The Miracles of Prato

by Laurie Albanese

  “I’m in the position to offer you a commission, one that will come with a sizable windfall. Forty florins,” the merchant said, a glass of honeyed wine in his well-manicured hand. He took a slow sip. “Enough to provide for la donna and il bambino, at least for some time.”

  The monk was astounded. His prayers to the Sacra Cintola had been answered quickly, and with good fortune.

  “An enormous altarpiece, for the Bankers’ Guild. They want a nursing Madonna surrounded by angels, with their patron Saint Matthew kneeling in honor at her feet,” de’ Valenti said.

  He pulled a paper from his desk and read the complete request of the Arte del Cambio. Below the central panel with the nursing Madonna, the predella was to contain scenes of Saint Matthew’s life; the side wings would have images of Saints Matthew and Jerome. The altarpiece was to be grand, costly, and, as de’ Valenti emphasized, rapidly executed in time for the summer celebration of the Feast of Mary Magdalena, when the Arte del Cambio’s new guild offices would be opened and blessed.

  “They proposed another painter, but I assured them you are the best. This is true, amico mio,” de’ Valenti said. He wasn’t one to offer indiscriminate praise. “They’ll pay you the florins when the work is complete. They want it three weeks after the Solstice, in plenty of time for the feast.”

  “It is not possible,” Fra Filippo cried, more forcefully than he meant to.

  “The time doesn’t suit you?” De’ Valenti frowned.

  “No, the timing is fine, it’s most agreeable, Ottavio. But I must have supplies, gold leaf, lapis lazuli, a fresh set of poplar panels. All of these are costly, and can’t be obtained on credit, you understand. I must have resources if I am to reflect God’s glory in the work.”

  De’ Valenti nodded.

  “If there’s no other way,” he said hesitantly. He knew the guild wouldn’t be patient. “They’ll pay you half the florins up front, but they’ll expect to see regular progress in return. And they’ll be after you, Filippo.”

  As de’ Valenti spoke, Fra Filippo imagined Lucrezia dressed in the finery she deserved, their baby swaddled in real silk rather than scraps and coarse cloth. He imagined new thatch on his roof, perhaps a strong bed with wooden posts and an embroidered coverlet. For a moment the unpainted walls in Santo Stefano and the half-finished panels for King Alfonso flashed through his mind, but he brushed them away. Clearly, this commission was a gift from the Virgin Mother, bestowed upon him through the powers of her Holy Belt.

  “You can sign the contract and get your money tomorrow at the guild offices,” de’ Valenti said, leveling his gaze at the painter. “But as I said, these men expect the work on time. And they are not gentle men, Filippo.”

  “Grazie. Thank you, Signor Ottavio,” Fra Filippo said as he clasped the merchant’s hand. “May God grant you mercy and profit.”

  Fra Filippo went to the guild offices early the next morning to collect twenty gold florins, signing a contract in his heavy hand and solemnly accepting the money from the notary of the Arte del Cambio. He passed by a row of offices and lingered at the doorway long enough to see a small man in a red robe eyeing him over a pile of papers. As he exited the wooden doors of the building, guarded by two porcine men in black tunics, the hefty bag of florins pulled reassuringly on Fra Filippo’s belt.

  In good cheer, he stopped and visited the butcher, picking out the fattest rabbit for their evening meal. Lucrezia cooked the rabbit that afternoon, stewing it with yellow onions and the last piece of rutabaga, and they ate an early cena by a newly fed fire. They hadn’t had fresh meat since Lent had begun, and Lucrezia was radiant. Seeing her happy, Fra Filippo couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the new piece for the Bankers’ Guild—he knew another commission would only make her worry.

  “Your long hours of work have brought their reward,” she said, smiling across the table.

  “Soon Lent will be over,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’ve abstained, as you asked.”

  Lucrezia bowed her head.

  “We have to be very careful of the baby, Filippo.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood behind her. Then he breathed a kiss onto the back of her neck.

