Marcello. Has word yet reached you? Do you know what they intend?
Even if I tried, I could not imagine the Forellis without their castle, living anywhere but that precious corner of the republic. What would happen to them? If they lost their home, as well as their means of making a living? I shook my head. I could not be a part of that, regardless of the cost.
The crowd was parting before me, throwing flower petals at my feet, but they were dead, shriveled blooms crackling beneath each footfall. Each step pained me—the new slippers chafed my tender, bruised, and cut soles, and the strained muscle in my thigh throbbed. But the people laughed, thinking I reacted to the piles of crunchy petals.
Freaks, I thought. Who keeps piles of dead petals, anyway? What kind of crazy ceremony called for such a thing?
We turned a corner into the piazza, and I saw, a hundred feet away, a cage of branches that curved from the top and were secured at the bottom. Dead, shriveled flowers on vines wound through the branches above. My eyes followed the rope, which held it aloft, to the center of a grand arch, fifty feet high, part of a wall that extended to the edge of the piazza. I swallowed hard.
Did they really intend to lift me to the top of that? What if I fell?
Lord Greco felt my hesitation and looked down at me with sad eyes. He pulled me forward, and the crowd parted farther until I could see that on either side were the rest of the grandi.
They stood, somber and waiting. Lord Greco waited until a knight opened the cage door, then he turned to me and waved me inside, as if he were offering me the finest carriage possible.
The crowd erupted in laughter.
I shook my head. “Nay. Please, nay. There must be another route,” I said to the men beside Lord Barbato, looking from one to the next, leaving my eyes on Lord Greco the longest. “This is hardly civilized. What if I were one of your daughters?” I cried. “Your sister?” I said to Lord Greco.
His arms came around me then, and he bodily lifted me inside. I nearly blacked out from the pain as he pressed into my bruised and broken ribs—on purpose? How could he be so cruel? I am so confused…
He shut the door as I turned and tried to block it, in full panic now. The cage was barely bigger than my body.
Lord Greco would not look me in the eye as a knight tied it shut, and the rest of the men circled the cage.
“Lady Betarrini,” said Lord Barbato, directly at my door. “You are hereby sentenced to the cage until your groom comes to claim you, with the required dowry in hand, be it before or after your death. May his way be hastened.”
I gripped the branches that formed the door and stared at him. “May Castello Forelli lead the way to Firenze’s defeat,” I said, “and may your soul rot in the pit of Hades.”
He stared at me coldly and gestured with his hand for his men to haul me up.
The rope was immediately taut, and I felt the cage tilt and lift. I hurriedly set my feet on two of five branches at the bottom, feeling a shiver of fear race up my back when they creaked, as if groaning in complaint from my weight.
Lord Greco gripped the edge and swung it, making me lean far in the opposite direction. I spun, even as the knights above continued to haul me upward, and I thought I might vomit all across the jeering crowd beneath me.
I almost wanted to. Would serve ’em right…
But I held it down. I needed every ounce of carb and protein and liquid inside me, if I was to survive what was ahead of me.
At the top, the cage continued to twist in the wind. I shifted my feet, trying to find a position that didn’t make my cut-up soles burn so badly. Above me, I saw that the rope went through two doors and wrapped around a winch atop the wall. A guard locked it down and then shut the trapdoors, sealing me off.
This can’t be happening. Dimly, I remembered some movie in which the city’s prisoners had been caged and left to rot along the main road into and out of a city. I knew punishment was severe and often barbaric in this era. But this? Surely they wouldn’t allow me to die here in this cage! Someone, somewhere, would show me mercy in time. It was all for show. A parade of sorts. Right?
If they had cell phones, they’d be taking shots of me and sending them to Marcello, goading him, mocking us. Unfortunately for me, it might take a day to find Marcello with word—assuming he was near Castello Forelli or on the front lines. But what if he was elsewhere, nursing Luca? Still in hiding? I counted back. Luca had been ill for four days now. Was he rallying? Improving? Or dead?
