Chiara – Revenge and Triumph

by Gian Bordin

  "May I ask whether today’s purse was exceptionally large?"

  "Oh no," laughed Alda. "In fact, it was rather on the small side."

  His expression clearly showed that he did not believe her.

  "True, Orlando, in Siena, and even Monte Pulciano, we got thirty florins several times."

  * * *

  Within a few days, they had half a dozen invitations. Chiara was keen to try out Sophocles’ Electra, the Greek tragedy she had translated from the Latin. They began rehearsals. She quickly discovered that its staging presented a number of challenges. While the ancient Greeks used no more that three actors, who changed masks to impersonate different characters, she did not want to use masks. Similarly, she had no choice but to replace the Greek chorus that consisted of a dozen or more voices by at most three, the three players not used in a given scene. The chorus was the only time the players wore masks.

  Chiara enjoyed working with Orlando on how to stage it. His long acting experience proved useful. She was also bemused by the change in his behavior toward her. Gone was the flippant and sometimes condescending tone. It felt like being treated with kid gloves.

  They performed the play for the first time for Casa Medici, which had also been the first to see Phormio. In contrast to that comedy, the Greek tragedy was demanding on the audience, and it was received with mixed success. True lovers of the theater praised it, while those wanting to see lighthearted comedy found it hard going. However, new invitations came, some with the specific request for Electra. They were even asked to repeat the play alone without the knife throwing act.

  With all this activity, Chiara made only slow progress on her real reason for being in Florence. She did though one thing that she felt was important. She took Alda and Pepe to Casa Albizzi, the merchant banking house where they had their savings and had a will drawn up by their notary that made the two her heirs, much to Alda’s anguish.

  While the notary drew up the will, she asked about whether they had an agent in Naples, which she guessed they had, and learned that their escorted courier went south at the beginning of each month, stopping in Arezzo, Perugia, Assisi, Terni, Viterbo, Rome, and Gaeta on the way, and usually stayed no more than two days or so in Naples before the return trip. Assuming other merchant banking houses had similar set-ups, this meant that if she timed things right, she would have at most three months before any testimonials she presented could be discovered as forgeries — one month between courier trips, and a bit less than two months for an answer, since any request to verify a testimonial would take more than just the two days the courier stopped over in Naples.

  However, what really held back progress was that she did not know the city and its places where she would find mountebanks, crooks, and forgers, or people who knew about such things. So she again took up wandering through the streets disguised as a priest. It had become almost second nature. She automatically adjusted her voice and made her steps bigger and heavier when she wore those robes. Starting from their house in Borgo Frediano on the left bank of the Arno, she walked through Borgo San Jacobo just south of the Ponte Vecchio, into the older quarters behind Palazzo Vecchio, and along the right bank of the river, watching, observing, striking up conversations with the locals, learning. In Borgo Santissimi Apostoli, a quarter of narrow streets and old houses, a shady tavern in Via Bonbarde caught her curiosity. The first time she passed by it, two rough-looking men looked up and down the alley, as if checking who saw them, before entering the narrow doorway. An old woman sitting in the entrance of a nearby house told her that it was no place for a young priest.

  That evening, she asked Pepe to accompany her. Both were armed.

  "What do you want there?" he asked. "Are you really planning revenge on Sanguanero, as Alda fears?"

  What could she say? She was not willing to lie to Pepe. "Yes, I want my inheritance back."

  "In your shoes I would probably too, but Alda is afraid for you. Are you sure it’s a goo idea? We have it good."

  "Pepe, I can’t help it. I’m not afraid for myself, but only that I might involve you, although I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe."

  "Hmm, that might be difficult."

  The sour smell of spilled wine hit her nose. It took her a moment before she could make out things in the dim light of two small oil lamps. The dozen or so men and three women, one of them sitting on a man’s lap and being groped by him, stopped talking. Squinting eyes met them. A big man in an apron got up from the nearest of the two trestle tables.

