The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany

by Linda Lafferty

  “There shall never be peace for me,” said Giacomo, plunging his head into his hands. The man hesitated.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am the rabbi of this congregation. Tell me why you will never know peace.”

  Giacomo’s words rushed out, unconsidered, unchecked. “Because I can never wash clean the sins I have committed. When you said you were more Senese than I, you were right! I have betrayed Siena, my God, my conscience.”

  The rabbi sat down beside him, making the joints of the bench groan.

  “Siena?”

  “I cannot explain. It is too much of a burden even for a priest to hear. At least a Senese priest, as I have just discovered. I confessed my sin, and he turned away in hatred. I shall burn in hell for all eternity.”

  The rabbi smiled. “Hell? Is that all?” he said.

  Giacomo uncovered his face, still wet with tears.

  “What?” he said, glaring at the rabbi. “What worse fate is there, Rabbi?”

  The rabbi made a swift huffing sound, dismissing his remark. Giacomo felt his rage growing in the darkness of the synagogue.

  “We Jews do not believe in your heaven or hell. We do not live only to be rewarded after our deaths. We are called to do good because it is our obligation to do right in the world, as God commanded. We look for no further reward.”

  “You—you do not believe in hell?”

  “Hell is what we create on Earth. There is nothing in the Torah—what you call the Old Testament—that describes this ‘hell’ you Christians fear.”

  Giacomo’s brow creased.

  “And heaven? Do you not believe in the angels on high?”

  The rabbi shook his head. “No, not the angels you believe in. Human souls with fluttering wings and halos. Very pretty indeed. No, death is permanent. We have a deep respect for it. And also for life.”

  Giacomo blinked in the dim light. The candles had a queer scent he could not recognize.

  “How can you not believe in heaven, where Jesus sits at the right hand of God?”

  “Jesus was a good Jew, he believed in doing good on Earth: charity, healing, honoring the commandments. But heaven with clouds and cherubs? A fairy tale gone too far.”

  Giacomo was too bewildered to speak.

  “Jews do not invest in dreams of heaven.”

  “What is the point in living, then?” asked Giacomo, exasperated.

  The rabbi smiled. “You do God an injustice, signore. There is much to do here on Earth. To live right. To do right, despite all odds. To appreciate the great gift of life that God has given us. That is the point of living. Not because there is a sweet at the end of the journey to entice little children to behave properly.”

  “Rabbi!” said Giacomo, raking his fingers through his hair. “There are wrongs far too twisted to make right. Ever. A priest has just told me as much.”

  “Pfff!” said the rabbi. “You forget the history of the Jewish people. We have forgiven—but not forgotten!—many sins. A Senese priest, on the other hand . . .” He opened his hands in supplication. “Well. We Senese are a proud people.”

  Giacomo felt an urge to laugh, though he was speaking of his eternal damnation. This rabbi was strangely disarming.

  “You confuse me, Rabbi. Our own priest cannot forgive me. You tell me there is no hell, but no heaven either. What is the use of confession, then?”

  The rabbi took a deep breath, expelling it noisily through his tufted nostrils.

  “Good question, signore. Have you considered rectifying your wrongs, rather than simply confessing them? Perhaps that would assuage the guilt. We Jews believe in tikkun olam. It means ‘repairing the world.’ We have an obligation, all of us, to heal wrongs.”

  “There is no way I can ever right this wrong. And if I were to tell you my transgressions, you would howl for my arrest.”

  “Allora! Fine . . . do not tell me,” said the rabbi, opening his hands with a shrug. “Confession is a cheap substitute for retribution. Charter your own way out of your darkness. Then settle your accounts with God.”

  Giacomo raised his head, looking at the rabbi.

  “Who . . . are you?”

  “I am called Rabbi Mortimer Borghi. I do not know your name.”

  “Giacomo. Giacomo di Torreforte.”

  “Ah!” chuckled the rabbi. “Signor Monte dei Paschi!”

  “I am a very poor businessman,” said Giacomo. “I have left the family business in the hands of my more capable brothers.”

