Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  “I did not even know these three existed,” Isabetta pointed to the last three on the list.

  “They are very much in the north of the city,” Mattea said. “Very close to the Porta a San Gallo. There is little else in the area, little reason for you to have visited it.”

  “How do you come to know them?”

  It was genially asked, yet Viviana thought Mattea had suddenly become ill, but the pallor passed quickly as the young girl explained.

  “I like to walk,” she said with a lift of one slim shoulder. “I find the quiet of the north peaceful.”

  No one questioned her, aloud at any rate. Viviana picked up the small paper with the four names upon it and tore it in half. One half she handed to Fiammetta.

  “You and Natasia will take these. We three,” she flicked her head at Isabetta and Mattea, “will take the others.”

  Viviana saw Fiammetta’s pleasure at having the one convent she did know on her list.

  “However you may be able to get to one of ours quicker, as you will be in your carriage and we will be on foot.”

  “No you will not,” Natasia proclaimed. “You will take my carriage. Now is not the time for walking.”

  “And I will do what I can.”

  All eyes turned to Leonardo.

  “What can you do?” Viviana asked with more than a twinge of guilt and reluctance. What had they dragged him into?

  He shrugged, yet again, simply, though there was nothing simple about their work this day. “What do you plan to do if…when…you find the dear lady?”

  No one spoke. Though they all had thought of it, though they all had a vague notion, none felt sure enough of it to speak aloud.

  “Exactly,” the artist nodded decidedly. “It is what I must do.”

  With a tip of his beretto, he extricated himself from the room with purpose and diligence.

  It was Viviana who broke the silence he left behind.

  “He makes for the Palazzo. For Il Magnifico.”

  “No!” Isabetta barked. “He would not.”

  Remembering her night in the tower, her day in the prison cell, and what Leonardo had done, Viviana felt certain. “Oh, he would. He is.”

  With the strength of purpose ignited by the brave artist’s actions, the five women made for their carriages with no further delay, save to give each other an embrace. Should the worst possibilities become realities, they would part with a tender moment between them.

  Viviana took her seat in Natasia’s carriage. Across from her Mattea sat snugly beside Isabetta, and upon that woman’s face she found the strangest of expressions.

  She reached out and took Isabetta’s hand in hers; she found it cold on this hot day.

  “What is it? Something vexes you?”

  Isabetta shook her head, as if she understood no better than Viviana did. “We will find Lapaccia today, I know it. But we will find more than we bargain for.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Patience may indeed be a virtue, but it does not make it easier to come by.”

  “What a lovely offering,” Suor Michela, the abbess of Santa Giuliano, said to Fiammetta. “But I fear we have no new novitiates. We have not for some time.”

  “I am sure there will be some pious girls come to fill your rooms soon enough,” Natasia said, though the cold dankness of the ancient convent may have much to do with its lack of popularity. “And when you do, you shall tell us and we shall help you make them welcome.”

  “How truly kind of you,” the elderly woman’s many chins warbled as she took Natasia’s hand. She walked her guests out into the narrow vaulted corridor and out onto the Via Faenza.

  They stood under the small canopy above the portal, for it offered the only shade to be found, and made their parting.

  “The Lord will surely bless you for your kindness, as he will the soldiers,” the sister said benevolently.

  Natasia yelped. Fiammetta asked coolly, “What soldiers, Sister?”

  “Oh, those who came last evening,” the woman prattled, eager to share gossip. “They too wanted to greet any new members to our group, to assure them the terrors of late would not continue. I thought it quite chivalrous of them.”

  “Yes, chivalrous,” Fiammetta snipped. “Thank you again, Sister. Come, Natasia, we must away. We have many other convents to visit today.”

  She pushed Natasia by the small of the back, not allowing a moment for Suor Michela to attempt more conversation.

  Once in the carriage, Fiammetta directed the driver to the next location. “And if you value your life, you will hurry.”