  "Accommodate yourself." He pointed to the seat he had vacated. "Wine?"

  "Yes, your best," replied Chiara. The four fellows at the table looked her over from top to toe. It felt like being slowly undressed.

  "First time here?" one of them asked.

  "Yes," said Pepe. "We just arrived in town."

  "Looking for something?"

  "Always looking," answered Chiara winking. "What do you offer?"

  "That depends on how much you can pay."

  The innkeeper brought a jug of wine and poured two cups.

  "Fill up theirs too," said Chiara.

  The fellows quickly drained their cups before holding them up to the innkeeper. She guessed that they were not drinking his best. She took a sip and almost spit it out again. Pepe’s face was comical.

  "A knife for a guild’s man costs you ten florins."

  "We are good at that too." She noticed Pepe’s surprised look. "I need a seal copied."

  "Forgery? Not my line. "

  "Know somebody who knows?"

  "I might." He looked at her speculatively, as if assessing her worth.

  "A grosso?" She put a five-solidi silver piece on the table.

  He left it there and scratched his beard.

  "Another one when I get the name and where he lives."

  He put his hand on the coin, saying: "Done. Come back tomorrow evening. If I’m not here, ask for Felipe."

  "Ah, Ser Felipe, and what does a stranger need to know in this city?" she asked.

  They were told the best ploys to avoid the guards after curfew, which quarters of town were more heavily patrolled, and the current rates for bribes. Chiara paid for a second jug of wine before they left.

  They were back at the inn next day. As she approached the table where their contact sat, he nodded. For an instant, she thought he greeted her, but when she saw two fellows get up, she immediately was on the alert.

  "Watch out," she whispered to Pepe and then asked aloud: "Salve, Ser Felipe, got me a name?"

  "Yes, Signora, in Borgo dei Greci." He held out his hand. "The other grosso you promised."

  She put her hand into her pocket to retrieve her purse. From the corner of her vision she saw the two fellows edge closer to Pepe. So, instead of the purse, she pulled out a knife. Before Felipe knew what happened, its tip was pressing into the soft flesh under his chin.

  "You two sit again or I’ll push this in to the hilt," she ordered, while pulling a second knife from her belt.

  Felipe did not dare to move, holding his chin as high up as he could, his arms hanging limply from his side.

  Like magic, a knife had appeared in each of Pepe’s hands too. "You better do what she says. She isn’t kidding," he said.

  The two fellows backed off, looking uncertainly from Pepe to Felipe.

  "Sit, now," she bellowed.

  They slowly returned to their seats. She released the pressure a bit.

  "Ser Felipe, I told you we were good with knives. I came here to get a name. You have one?"

  "Christophoro Stachos in Via Burella," he said immediately, as if he had been waiting for this, moving his chin as little as possible.

  She increased the pressure again. "Don’t take me for a fool."

  "It is Stachos in Via Burella, I swear by the holy Madonna."

  "Let’s go, Pepe." She started moving backward to the door.

  "And my other grosso? I gave you the name," Felipe begged.

  "Your other grosso?
Thank the Madonna that you’re still breathing."

  They quickly left and ran down to the end of the alley.

  "What a fool," remarked Pepe, as they walked briskly along the Arno to the nearest bridge.

  "He thought we were easy prey. But, thank you, Pepe, for your help."

  He smiled. "You were so quick. You had your knives out before me."

  * * *

  Next morning, again disguised as a priest, she went to Via Burella behind Palazzo Vecchio. Ser Stachos ran a small engraving workshop. When she entered, he was standing behind a large workbench that divided the room into two. He was a tiny man, probably in his fifties, and was almost bald, just a few gray hairs above his ears. Stroppy eyebrows dominated his face. His small eyes had a perpetual smile. He looked utterly respectable. She doubted that this man was a forger.

  "I was told that you make seals," she said after greeting him.

  He nodded emphatically. "Yes, Padre, that’s my speciality. I have many merchants and nobles as my clients." The smile intensified, almost closing his eyes.