Lia. Lia and my mother would receive the word, even if Marcello or Fortino were not within reach. Together, they’d find some way to come to my aid. We’d been given gold, in Siena. Maybe they could use some of that to hire some mercenaries to help come bust me loose.
I looked down. Who am I kidding? The people of Firenze seemed pretty committed to this whole hostage deal. They danced and feasted—even with so many men off to the battle, the square was packed. The festivities became louder, more raucous, as the wine set in and the hours ticked by. It was the only good part about my high perch—they couldn’t reach me. I shivered in the cold evening autumn breeze, wishing my bridal gown was a high-necked one, and at last, I gingerly sank to the bottom, trying to give my poor feet a break.
The cage was so narrow, I had to sit with my knees to my chest. But I discovered that the generous folds of fabric from my skirts and train could be utilized as a sort of padding for my rear end, when adjusted right. The crowd pointed and laughed when I sat down, as if I had just admitted defeat or something.
I ignored them and looked up to the sky, the stars dim against the glow of the fires beneath me. I tried to ignore the fact that I was already thirsty, tried to forget the feel of Lord Greco’s cold goblet at my lips. I leaned my forehead against a limb and found him again among the throngs beneath me, near the rest of the lords, dancing with a pretty woman. I didn’t know what his connection to Marcello was—what that tattoo was about—but he obviously wasn’t riding hard to meet him. He wasn’t squiring himself away in some secret place, talking with knights who might dare to come to my rescue.
Then, as if he sensed my stare, he turned in the dance and glanced up at me.
I looked away, back to the stars. He had probably played me the fool. Showed me the tattoo to give me false hope, encourage me to go quietly to my doom. Somewhere, someway, he and Marcello had been close enough as friends to have received the same mark on their arms. Perhaps that friendship was long over.
The smell of meat cooking over the fires had been drifting up toward me all evening, but now my stomach rumbled. Just the idea of not having another meal made me feel more anxious. Think of the Hunger Pledge, Gabs, I told myself, remembering a time sophomore year when a group of us raised money for the poor by going without food for twenty-four hours. Just pretend you’re doing that again.
But at least then, I’d had water. And no one was having a barbecue in my backyard…
I dozed off as the fires died down and the square emptied. Only nine or ten revelers remained, so drunk they could not make it home, sleeping where they fell, or in corners of the piazza, leaning against the buildings. I awakened a few hours later, my breath fogging in clouds before my face. I was shivering uncontrollably.
Even worse was my shrieking bladder. I heard a guard on the wall above me and saw the light of his flickering torch. “Sir!” I called, trying to get my teeth to stop chattering. He ignored me at first. But when I kept calling, he finally moved over to the wall, directly above me by about fifteen feet, and peered through the trap doors. “I…I need to relieve myself.”
He rolled his eyes. “So be about it then.”
I paused, his words sinking in. Even for this—this—there was not to be some semblance of…of…civility?
He walked off, taking up his position again. The square was already coming alive, workmen there to clear the debris of the fires, getting ready for the morning market. It’s only going to get worse, Gabi. Quickly, I lifted myself to my feet, letting the feeli
ng come back to my legs with the pin-prickles of blood flow, then gathered my skirts, shoved down my pantaloons and squatted.
I concentrated on the agony of my hamstring as I ignored the laughter and surprised shouts of two men below, and above me, the low chuckle of the guard. As soon as I was done, I hurriedly lifted my pantaloons, let the skirts fall and resumed the process of stretching out my sore legs, trying to push aside the humiliation.
I clutched two branches before me and stared out to the east, taking comfort in the pink glow, the first bits of sunrise, appearing there. In an hour, it would be far warmer. I stretched my fingers, which looked weirdly white, wondering if September was too early to get a case of frostbite.
You are not alone, Lord Greco had said.