  The rabbi considered this.

  “Then who are you, Giacomo di Torreforte?”

  Such impertinence! Di Torreforte swung his face toward the man.

  “I am an artist,” he said defiantly.

  “An artist,” said the rabbi, nodding his head. “A good one?”

  Giacomo considered the question.

  “Once I thought there was nothing in the world more important than my painting.” He knew it wasn’t really an answer to the question, but it was all he had to offer. “Now I paint with an obsession, trying to find—something! I do not know what I chase. But I am haunted.”

  “Yes. Then you understand passion, my friend! You know human nature,” said the rabbi. “You must recognize the grip that passion—for good or for evil—can have on the human soul. You must understand the darkness that is part of us. Understanding is the light to give you passage out of this black hole.”

  Giacomo did not say anything. He had a fleeting memory of a painting. The lines of a reclining beauty in ecstasy, ravaged by a swan.

  “Our eternal mistake is to deny the darkness in each of us. All of us. When we confront darkness without recognizing its universal nature, we are catapulted into chaos. We abandon our compass, which shows all directions, not just one.

  “The Old Testament is brimming with cruelty as well as mercy. Darkness and light live in each of us, awakened by passion. Such strong emotion can persuade us to do the very worst . . . or the very best. Passion can hurl us into the blinding light.”

  Giacomo said nothing. He looked around the house of worship. It was a simple room. Plain.

  How different this synagogue was from the cathedral! Where were the gold altarpieces, the precious jeweled chalice, the masterpieces of art?

  Even the smell was different. Beeswax from the candles and an ancient scent, musty and dense.

  “My friend. My advice to you is to right your wrong, no matter how ugly it may be. You have taken an eye—replace it. A tooth, a life—make retribution. Not because you will be a hero, not because you will go to heaven. Because . . . voi dovete.”

  Voi dovete . . . you should. You must.

  CHAPTER 91

  Florence, Palazzo Vecchio

  APRIL 1591

  “I should have you imprisoned,” said Granduca Ferdinando. “If your noble family weren’t allied so closely with Florence—”

  And if your family did not manage Monte dei Paschi so profitably.

  “Forgive me, Granduca,” said di Torreforte. “But hear me, I pray. I come to make amends for past deeds.”

  The granduca took a moment to control his anger. Then he nodded. “Proceed.”

  “Serenissimo, I carried out the express wishes of our late Granduca Francesco. And the villanella’s aunt gave written permission. Granduca Francesco had all the proper legal authority. I obeyed his orders.”

  Granduca Ferdinando glared. This matter would further stain the de’ Medici name. As if Francesco had not done enough damage already.

  “So.” He took another moment to calm himself. “You took her to a convent?”

  “Sì. I suggested it to spare her life. Granduca Francesco wanted to—”

  “What convent? Where?” Ferdinando did not want to hear what his brother had wanted.

  “In Ferrara. In the city of Ferrara.”

  The granduca nodded fiercely. His mind worked quickly. “Does Duca Alfonso know about this?”

  “Absolutely not, Serenissimo.”

  The granduca scowled, pulli
ng at his beard. “What about Ercole Cortile? Surely you must have had papers to move across the borders and within the walls of Ferrara.”

  “I was a messenger of Granduca Francesco. As an emissary of the granduca, I had official papers. But I never went as far as the d’Este Castle. My business was at the Convento di Sant’Antonio in Polesine.”

  “And so, Virginia Tacci is—a nun?”

  “I am not sure. She was a most unwilling postulant. The granduca paid a dowry of one hundred ducats a year to keep her within the convent walls. I do not know what happened after your brother’s death.”

  “Dio mio!” muttered the granduca. “I ordered those payments stopped when I audited the treasury. I could not see why the de’ Medici coffers should be opened to a Ferrarese convent.”

  “Then . . . I do not know. Perhaps she is no longer there. Perhaps they cast her out, if there was no more dowry. They would have sent her to a much poorer enclave. We may not be able to find her.”

