Chiara – Revenge and Triumph

by Gian Bordin

  "Aren’t you afraid that they’ll kill you in revenge?"

  "No. They don’t know me nor do I know them."

  "If you’d known that the man was a Baglione —"

  "— would I still have shot him? Yes. Nobody steals things from me if I can prevent it."

  He looked at her with big eyes. "Will you teach me the longbow?"

  "Yes, that would be a good idea." It might be useful to have another experienced archer.

  So over the next few days, whenever they had free time and she felt like it, they did target practice, and she encouraged him to do it on his own.

  She also made it her project to teach both of them how to read and write, that this would give them an advantage in later life. It was though a complete surprise when Alda wanted to be included in that too.

  One late afternoon after settling into the inn in Nocera Umbra, Chiara took the horse for a ride into the countryside. Sometimes, she felt the need to be alone, and galloping across fields was exhilarating and gave her a sense of freedom like nothing else. When she dismounted on her return, she heard funny noises and the braying of the donkey coming from the stable. She sneaked up to the door. Jacomo was strutting up and down in front of the animal, imitating and exaggerating the donkeys peculiar stiff gate, and she realized that it was the boy who made the braying sounds. It was so realistic that it had fooled her. When he discovered her, he went crimson and stopped.

  "Jacomo, this is good. Show me again," she exclaimed.

  Hesitantly at first, he did it again. When she laughed, he added other twists. She called Alda and Pepe. Alda immediately asked him to take over as arlecchino. They practiced together, and she gave him pointers of what worked and what did not. There was no doubt that he was a natural. If Carlo taught him, he would soon surpass his skills, she mused. That reminder of Carlo and his betrayal left a bad taste in her mouth.

  Under Alda’s care, Jacomo soon played an ever increasing role as arlecchino. Naturally, this called for a change in the financial arrangements, with Veronica and Jacomo each receiving a part-share of their net take.

  Chiara had slipped into the role of corago. It happened by itself and nobody questioned it.

  * * *

  Assisi was overrun by pilgrims, come to honor Saint Francis who died there after a short life of extolling the virtues of humility, poverty, and peace. Chiara felt touched by the aura of spirituality that she saw in the faces of the pilgrims the moment she passed through the Porta Nuova.

  They set up their show at the top end of the Piazza del Comune, not far from the Roman Temple of Minerva, which had been converted into a church, and but a few steps from their inn in Via Santa Chiara — she could not resist taking up lodgings in the street carrying her name. They drew large crowds.

  She joined Alda and Veronica for mass in the new Basilica di San Francesco, built in celebration of the saint a century earlier. After the mass, she found herself praying, begging the saint to what over her father and to intervene on her behalf that he might forgive her. She could not explain why she had more confidence in the benevolence of the saint than in God. However, she still could not bring herself to go to confession. How could a priest, a mere mortal and just as much a sinner, absolve somebody’s sins? Only God had such powers.

  Still in the grips of a inner sense of serenity, she recognized the scenes on the life of Saint Francis in the nave of the upper church as the work of the Florentine master Giotto. Spending hours to study and admire the precious frescos, she was moved to tears by the artist’s skill to convey emotions by a mere gesture or the glow in the eyes of his subjects.

  Later, she wandered up through the narrow streets. Ahead walked a young man. His locks, their generous waves and their striking blonde, the spring in his gate, his proud body posture, all reminded her of the young sailor on the Santa Caterina. Her heart began to beat faster. Could it be him? It had been months since she last thought about him. She accelerated her steps, trying to catch up so that she could glimpse his face. She chided herself that it was silly, but could not help it. Something strange and unknown drove her along. He turned into a little alley and looked back briefly. A different face. For a moment, the depth of her disappointment dismayed her. She felt cheated and at the same time annoyed with herself. What would she have done if it had been him? She did not know.

  One night at the end of their second week in Assisi, Chiara sat at a table in the corner of the taverna’s court. She had just finished making a good copy of the letter to Alda’s daughter, which Alda and Pepe had dictated to her earlier, and was adding the return address of the Siena subsidiary of a Florentine banking house. She was alone. All pilgrims lodging at the inn and the other players had already retired to their rooms. The noise of a spur on the cobble stones made her look up. Two men stood under the entrance arch.