  “Always,” he said, inhaling the scent of her chamomile. “Always.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Holy Week, the Year of Our Lord 1457

  In small niches along the streets of Prato, parishioners festooned their Madonna statuettes with white flowers, and white sashes were cleaned and readied to be hung over church doorways in preparation for the celebration of Easter. Lines from the Gospels rang out in the piazzas at night, where the confraternities mounted passion plays and the long-faced cobbler, chosen to represent the Son this year, dragged a heavy cross supplied, as always, by the Woodworkers’ Guild. The streets leading to the Church of Santo Stefano were turned into the Via Dolorosa, Christ’s road of misery, and despite the short patches of grass that had already begun to grow, the small hill that led to the sheep meadows north of Prato became a terrifying Golgotha.

  As she’d done every year since reaching womanhood, Lucrezia attended Mass on Holy Thursday. She’d rarely ventured out of the bottega since her pregnancy had begun to show, but the Mass before the Triduum Sacrum was a treasured ritual she didn’t want to miss. With her head covered by a generous hood, she walked slowly to the Church of Santo Spirito and joined the others who waited on the side of the nave. When there was a free spot at the altar, Lucrezia knelt and began her Ave Maria. She was aware of her belly’s heavy low sling and bent over it protectively. When she had finished she rose slowly, her hands on the low arch of her back. Lost in prayer, she nearly walked into the woman heading toward her. It was Sister Bernadetta from the convent.

  “Sister Lucrezia!” the nun exclaimed, gazing at Lucrezia’s belly. “I’ve been praying for you,” the nun said, dropping her eyes.

  Although she was startled, Lucrezia was pleased to see the young nun.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was coming from the ospedale with Sister Simona, and we stopped here to say a prayer,” the nun answered softly.

  “Sister, please tell me if Spinetta is all right. She hasn’t written to me.”

  “Yes, she’s in fine health.” The nun hesitated. “But your sister’s taken a vow of silence and speaks only in prayer.” Seeing Lucrezia’s confusion, she continued. “She’s pledged to remain silent until she’s taken the full veil.”

  At the kind expression in the nun’s eyes, Lucrezia’s own eyes filled. She’d endured much loneliness, and couldn’t bear to have the sisters at the convent think ill of her.

  “Look, Sister Bernadetta.” She thrust out her left hand and displayed the golden ring she wore.

  “Are you a monna, a married lady?” Sister Bernadetta squeezed Lucrezia’s hand, and the young woman wanted nothing more than to tell her friend that she was properly wed.

  “We’re awaiting word from Rome, and pray we’ll hear from His Holiness, Pope Callistus, soon. Until then we’ve exchanged the promise a man and a woman can give one another, and have the blessing of a priest.”

  The nun smiled kindly, but Lucrezia could see it was a smile of pity. She didn’t ask any more questions, and Sister Bernadetta seemed eager to go. She saw the nun looking past her, to pale-faced Sister Simona who waited near the narthex.

  “I’ll pray for you and the child,” Sister Bernadetta said after she’d kissed Lucrezia’s forehead. “God’s grace to you. And blessed Easter.”

  At dawn on Easter morning, Lucrezia knelt at the foot of the bed singing a hymn praising the resurrected Christ, and repeating her Ave Maria.

  “Ave Maria Stella, Dei Mater Alma, at que simper virgo, felix coeli porta.”

  When she’d finished, she rose slowly and walked into the empty kitchen where a fire already roared. She warmed her hands, arching her back against the pressure of her growing belly. Silently, still lost in the reverie of her chanting, she dr
ew back the curtain that led into the workshop, and gasped.

  There was a rainbow of silks in the bottega, the likes of which she hadn’t seen since the heyday of her father’s shop in Florence.

  “Oh, Filippo.” Her eyes took in several braccia of the finest blue silk from Lucca, the richest browns and golds, the jewellike purple and red. “They’re beautiful.”

  The painter rose from his worktable and crossed to her. His robe was brilliant white amid the color.

  “Where did this treasure come from?” she asked.

  He smiled. The effort and promises it had taken were worth it, simply to see the joy on her face. He lifted a piece of blue silk and held it out to her. Her hand grasped his, the silk rippling between them like water.

