  The girl’s eyes lit up and she said: "Would you really let us?"

  "Yes, we would," replied Alda, "but we’d have to give you a thorough scrubbing first and then some new clothes. If you work for us, you have to look neat and handsome."

  "And we’d get to eat too?" questioned the boy.

  "Yes, and it would also be better if you slept here with us."

  The girl blushed and murmured: "We’ve no money."

  "Oh my sweet child," exclaimed Alda, pressing her against her ample bosom, "you don’t have to worry about that. We’ll pay. I’m sure Antonia would like it if you shared her room. She doesn’t like to sleep alone."

  "You’ve your own rooms?" asked the boy, as if it were unheard of.

  "No, I share one with Pepe, my husband, but Chiara and Antonia each have their own."

  He only looked from one to the other in wonder and awe.

  * * *

  Alda and Chiara took it upon them to wash, delouse, and clothe Veronica, while Pepe looked after Jacomo, the boy. Chiara was pained when she saw that the girl was only skin and bones. But the transformation was surprising. Veronica had beautiful dark blonde hair, and when she smiled she was pretty. The boy showed already the beginning of a handsome ruggedness. Alda had a hard time to get them away from the mirror. Neither could get enough of admiring their new colorful garments, nor of the novelty of the mirror.

  "This dress will fit you well," said Alda, "you only have to fill out a bit and that can easily be arranged."

  The girl blushed and averted her gaze.

  It goes without saying that Alda ordered extra portions for dinner. Chiara guessed that the two had not eaten a proper cooked meal for several months.

  While Alda took the girl under her wings, Pepe took charge of the boy. There were plenty of little jobs to be done. It was always more effective to have a young and pretty girl or boy collect the money. Both were rather solemn about that task and initially overwhelmed by the number of denari and the occasional silver coins in their little baskets.

  They needed training in many things. Both tended to look to the ground when talking to people, refusing to meet their eyes. Veronica even did it when she encountered people in the street, as if she wanted to make herself invisible. So Chiara taught both to show a proud, upright posture, shoulders straight, chest out, a flowing gait with a spring in it — something that had been natural to her — to look into people’s eyes, to smile winningly when they offered the basket to the spectators and to say a hearty thank-you, when they got something. As she had guessed, both were quick learners and, encouraged by Alda’s generous praise, shed their shyness and became in turn generous with the
ir smiles. It took a few days more before their appetites abated to a level normal for their age.

  There was no question that they would not come along when the players departed from Cagli. Their gleaming faces reminded Chiara of her own joy, back in Pisa. They arranged that each would initially get one denaro a day, as well as food, lodging, and new clothing as needed.

  In fact, the players were glad for their help over the Passo della Scheggia, the highest point on the Via Flaminia. They followed that road to Foligno, stopping for one or several days at each major village or town. At Foligno they went west to Assisi.

  Jacomo turned out to be good with the animals and was assigned their care. Veronica formed a close bond with Alda. Chiara became aware that at first she felt a bit jealous. Reflecting on it, she admonished herself that the girl needed a mother even more than she. Sharing rooms with Antonia, it was only natural that Veronica also took over the daily task of giving the old woman each night a good shoulder rub.

  Chiara guessed that Veronica admired her enormously. She wondered whether this was the reason why the girl seemed unable to overcome her shyness toward her. While she would naturally chat with Alda and Antonia, she remained tongue-tied with her. Chiara tried to share some of her thoughts with the girl, tell her a bit about how she came to be a traveling player, but rather than break down the barriers, it only seemed to increase the girl’s awe. Once she could not help overhear from the other side of the flimsy wall between their rooms how she questioned Antonia. Chiara was amused how the old woman experienced some of the events, but was also annoyed by her exaggerations.

  Next day, Jacomo asked her: "Did you really kill a Baglione?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because they’re notorious bandits and everybody fears them."

  "That’s hardly a reason to let them rob you."

  "Did you kill one?"

  "That’s what one of the robbers claimed, but I don’t know if it’s true."