  “Why are you here now, di Torreforte?”

  Giacomo looked straight into the granduca’s eyes.

  “I want to right a grievous wrong. And I am answering a request from a dying man. One you know. Giorgio Brunelli.”

  The granduca lifted his chin. He looked away from his visitor, out the open window.

  “You did not suspect as much, Serenissimo?” Giacomo asked.

  “Why should I suspect anything?” he snapped. “What do you mean, signore?”

  Di Torreforte held the gaze of the granduca.

  “Certain paints are deadly, as you well know. To those on whose walls the paintings are hung, perhaps. To the painter, most certainly, Serenissimo. Giorgio Brunelli turned a deaf ear to warnings. His love of his art and his devotion to the villanella were his only guides. That has led him to a dark end, I fear.”

  The granduca said nothing but turned away, looking out the window of the Palazzo Vecchio down to the red bricks of the piazza.

  “You must find the girl,” he said, without turning. “Find her and free her. But you must not drag the de’ Medici name into this matter. And she cannot return to Siena. She could be indeed a spark that lights the fires of rebellion.”

  Giacomo di Torreforte glanced at the profile of the great granduca.

  “I will find her,” he said.

  As the door shut quietly behind di Torreforte, the granduca drew a heavy breath. He sat down at his desk, dipping a sharpened quill into the inkpot.

  Giorgio Brunelli, whom I hold in high esteem,

  It has been brought to my attention that we have unfinished business to discuss . . .

  CHAPTER 92

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

  AUGUST 1591

  The conversa Margherita opened the door of the dispensary. She had come to pay her last respects to Suor Loretta.

  “Who is there?” The old woman’s voice was scarcely intelligible.

  “It is I, the conversa Margherita, sorella. I—I ask permission to speak.”

  “Please, speak now,” whispered the suora. “I fear I have little time left on this earth.”

  “I ask your counsel,” said Margherita. “And then your forgiveness.”

  “What, my child? I am no priest. I cannot grant absolution.”

  Margherita inhaled, drawing in the medicinal smells of the dispensary and the dying woman.

  “Your personal forgiveness is what I seek. I have kept secret for ten years some evidence. I believe that the young postulant Silvia was brought to our convent shrouded in a lie. The story she tells—that she is a rider of horses—I believe is truth.”

  The old suora pulled her blue-veined hand over her face. For a long time, she did not speak.

  “What evidence do you possess?” said the suora finally.

  “I kept these things—little things—from the fire when her clothes were burnt. I believe they are horsehair. Chestnut hairs, black, even white. And salt. Her clothes were stained with a brown mix of salt and dirt. Horse’s sweat, I believe.”

  Margherita unfolded her linen cloth, displaying the hair, the flakes of salty dirt.

  “Silvia says her real name is Virginia Tacci. One of my cousins works in the stables at the d’Este Castle. He says there was indeed a girl who rode the Palio of Siena in 1581. A girl of fourteen. He says her name was Virginia. He doesn’t remember her family name.”

  “Dio mio,” gasped the old suora. “Have you told the mother superior?”

  “Sì,” said Margherita. “I showed her my evidence over a year ago. She told me to hold my tongue, that this was the devil’s work. I would lose my position and she would put Silvia under stricter watch, take her away from you and from her work with the old donkey.”

  The conversa’s face twisted in a spasm of pain.

  “Then she seized the hair and dirt and cast them into the fire.”

  Suor Loretta drew her bony hand over her face. Margherita noticed the meandering blue veins coursing through her translucent skin.

  “How is it that you still have the evidence, as you call it?” the suora said finally, pointing to the cloth.

  “I took half to the mother superior and kept half . . . in case I needed it. I also have a soiled riding boot with traces of horse dung.”

  The old suora’s face slowly transformed. She smiled.

  “You are far too wise to be only a conversa, Margherita. Now we must decide what to do with your pieces of dust, hair . . . and footwear.” Suor Loretta chuckled, setting off a long spell of coughing.