  • • •

  “It would have been too easy, would it not?” Mattea said as the three women left the cool courtyard of the convent of Santa Caterina of Siena. “How wonderful if Lapaccia were here, in the first convent we visited this day.”

  Though there had been many a new woman to join the order in the last few days, brought in by fear, by the bacchanalia of the last few weeks, by the splendor of this fine abbey, none were Lapaccia. Yet the three seekers had to greet each one, had to make polite—if quick—conversation, promising them all new bed linens within a fortnight.

  “Nothing about this has been easy,” Viviana said, feeling, even with all the uplifting changes these months had brought to her life, as if she were drowning. She could not rid herself of the gloom Isabetta’s words had wrought, nor the urgency they incited.

  “On to the next. To the convent of Santa Caterina della Abbandonate,” she told the driver.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Seek and ye shall find, but be certain of that which you search.”

  It was a short journey up the Via San Gallo, no more than a block of fine palazzos, before the driver turned left onto the Via S. Caterina. The convent was no more than a few doors up on the right. Viviana knew they would reach it in no more than a few minutes and readied herself, but not enough.

  From within the shadows of the slim alley that was the Via Mozza, the man jumped out and with one wide leap, jumped up onto the side of the wagon, hanging precariously onto the driver’s bench. The women yelped and tumbled about the carriage, the horses screeched as the carriage jerked to a stop, as the man pushed aside the driver and pulled hard on the reins.

  “We are undone,” Mattea said, her calm acceptance of their seeming demise surprising Viviana.

  “We aren’t done until they hang us.” Viviana regained her seat, pushed aside the curtain, and stuck her head out the window, pushing against the pull of a grasping hand that attempted to haul her back in. The hand released her quickly when she gave a chuckle.

  “What the devil are you laughing at?” Isabetta fumed.

  But before Viviana could answer, the unwelcomed rider stuck his head in the now uncovered aperture.

  “Ladies,” he tipped his head as if he bid them buongiorno in the finest salata. Turning to Viviana, there was but a flicker of a grin on his well-formed lips.

  “You were followed and I think they have figured out your destination. They are no more than minutes behind you. Unless something is done to throw them off, they will get to her first.”

  Viviana lost any joy she had found in his presence. “She is here?”

  Sansone nodded his head. “If I do anything…” his deep voice trailed off.

  Viviana placed her hand on his. She felt the stares boring into her from her companions.

  “Have not a care. You have done so much already. I will figure it out.” She squeezed the hand in hers. “Now go!”

  With a reluctant nod, he leaned down, brushed his lips across her hand, and as quickly as he had come he was gone.

  “Viviana,” Isabetta growled, “if we live to see—”

  “Driver,” Viviana ignored her completely as she banged on the wall of the carriage. She yelled once more, “Pull close to the convent’s door but do not stop, only slow to a crawl.”

  Looking across at her friends, the small smile remained on her face, though it was not one devo
id of nervous fear. “We are going to jump. I will go first, Isabetta you will follow and we will both help Mattea.”

  “I need no help, old woman,” Mattea replied and her lips spread into a slow grin.

  In seconds, they did exactly that and though Mattea stumbled, though she grunted a bit as her light body fell forward faster than she thought, the task was done without injury. The carriage began to move past.

  “Go!” Viviana yelled to the driver, slapping the horse closest to her on the rump, jolting it to a speedy cantor. “Return to the Santa Caterina de Siena convent, and quickly.”

  Turning to her now wholly dumbfounded companions, she ordered them as well. “Inside, both of you, quickly.”

  Viviana tore the laces that held her right sleeve to her gown, pulled strands of her hair out of her head. “Go to Lapaccia. Hurry!”

  Her friends barely got inside the tall, rounded, wrought iron gate before a small group of men on horseback rounded the corner of the Via San Gallo.