  "Are you a member of I Magnifici?" the shorter, stocky one asked in a peremptory tone, like somebody used to give orders. Chiara took an instant dislike for the man.

  "Yes, Messere, that’s to say what’s left of I Magnifici," she replied, forcing herself to remain polite. "May I know what business you have with them?"

  "My business? Ha, who do you think you are to ask me questions?"

  "I am their corago, and it’s not my habit to request permission to ask questions that concern them."

  "Ha, a woman corago? I was told that it was Lorenzo. Who are you?"

  "Messere, where I come from, polite customs demands that the person entering a house gives his name first. Who are you?" She chose her words carefully and marveled at her own coolness. She was not going to be intimidated by this bully.

  "Woman, no Baglione has ever bowed to a woman."

  Chiara managed to suppress any outward sign that this name provoked. She put down the quill.

  "So you are Messer Baglione. I am Chiara da Narni, and it’s not my habit to bow to somebody who’s not my equal."

  She could see in quick succession a flicker of annoyance and then recognition of her name. His right hand went to the hilt of his sword. Her left shifted next to the handle of the oil lamp, while she dropped her right below the table to the knife in her belt.

  "Ha, you’re the one I’ve my business with. Does the name Baglione ring a bell?" He came two steps closer.

  "Yes, cutthroats and bandits."

  "You’re a brazen one, but I’ll promise you will soon beg for your life."

  "Messere, have the courtesy to tell me your business so we can be done." She was not going to give him power over her. Her unperturbed responses seemed to disconcert him. His whole stance changed subtly and the tone of voice became more polite.

  "You killed my cousin and my honor calls for revenge."

  "Who makes that claim?"

  Did a floorboard creak above the outside staircase? she wondered, but resisted looking up.

  "Carlo, the arlecchino of I Magnifici. He swore that a girl named Chiara killed my cousin."

  "And can you believe the word of a clown?"

  "He volunteered this information without being forced —"

  "— so that you wouldn’t rob him of all he had in his fat purse. Isn’t that so?"

  "How do you know?"

  "Because why would a Baglione have anything to do with a clown except to rob him—" He turned an angry red, the tight skin reflecting the shine of the oil lamp. "—and Carlo would sell his soul to Satan to save his purse."

  He seemed to make an effort to control his temper. "Ha, his account confirmed what we heard from our cousins at the Giogo di Scarperia."

  "What he said is correct. I killed a bandit who set his dogs on us and wanted to rob us."

  His face revealed surprise, as if he had expected her to deny it.

  "So what do you want, Messer Baglione?" Although she looked relaxed, her whole body was tense like a loaded spring, ready to jump up.

  "A death can only be expunged by another death."

  "So you want to kill an unarmed woman?"

  "The honor code o
f revenge doesn’t exempt women, nor does it say how the duty is repaid."

  "What honor is there in revenge, Messer Baglione, except more revenge? I killed your cousin in a fair fight, a fight he started. Your sense of honor is misguided." Seeing his indecision, she added: "I suggest you abandon your quest as any wise and just man would do and leave. It’s late."

  That was her mistake. Rather than push him into leaving, her words enraged him. "Ha!" he cried, as he pulled the sword and rushed toward her, raising the blade.

  Springing upright, she flung the lamp at him, spilling the oil over his face and front, a knife already in her right. He screamed, dropped the sword, his hands reaching for his scourged face. The other man now rushed forward and then tumbled to the ground, an arrow sticking from his temple. Suddenly, flames spread over her first assailant’s face and clothing. He screamed, thrashing around, lost his balance and rolled on the floor. Chiara watched in horror as the flames consumed his hair, peeled away the skin on his face, and then came the nauseating stench of burned hair and burned skin.

  She could not stand it and threw her knife. It struck his throat. The screams changed into a gurgle and stopped. Only then did she look up to the top of the stairs. Jacomo was standing there, the longbow in his hand, his face filled with terror.