  “There must be some contact outside the abbey,” said the suora at last, her fingers clutching the coverlet. “My nephew Duca Alfonso must see this evidence. Only he could wrest a confirmed novice from the grasp of the convent.”

  The conversa bowed, hearing the name of the Duca di Ferrara.

  “Bring me a pot of ink and parchment,” said Suor Loretta. “I shall write my nephew while I can still hold the quill. You have done the right thing, conversa. May God bless you.”

  Margherita kissed the suora’s hand. It was cold as ice.

  CHAPTER 93

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

  AUGUST 1591

  The toll of the chapel bell resonated in my heart. I knelt, praying as hard as I could.

  God receive Suor Loretta’s beautiful soul.

  I shook my head as I prayed.

  So much time lost! What has become of all whom I love in Siena? What of Orione? Did he mend, or was my godfather forced to take his life to end his suffering?

  This last thought tormented me. I began to sob, slumped over my clasped hands. I heard the rustling of linen near me. A gentle hand grazed my sleeve.

  Anna Rosa took my hand in mine.

  “Virginia,” she whispered. “I know how much you loved her.”

  She paused, looking into my eyes. “Suor Loretta called me to her bedside last night.” She had been whispering; now she dropped her voice so low that I could scarcely hear her. “She and I were related. She never wanted anyone to speak of her origins. Only the old nuns know—”

  “Know what?”

  I strained to hear—and to understand. Anna Rosa’s hand reached out from under her black habit, beckoning me to follow her outside.

  “Know what?” I repeated once the fresh air touched my face. “What do only the old nuns know?”

  “Suor Loretta was the aunt of Duca Alfonso.”

  I stared at my friend.

  “I am her second cousin. I grew up calling her Zia Loretta. Both of us are of the House of d’Este.”

  “The House of d’Este? Related to Duca Alfonso?” I had heard what she said, but I could scarcely believe it.

  “The duca is my cousin. Suor Loretta was his favorite aunt. He gave her Fedele the donkey.”

  It explained why the abbess and the old suoras looked the other way when Anna Rosa was sharp-tongued. Never had she been made to lie prostrate on the floor in penitence.

  “Before she died, Suor Loretta told m
e to see the conversa Margherita, that she had something that could remedy a terrible sin. The conversa gave me something to show my brother,” said Anna Rosa. “The one who has a stable of Palio horses.”

  “What did she give you?”

  “Some flakes of sweat-caked dirt and horse hair. And a boot. A girl’s riding boot, tanned light brown.”

  “It must be mine! I had such boots when I entered the convent.”

  “I have written my brother that he must visit me immediately,” she said. The sun passed from behind a cloud, warming us. A smile blossomed on her pale face as she squinted in delight.

  Anna Rosa kept glancing toward the wrought-iron grille, knowing that the nuns were always eager to eavesdrop. She beckoned her brother, Sandro d’Este, to lean close.

  The moment Anna Rosa finished whispering and placed the little bundle in her brother’s hands, he gave a curt nod. Anger darkened his face.

  “Do not worry, little sister. I know a Senese who will be interested in what you have given me. The duca must be made aware of this as well.”

  “Will he dare fight with the church?” Anna Rosa whispered.

  Sandro sucked in his breath, considering. He expelled it, shaking his head. “I doubt it. Duca Alfonso knows to let Rome conduct its affairs without interference. He has yet to produce an heir, and Rome sits like a fat crow on the walls of Castello d’Este, waiting for the chance to swoop in and carry away Ferrara.” He looked at his sister and raised his hand to her forehead, smoothing away the furrows.

  “But Riccardo De’ Luca, the Senese—what he will dare to risk for Virginia is another story.”

  CHAPTER 94

  Ferrara, Convento di Sant’Antonio, Polesine

  AUGUST 1591

  The old donkey hung his head low, his soft muzzle touching the straw.

  “He is dying,” I told the abbess.

  The abbess, who knew nothing of livestock or even cats and dogs, bowed her head.