  Viviana tossed herself against the wall at her back, dropped her head in her hands, and shook her shoulders, sobs raking her body. “They’ve gone,” she muttered and moaned. “They would not listen to me, they would not listen to reason.”

  “You speak of Mona Cavalcanti?” The most decorated soldier, he who led the small charge looked down at her with a squint.

  “I do.” Viviana lifted herself off the wall, threw herself onto the side of the man’s horse, and grabbed at the soldier’s leg. “I begged her to turn herself in, but she wouldn’t. They wouldn’t.”

  “Where have they gone, madonna?”

  “I do not know, only that they planned to leave the city, by the Porta a San Gallo.”

  With a clipped nod, the man gave his commands. “Return to your home, madonna. Men, forward.”

  And with a snap of reins, a dig of spurs, the horses and men bounded away.

  Viviana watched their retreat, allowing herself a moment, a half second of time, as an audience member who had just watched an inspired performance, and silently applauded herself, before spinning round and entering the convent.

  Just inside the gate, hidden in the shadows of the entrance alcove, her conspirators waited for her, having watched and heard all through the crack of the large door.

  “You grow more brazen all the time,” Isabetta plied a respectful rebuke.

  Before she could say another word, the convent door opened.

  Of all the greetings one might expect when walking into a convent, the one hailing Viviana, Isabetta, and Mattea was the last any of them anticipated.

  In the crack of the open portal, a short, stout, wimpled nun studied their faces, and pulled it open, stepping aside for them to enter.

  “She knew you would come.”

  It was as if the world stopped, time ceased.

  In the void, the three women held their breath in pure disbelief.

  “Come.” The good sister walked away, a plump hand waving, urging them to follow. “It is well you are here. She needs you.”

  “Thank you, dear God. Thank you,” Mattea offered up the resounding gratitude as they grabbed hands, as they hurried to catch up with the quickly moving legs of the short abbess.

  “Caterina,” Viviana said. How magnificent it was for her to bring them to the end of their search, to one of the deceased artist’s own disciples.

  They stepped into the cell. One glimpse at their friend prostrate upon her cot, pale white and ghostly thin, and they thought their arrival too late. They thought her dead.

  Lapaccia’s hair, now more white than black, was a long tangle upon the pillow; it barely moved as she lifted her head a few inches upward, as her eyelids fluttered open.

  Her weak gaze touched each woman standing above her, and a tender glimmer sparkled in her sunken eyes. With a weak shake of her head, Lapaccia closed her eyes, and put her head back upon its perch with a smile.

  “You should not be here,” her voice was a croak. “I prayed you would not come even as I knew you would.”

  Viviana dropped to her knees by the bed, gathering the frail woman in her arms. For a moment, she could do nothing but savor the relief of finding her friend, and finding her alive, if just. For the time being, it was enough.

  But the questions hounded her; these months of uncertainty pushed at her back and her tongue.

  “What have you done, cara?”

  Lapaccia opened her eyes, pushing against the cot, and sat up. Fully awake; though ill, fully present.

  “I did what I had to do.”

  Isabetta leaned over and kissed the woman on the forehead, withdrawing with a sigh, one of relief and impatience. “Your answer is no answer, Lapaccia. The city has been in the grip of utter madness and you disappeared. Did you expect us not to take note, not to fret?”

  “I am sorry. I knew you would, and I do regret it so.”

  “The world is topsy-turvy. If you only knew.” Mattea struggled to say more.

  “I do know,” Lapaccia replied. “I was in the piazza that day.”

  Fiammetta and Natasia rushed in, vexed and breathing hard. The small cell became smaller, a bowl filled to overflowing. The women shuffled about to make room for all, their feet rustling on the dusty stone floor.

  “We saw my carriage upon the street. The driver told us…” Natasia hurried to explain their presence, “Oh, Lapaccia—”

  But there was no time for reunions, no matter how heartfelt.

  Isabetta turned quickly to the small nun now squished into the corner of the room at the foot of Lapaccia’s bed.