  Pepe and Alda came rushing out, and Alda took him into her arms, murmuring: "Oh my poor boy. Don’t look, don’t look."

  "Chiara, are you hurt?" shouted Pepe, running down the stairs.

  She only shook her head, too much in shock herself, her gaze drawn back to the shriveled eyes peering from their bloody lidless sockets. Pepe took one of the pails of water, placed inside the arch as a precaution, and threw its content over the burning body.

  He bent over and checked the second man. "Dead," he muttered.

  Chiara sank back onto the bench, covering her face with her hands.

  Three other guests appeared at the top of the stairs, asking questions.

  "Nothing, nothing, people, just a small accident, nothing for you to worry about," exclaimed Alda, pushing them back into the corridor. "Go to bed. We’ll take care of it."

  They left. It was prudent not to ask questions or get involved.

  Alda called out: "Pepino, look after Chiara."

  He came to her, pulled her up and took her in his arms, patting her back. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," she murmured. "Oh, Pepe, I didn’t want it to end like this. I thought that if I remained strong he would back down and leave."

  "Chiara, I don’t understand. Who? What did he want?"

  "A cousin of the Baglione … he wanted revenge."

  "But how did he know?"

  "Carlo told him."

  "Carlo? Who?"

  "Carlo, our former clown."

  "Oh, the miserable scoundrel. Why would he betray us?"

  "Because he was robbed by Baglione bandits and he would do anything to save his skin."

  "Yes, you’re right. He always was out for himself… Is he here?"

  "I don’t know. Oh, Pepe. It’s horrible."

  He held her more tightly.

  The innkeeper arrived in his nightgown and nightcap.

  "What happened?" He stared at the two bodies. "I’ll call the guards."

  Chiara let go of Pepe and said, trying to regain a calm voice: "No, don’t. There’s no need for it. These two men came in here, I guess to rob us, and in the fight, one caught fire and the other was killed."

  He took a more careful look at the two corpses with a mixture of sick curiosity and horror. "Are they both dead?"

  "Yes. Tell us where we can get rid of the bodies. It’s better that we remove them quickly before their associates come looking for them."

  "Yes, Signorina, you’re right, especially if they belong to the Baglione. I’d rather they weren’t found in my house. It’s best to dump them in one of the vineyards outside town."

  "But the gates are closed!"

  The innkeeper removed his nightcap and scratched the side of his head. "You could throw them over the city wall below the Church of Santa Maria. It’s only a few feet high there inside and not far."

  While Pepe and Jacomo made two trips to carry the bodies between them through the dark night down to the wall, Chiara told Alda what happened.

  "I didn’t want it to end that way," she repeated time and again.

  Alda held her, stroking her back. "Chiara, it’s not your fault. You only defended yourself."

  But it did not sooth her inner turmoil. She let herself be taken to her room, and Alda lay down with her. She found no sleep. Her inner eye was constantly replaying the horror of the burning face, while her mind repeated ‘I don’t want to kill anymore.’ After she finally fell into a restless slumber, she woke up screaming, and then sobbed in Alda’s arms. But in the morning she took charge again with a somber determination.

  They all agreed that it would be prudent to leave Assisi right away and quickly get far away from the town. On the road, she talked with Jacomo, thanking him for his help, telling him about the burden of having killed. Although she knew that her knife would have stopped the second man, she was grateful for this proof of loyalty.

  As they made their way to Perugia without stopping for performances, she became aware that his gaze constantly sought her out. When their eyes met, he often averted his eyes as if she had caught him in an illicit act. He tried to anticipate her every demand. She guessed that he had a crush on her. She did not want to hurt him, but neither did she want to encourage him. As she often did when facing a personal dilemma, she turned to the woman who had become her mother. Alda confirmed her observations, and she decided to take her advice and talk to the boy.

  Rather than let him take care of the animals alone after they had taken quarters at a comfortable inn in Perugia, she stayed behind.

  "Lady Chiara, you don’t have to help. I can do it alone."

  "Jacomo, we need to talk. First, I already told you before that I’m Chiara for you, no lady."

  "But you’re a lady. I heard you say it to the men we killed."