  "I would like to have a seal made for myself. Here is a drawing of my family crests. Can you do it from this?"

  He took the sheet of paper from Chiara’s outstretched hand, searched over the workbench to retrieve eyeglasses that he pinched on his nose. Then he held the drawing close to them. "It can be done." He looked up, placed the eyeglasses carefully on the workbench, and asked: "Do you already have another seal for it? I can then make it identical."

  "No, this is the first time my family has a seal made."

  For a moment, the smile left his face. "What family name, Padre?"

  This time she was prepared for the name and immediately answered: "Duranti da Gaeta."

  He wrote the name below the drawing and then looked up. "Gaeta? But you don’t speak the southern vernacular."

  "No, my mother is from Florence… When will it be ready?"

  "Tomorrow after vespers."

  After leaving his shop, she talked to his neighbors farther down the narrow street. It only revealed that he had lost his wife and teenage son at the very beginning of the plague, that he was a polite man who always had kind words, particularly for children. He ever had nuts and raisins to hand out, and he loved to stroke and pet them.

  As she walked back to the inn, the words ‘stroke and pet’ rang in her mind. It could be innocent, pure kindness and delight in children. It could also be ominous. Maybe there was more to the man than met the eye.

  * * *

  The following day she went to the office of the guild of money lenders and merchants. She wanted to find out if the Naples Lamartini banking house had an agent in Florence. As she hoped, they did not, but the guild secretary told her that he believed they were represented in Pisa. Would this cause any danger, she wondered?

  Late afternoon, she visited Stachos again with the scrap of parchment to which the almost undamaged seal of Lamartini was still attached.

  "Ser Stachos, what masterful work you have done," she exclaimed, admiring the new seal he had made, and she did not even have to lie. He provided her with a blob of hot sealing wax and she tried it out.

  "Perfect," she said.

  "You really like it?" he asked, his small eyes shining over the lenses sitting low on his nose, seemingly assessing her worth.

  "Yes, I am impressed by your craftsmanship. You are a real master in your trade. What do I owe you, Ser Stachos?"

  "One florin." It was said rather tentatively, as if he was uncertain about charging that much.

  She handed him four double grossi and admired his workmanship again, casually turning back to him. "I was told by an acquaintance in Borgo Santissimi Apostoli who knows you that you also repair seals."

  The customary smile fled his face for a short moment before reappearing, somewhat strained. "I have repaired a few broken ones, but I thought you said that the seal I made for you was new."

  "It’s not for me. An acquaintance of mine who recently moved from Naples to this illustrious city with me … he was robbed, and he lost his family seal. Can you make a copy based on a wax imprint?"

  "Esteemed Padre, I could not do this. Our guild rules prohibit it. I’m only allowed to make a new one if I’m given an old one. Your friend will have to ask his family to provide him with a copy of one of theirs."

  "That’s impossible since he has no family left. Ser Stachos, my contact in Borgo Santissimi Apostoli assured me that you would have the skills to do it, obviously for a commensurate reward for your extra care."

  "Esteemed Padre, you must have been misinformed, I’ve never done anything of the sort."

  He sounded so genuine that she would have believed him, except for that quick frown the first time she mentioned Borgo Santissimi Apostoli.

  "My man in Santissimi Apostoli also told me that you like children."

  This time there was no mistake. The smile vanished, revealing a haunted look, before he managed to regain his composure. "Who doesn’t like children? They’re such lovable creatures."

  "Yes, they are, but I heard you like them rather much. Are you certain you won’t make me that seal?"

  "Oh, Signore, please." His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Please, don’t talk like that."

  His switch to "Signore" did not escape her. "My lips will be sealed if you do it," she replied, smiling at her own choice of words. She placed the scrap of parchment on the table. "And I’m willing to pay well."

  She could see his internal struggle and felt suddenly disgusted with herself by what she was doing to the poor man. After a while, he buckled under the pressure, searched helplessly for his eyeglasses on the bench.