  “I’ve gone to my friends and begged what favors I’m owed,” he said. “My only wish is for you to be happy. For you, and the child.”

  “But each piece must have cost many florins—”

  “The child will have a proper baptismal gown, Lucrezia, and you will have a silken pillow to rest your head upon when you labor.”

  Lucrezia closed her eyes and fingered the blue silk, imagining their child swaddled in a length of seta leale, lying in a cradle lined with rich fabrics and plush pillows.

  The painter touched her face. There was a wrinkle on her skin where she’d been lying against the blanket’s fold. He touched the ridge there, put a hand on her shoulder, moved the white cloth of her sleeping gown.

  “I did this for you,” Fra Filippo said quietly. “Because I love you.”

  He took her face in his hands and turned it this way and that.

  “You’ve been very understanding,” he said, desire deepening his voice. “Very patient. Very beautiful.”

  He buried his face in her neck and kissed her, fell to his knees and pressed his face against her belly. Lucrezia was startled at the way her body responded, with heat and longing that began between her legs and radiated upward.

  “Filippo.” She ran her hands across the top of his head, along the rim of his short hair and the stubble on his cheeks.

  He stood and gathered her into his arms. Even with the baby, she was light. He carried her to the bedroom and carefully laid her on the soft bed. The blue silk was still in her hand. He spread it on top of her like a blanket, watching her face come alive at the feel of the silk against her skin, the surprise in her eyes as he worked her gamurra up over her belly and shoulders until all that covered her was the lake of blue silk.

  He swiftly unknotted his belt and stripped off his robe. Her belly was the blue sea beneath him and he reached for it, feeling the length of her body, seeing the delicate veins that ran in her arms as she touched him. He stroked her face, touching her above the silk and then sliding his hand below it, across her full breasts, the taut, swollen belly, the brush of hair between her legs, her soft thighs. Gently he pressed her knees apart, using the strength in his arms to protect her from his weight as she opened.

  Lucrezia had never felt such desire. She felt her breath grow shallow, her eyes roll back. The painter watched her face. Her lips parted and she began to moan softly. He moved in her, whispering her name, thrusting slowly.

  Lucrezia let herself go. She felt herself grow from the single point between her legs to the depth and width of the earth. She cried out. Her moaning turned to deep sighs, and Fra Filippo knew that no matter what other men said of his sins, God had chosen to allow him into heaven.

  Lucrezia dressed for Easter Mass in a simple blue gamurra. She could still feel the painter’s hands on her skin, his body’s gentle pressure, the surprise of her desire.

  She brushed her hair languidly. It smelled of the chamomile she’d rinsed through it, but also of the smoke from the hearth, and the plaster dust that was always in the painter’s robes. She ran her fingers across her belly’s tight drum, waiting for the child’s kick. When she felt it, she smiled and called out.

  “Filippo?”

  She went into the kitchen, and heard him folding away the silks in the next room. She pulled aside the curtain at the doorway, looking for the tenderness in his eyes. But before their gazes met, a movement caught her eye and she looked past him, to the window that opened toward the piazza.

  A flash of red robe appeared, followed by a hand reaching into the window. Lucrezia screamed. Fra Filippo dropped the stretch of purple silk in his hands and whirled around. He ran to the door and flung it open. As he’d expected, there was no one there.

  “Who was that at the window?” Lucrezia asked, shaken and pale, both hands below her belly, as if she could cradle it in her arms.

  “I’m sure it was nothing,” Fra Filippo said.

  “It was someone,” she insisted. “Someone in a red robe trying to climb up to the window.”

  “Whoever it was, he’ll be sorry if I see him here again,” the painter said.

  His words hid his growing fear, and replaced the gentle calm that Lucrezia’s body had brought him. It was Easter—surely it wasn’t Inghirami spying at his window on a day when there was so much to do.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Fourth Week of Easter, the Year of Our Lord 1457

  Fra Filippo was at the center of activity in the cappella maggiore. Fra Diamante had been called away again, and there was much to accomplish before the intonaco could be mixed and the sketches transformed into the colorful figures of King Herod and his banquet guests. The painter felt the power of a king in his very fingertips, and wanted to get to work before the feeling slipped away.