But the words came back to me in my father’s voice.
You are not alone, he repeated.
I feel alone. Never have I felt lonelier.
You are not. You are seen. Known. Remembered.
Fab. Can someone who remembers me get me out of this mess?
There was no more voice in my head, warming my heart.
There was only the cold morning.
The morning passed by like a version of medieval C-Span, cameras rolling 24-7. And I was the camerawoman, watching fishmongers and produce sellers and butchers and cloth merchants set up tents and peddle their wares. Bargain, barter, bicker.
They all greeted me as they arrived and departed, as if making some rude comment was a key to a locked entrance.
I ignored them and then thought of smart things to retort. Long after they were gone, of course. Already, my weary, dehydrated brain wasn’t working so well.
Come early afternoon, the market closed, and most everyone returned to their homes for a hot meal and an afternoon siesta. Only a few continued to walk the square, and again I was confronted by the smells of cooking sauces, sausage sizzling above fires, the yeasty odor of bread. I closed my eyes and leaned in the corner of my cage, hoping for some sleep of my own. At least when I was sleeping, I could forget my parched throat and empty belly.
I awakened to the crowds of evening, walking among their friends, gathering in huddles to share news of the battle not thirty miles to our south. I leaned to the side, hoping to hear what was happening, but could not make out more than a word or two. My eyes traveled over the people, obviously more of the aristocracy at this hour, although I didn’t see Lord Barbato and his peeps. Women were in fine gowns and jewelry; men wore exquisite tunics. They were the rich and powerful, apparently able to buy freedom to stay back from the battle for their husbands and sons. There were soldiers among them, drinking, cavorting, dressed in the matching tunics of their overlords. Was the battle going so well that they could send some home to the mother city?
I closed my eyes in pain at the thought.
They acted as if their own men were not dying now, lying in trenches or dry riverbeds, bleeding, suffering. Here in the plaza, they laughed and flirted and occasionally made a joke at my expense. In those moments, they would look up at me as a group, seemingly holding their breath. I’d look away, weary of such games, and then hear their laughter.
My hunger abated, reaching that place at last when you just feel empty but don’t have that insane desire to fix it and fix it right now. Hunger I could live with, I decided, other than the nagging headache residue it left behind. But I was so thirsty now that my tongue felt thick and dry in my mouth, as if it were a lump of dead flesh. My lips were cracking.
At least I don’t have to pee, I thought dully as the sun set and the chill of night crept near again. I forced myself to rise and stretch my aching legs, staring to the south, where I could see smoke rising to the sky. A castle on fire? A forest? Marcello, where are you?
More than twenty-four hours had passed. I wanted to scream, rip the limbs open at the top of the cage and climb up the rope. But the rope disappeared between two doors, doors I’d never seen open after the guard peered through. I assumed they were for molten lead or hot oil, the remnants of an old city wall. Now it was merely decorative, a lookout point for guards, a place to hold the city’s trophies.
Like me.
CHAPTER 23
Thirty-six hours, I thought dimly. The market was in full swing by the time I forced myself to my feet, clawing my way awkwardly up the branches of my cage. Again, pain shot through my limbs as the blood began to flow to my feet. I hung there against the branches, clenching my teeth to keep from screaming. When the pain abated, I opened weary eyes on the people beneath me.
Whereas my tongue felt like a lump of dead flesh yesterday, today it felt shriveled, even odder in my mouth. Four nuns were walking toward me. I could not help myself. Even though I’d sworn I would not stoop to such measures. The idea of a drink, just a sip—
“Please! Sisters!” I cried, my voice monstrous and garbled, foreign to my own ears. “A bit of water! Only a bit of water!”
The one in front paused but did not look up. Her companion bent and said a word in her ear, and they immediately went on their way.
With frustration, I felt tears rise to my eyes. Dry as the desert, Gabi, and you’re going to waste what you’ve got left on tears? Seriously?