  "I may be a lady, but not when I’m with I Magnifici. Then I’m only Chiara, the corago and a colleague and, I hope, also a friend. You can still respect me even if I’m only Chiara. Will you let me just be Chiara?"

  He lowered his gaze and murmured: "Yes, Chiara." Then he looked up with pleading eyes. "I more than respect you."

  "I know, Jacomo, and I want to talk about that also. I think that you feel something very special for me and I’m honored." He blushed deeply and looked down. "Jacomo, there is nothing wrong with that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. It’s a feeling that comes by itself, and we can do little about it. Jacomo, I want to be your friend. I like you. In fact, I’m very fond of you, like I would be of a younger brother, like I’m fond of Veronica too. And as long as you understand this and don’t expect more, I’m happy if you admire me and my skills, the same as I admire your skills as arlecchino… Please, look at me, Jacomo."

  He raised his eyes to meet hers trustingly.

  "Let’s shake hands on that, shall we?"

  He pressed her outstretched hand. His eyes were moist and shiny.

  * * *

  Chiara spotted Carlo during the tumultuous applause that followed their first performance in Perugia. He was leaning against the wall of a house, chewing a twig, as had been his habit. It was that feature which let her recognize him. As they were packing up, he ambled over. When Pepe saw him, she did not need to guess what his intentions were. She intercepted him. "No, Pepe, no fighting. I don’t want you in prison. Let me handle it."

  "Salve Pepe. I was hoping to see you. In fact, I’ve been looking for you these last three months, and I’m glad you’re still drawing big crowds."

  "Carlo, how do you dare to show your face here?" asked Chiara.

  "Oho, I forgot you had a sharp tongue. I’m just saying hello."

  "Maria and Lorenzo both died after you and Giovanni ran away."

 
"Sorry to hear that, but isn’t a man allowed to look after his health?"

  "There’s a difference between that and sneaking away. Nobody would have prevented you from leaving if you had told us."

  He shrugged his shoulders. "For what it’s worth, Giovanni died too, in Cagli, and I heard that Pietro and Anna were also taken by the plague."

  Antonia’s prediction has come true. She died rich.

  "You know, Chiara, that young lad shows promise. All he needs is a good teacher. I’d be willing to train him. I’m free right at the moment."

  "I can see that, and you don’t look too good either," Alda exclaimed, having joined Chiara. "You’re a bit down, aren’t you?"

  "And the Baglione didn’t leave much in your purse, I guess," added Chiara and noticed with satisfaction his scowl. "Carlo, this lad is a natural and will surpass you within a few weeks. We owe you no favors, and it should be abundantly obvious that we don’t want you. Good-bye."

  She turned away.

  "You the corago now? You were always too big for your shoes," he shouted after her with a sneer.

  She did not respond and helped Veronica clean up. Pepe glowered at Carlo until he disappeared in a narrow alley off the square.

  Next day they heard that somebody was bad-mouthing them, claiming they were cheats who had stolen their act and name from another troupe when it perished in the plague. Pepe was irate, but Chiara and Alda simply laughed. Carlo had twisted the truth only a bit.

  11

  Monte Pulciano, late September 1348

  After a successful two weeks, we left Perugia, stopping in the many small cities along the hills of the Val di Chiana — Cortona, Castiglion, Asina-lunga, Lucignano, Torrita, Monte Follónico. We reached Monte Pulciano by the end of September. I fell in love with these little hilltop cities, centered around a big piazza where we showed off our knife juggling act and short skits, some funny, some sad, from our increasing repertory, with Alda or me in the leading role. Even Pepe got short parts, usually as the cheated husband or merchant, while I donned masks as the silly Latin-spouting dottore or notario, the sly thief, even the lover. Jacomo had no difficulties fitting in. I was more and more impressed by his natural ability for the theater, whereas Veronica, lacking confidence, needed a lot of coaxing, but her sweet smile made up for it. Her innocent face always stirred up the pity in the audience. The girl had blossomed, her figure filled in. I envied her proud bosom. Gone was the subservient peasant bearing. Her posture would have given pride to a noble maiden. She invariably attracted the admiring glances of the men who were doubly generous when she took the collection.