  “Andiamo,” he snapped at Tomaso. “Prepare this surface so we can begin.”

  Giorgio was stretching a cord across the wall to check the accuracy of the perspective line, while Young Marco ground the pigment for yet another batch of giallorino.

  “You, too, Giorgio, hurry up. And Young Marco, how long does it take you to mix some binder?”

  Frustrated by the slow progress of the frescoes, the painter turned his thoughts to the Bankers’ Guild altarpiece. To quicken his progress, he planned to copy two of the figures he’d already sketched for the frescoes, using a rabbi from the synagogue as the figure of Saint Matthew beside the nursing Madonna, and two others from the same scene for the figures of the saints on either side panel. It was a common practice, and one the men of the Arte del Cambio would never notice.

  The painter was contemplating the figures of Saint Jerome and Saint Matthew when he felt the air beside him stir, and looked up into the solemn, gray face of Provost Inghirami, whose red robes swirled around him.

  “It’s been too long,” Inghirami said, his voice cold and measured.

  Fra Filippo stiffened, shuffling a blank piece of parchment on top of the sketch in his hand. He hadn’t seen the provost for many weeks. He tried to take a measure of the man, to determine if his were the red robes that seemed to be haunting him.

  “What are you working on, Fratello?”

  Moving aside the silverpoints and parchment, Fra Filippo picked up the sheet on which he’d drawn Inghirami’s face. He held it up for the provost and saw he’d been too kind. In the sketch the man looked sharp and graceful, fully alive.

  The provost narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “The Comune di Prato has approved my likeness. But we have heard you’ve taken an additional commission, Fratello.” The provost let his eyes roam the clutter on the worktable. “Remember, you’re indebted to Santo Stefano.”

  “How can I forget?” Fra Filippo smelled the sardines the provost had eaten for lunch. “You seem to be everywhere. Reminding me.”

  The provost raised himself even taller, his spine erect. He glanced beyond the painter to where the assistants were busy at their work, safely out of hearing.

  “I don’t like your tone, Fratello,” Inghirami said. “Remember, the comune gets its reports from me. Don’t let the Bankers’ Guild supplant your obligations to the Church. It will not bode well if you do.”

  With a nod, the cleric slipped away again,
his red robes hissing along the limestone floor as they dragged behind him.

  He’d barely left the chapel when Fra Filippo felt a hand on his shoulder and turned abruptly to face his friend Fra Piero.

  “You startled me, Piero,” he said, trying to hide his unsteady hands. But the procurator knew him well, and pulled him into the nave, where fresh air entered from the open doors beyond the narthex.

  “What’s the matter, Filippo? You look terrible,” Fra Piero said.

  The artist shook his head and forced a smile.

  “Mio amico, you know how it is when I’m puzzling over something in my work.” He shifted his body, craning to see the mouth of the cappella maggiore. Fra Piero followed his gaze.

  “Something’s troubling you,” the procurator said. They stood beside the wooden statue of Saint Elizabeth, the row of votive candles flickering around the base of the pedestal. “What is it?”

  As Fra Filippo prepared to answer, he caught another spark of rippling red fabric, and his body twisted. The motion came from a doorway that led to the stairs accessing the church’s crypt. A tall figure in red slipped quickly through the door, shutting it silently behind him.

  “Inghirami?” the procurator asked.

  Fra Filippo was hesitant to speak. “I seem to be seeing red robes everywhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Reluctantly, the painter told him about the figure at the window on Easter morning, the man in red who seemed to shadow him through the streets.

  “The provost doesn’t move with ease. He’s old and slippery, not quick and strong,” Fra Piero said. As he spoke, the procurator wondered if his friend, who was under a great strain, was letting his imagination get the better of him. “Probably it’s just someone who’s curious about your affairs, Filippo. Don’t let it trouble you.”

  Still gazing across the nave, Fra Filippo put a hand to his temple and rubbed his eyes.