  "Here they are." Chiara pointed to them.

  He fumbled pinching them to his nose, took the seal and held it close.

  "It’s difficult to do from a wax imprint. I can’t guarantee that it will be successful, since I may ruin the imprint while I do it."

  "I accept that risk. But give it your utmost care. We don’t want any unpleasantness."

  "No, Padre, we’ll do our best to avoid that," he replied, his smile intensifying. He studied the imprint again. "It will cost you a lot… four florins."

  "Fine. Here are two as an advance. When will it be ready?"

  The gold pieces disappeared almost instantly in his pocket.

  "This coming Monday."

  "Thank you, Ser Stachos. I appreciate your help."

  She briefly locked eyes with him. There was no smile in hers. It was better that he feared her.

  * * *

  The seal turned out to be perfect. Ser Stachos explained to her that he had found the blemish usually hidden in a seal so that its authenticity could be verified. She asked him to make a copy of another wax imprint, this one from the notary of the King of Naples. He seemed to recognize its origin. His hand quickly withdrew before it touched the two broken pieces.

  "No, Signore, I cannot do this. Not this one. Please, don’t ask me to."

  He sounded genuinely frightened. Sensing her own rising disgust for what she was doing, she could not follow through.

  "Ser Stachos, I understand that you’re frightened —"

  "No, Signore, I cannot —" he interrupted her, wringing his hands.

  "I won’t ask you to do it. I only need it once. Can you repair the two parts so that I can use it again and it will be difficult to detect the break? I’ll pay two florins for it."

  Another customer entered his shop. The two parchment scraps disappeared under the table, and he only nodded.

  She returned two days later. The wax imprint looked new, only its underside showed where it had been mended, but that part would be made soft in order to make it stick to the paper or parchment. She happily paid the two florins and promised that he would never see her again.

  14

  Florence, June 1349

  After we had settled into that splendid city and even added Orlando to our troupe, the talented and experienced actor, I took the first tentative steps on my q
uest to destroy Casa Sanguanero and gain back my inheritance. The engraver I discovered in the Borgo dei Greci did a perfect job with forging the seals. However, the callousness with which I persuaded the little man to do my bidding left me wondering about myself. Had the quest for revenge debased me to the point where I would threaten an otherwise likeable old man with a possibly unhealthy love for children with exposure if he did not do what I wanted? I did not even have any evidence that he had done any harm. Maybe it was only in his mind. I felt bad for days. Was I becoming like Sanguanero? Was I any better? At least, their victims were from their own kind, other nobles and rich merchants. I had a crisis of conscience. Should I abandon my quest, as Alda had urged me? We were doing well and would earn enough in a year or two to buy a nice property in the countryside or even a small business in town to live comfortably.

  But I was different, I tried to convince myself. If the little engraver had flatly refused, would I really have followed through on my threat. I would not have been able to do so. And the simple threat had not really harmed him, except for a few sleepless nights, I hoped. My need for revenge — I saw it then as a righteous quest for justice — won out. If I abandoned it, I knew it would have grated on me for the rest of my life.

  There were two other major arrangements I had to make before I could put my plan into action. I had to be able to travel between Florence and Siena in less than eight hours, otherwise how could I participate in an evening performance in Florence and then give the appearance of waking up in Siena the next morning? Had my father not marveled how the imperial messengers of the Roman empire were capable of travel over vast distances in a single day by picking up fresh horses at regular intervals. The fifteen leagues between Florence and Siena would not need more than three stages, I reasoned. So I needed to find two places where I could change horses, and prudence called for them to be hidden from the busy traffic on the road connecting the two cities. That ruled out hiring horses from roadside taverns. In fact, it would be less conspicuous if I kept to old riding or mule tracks, rather than use to the new cart road that had been built in the last fifty years, where a fast rider might stir up undesirable curiosity. There surely must be farmers or shepherds who for a silver coin or two would look after a horse that I left there for my use.