But I couldn’t help it. I was trembling and weak, feeling not at all like myself. Tears streamed down my face. If I could only have some water, just a cup full, how much better I’d feel!
I wept as if I was the only woman who had ever suffered such horror, ever. Then I cried over my weakness, knowing that others had suffered far worse. Come on, Gabi, get a grip. Get a grip!
As the piazza emptied for siesta that afternoon, I sank back to my corner perch and fell into a sketchy, dream-filled sleep, waking again and again, and yet not able to stay alert either.
You are not alone.
I opened my eyes then and turned to my right, trying to get my eyes to focus in the fading afternoon light. Who was there, below me?
Lord Greco. He waited until a pair of women passed by, then with his foot, he casually traced the shape of a triangle.
I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, with the dim idea of calling out to him, to beg for water, but he had moved on through the arch and out of my line of vision. Slowly, I rolled my head to the left, looking down the street in that direction, but he wasn’t there either.
Could someone speak when dying of dehydration? When her tongue refused to cooperate? When one small movement made her dizzy?
He wanted me to remember the triangle tattoo, I decided, dragging my eyes up into the pale, washed out sunset. Why? So that I knew not everyone in this city was my sworn enemy? That he’d look after my body, after I died? See me properly buried rather than left here as Barbato threatened?
What was the point?
I could tell already that, come morning, I would not be able to rise. I was too weak, my arms and legs feeling like sticks of butter in a hot kitchen. Worse, I was getting to the place that I didn’t care.
That can’t be good, I thought distantly, assessing myself as if I was my own nurse.
But really, wouldn’t it be easier to let go, give in, rather than fight? These people were not going to show me mercy.
I had only a day left in me, anyway. People could survive a long time without food. But without water? I knew it was impossible. I’d seen enough Man vs. Wild to know that. People set adrift upon the sea. Plane crashes in the desert. Lots of time on the food front. But liquid? Seventy-two hours, tops. Then the internal organs started shutting down. Once your kidneys went, you were totally messed up.
Forty-eight hours, I thought, watching as stars began to emerge in the darkening sky, drifting again, as if I were in one of those life rafts.
I had a day left in me, then I’d be dead.
Dead like my dad. With my dad?
With him? Somewhere? Heaven? For the first time that day, I felt a jolt of hope. Peace.
Lia would have Mom.
And I’d have Dad.
Forever.
CHAPTER 24
I was dreaming of battle. I heard a man cry out then fall silent.
But then, oddly, nothing but the cooing of two doves in their muddy nest to my upper left. I opened my eyes, blinking—they felt so dry it was like my eyelids were scraping across them. I could see the dim shape of the arch above me, a black monster against a smattering of stars. But then the two small doors opened, and I could see the shape of two heads peering down at me.
The tap, tap of boots approaching rang through the plaza, and the heads disappeared. Beneath me, a group of twelve guards came into view, carrying torches. They looked up at me and then forward again as they moved to the other side of the piazza in their nightly formation.
Nothing had alarmed the guard. All seemed normal to them. I looked up again, wondering if I had dreamed that two sets of eyes peered down at me. But no, they were there again.
“Gabriella, ’tis I,” came a low voice.
Marcello?
My heart leaped. Impossible.
I was hallucinating. But I didn’t care if it was only a dream. I’d gladly give in to this one.
“Do not move, beloved,” Marcello said.
No worries there, I thought. I couldn’t even force myself to speak.
“Has she lost consciousness?”
Who was he speaking to? Another responded. I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew the voice. Lord Greco.
“Bring her up. I’ll ride down with the cage, release her at the bottom.”
“You may have to carry her, when you do.”
“Lucky for us the city sleeps and the guard has passed.”
They began cranking on the winch. I winced at every click of the wheel—to me it was as loud as if it were a church bell ringing across the square. I let my head fall to the side, searching the cobblestones below for any sign of alarm.
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