  “I take it no soldiers have been here yet?”

  “Soldiers?” the prioress balked, shaking her head. “No, no soldiers.”

  “They are upon our heels,” Viviana said with authority.

  “Do they truly look for me?” Lapaccia rasped, but it was a question decidedly rhetorical, astonishment tinged with expectancy.

  “You were seen, Lapaccia,” Viviana said gruffly. There was no more time for a polite inquisition, no matter how ill this woman may be. They had come to save her. She must let them. “You were seen leaving the palazzo and carrying something, carrying the painting.”

  “Seen?” Lapaccia’s pale gray eyes grew wide and she began to cough.

  “Do you have your medicine?” Mattea asked, looking helpless when Lapaccia shook her head.

  “We have been giving her water, boiled with mint, then cooled,” the abbess informed them.

  “It has helped,” Lapaccia croaked. The coughing fit passed. “I destroyed it, you know, the painting.”

  “Wh—” Mattea began.

  “Destroyed?” Isabetta croaked.

  Viviana wanted answers as badly as the others, “Now is not the time,” she said. “We have to get you out of here, out of Florence.”

  “Yes,” the voice came from the doorway. “We must get you out now, mother.”

  Every woman within whirled about to see the young, handsome man standing in the doorway.

  “Andreano!” Lapaccia yelled out; Mattea echoed the cry.

  Upon her son’s handsome face was pure relief, clearly his mother’s whereabouts had been as secret to him as it had been to her clandestine assemblage. He held his arms out to her, but something in his mother’s face, something only he recognized, held him in place.

  Lapaccia stood falteringly, silently, with the help of Mattea’s quick hand. Slowly, with great deliberation, her eyes never leaving his face, each step a thoughtful move, Lapaccia came to stand before her son. For one moment, she stared up at him, unbounded love glowing from her gaze.

  In the next, the flat of her right palm cracked him across his face, a pummel of such power, his head whipped back on his neck, the imprint of her palm appearing instantly in a red welt on his ruddy skin.

  “Lapaccia!”

  “Stop!” Mattea screamed.

  Amidst more gasps and cries of outrage, Andreano chuckled, silencing them once more. The truth at last came to Viviana. It was Andreano all a
long—Andreano whom Lapaccia protected. It made no sense; he was a member of the militia. He had, since the assassination of Giuliano, been part of the forces protecting Il Magnifico, apprehending conspirators, and carrying out their death sentences. Why would he need his mother’s protection?

  Rubbing his hand upon the offended skin, Andreano stepped into the room. “You have every right, mother. Every right in the world.” His other hand he held out, held aloft with a quiver in the air before his mother. Would she take it? “But then I thought I did too. I thought I had the right to punish him. Lorenzo de’ Medici killed my father.”

  Lapaccia’s anger cracked. She took her son’s hand, threw herself into his arms. “It is the notion of a child, Andreano,” Lapaccia sobbed against his chest, wheezing even as she berated him. “Yes, it was a war instigated by Lorenzo de’ Medici, but he did not do it alone. Lorenzo was a young man and your father was a soldier. He would have gone to war, died in it, no matter who made the decision to use force on Volterra. It was his duty.”

  The strong, handsome young man crumpled. Bending low, he dropped his forehead upon his mother’s shoulder. “All the terrible things I have seen. I have learned the truth of the world. I understand now,” Andreano moaned. “But when the Pazzis came to me, they were so strong, so convincing.” He lifted his hand, dashing the tears from his face with a hard fist. “I was weak and I listened. I know you can never forgive me. All I can do is save you.”

  Andreano held his mother from him, straightening his spine, raising his chin where it should be as a man, a soldier, and the son of a great nobleman and knight. “Now that I know you are alive and well, you must leave Florence and I will give myself into the hands of the Medici.”

  “No!”

  Two women cried out: Lapaccia, his mother, and Mattea, his lover.

  Andreano turned to the young woman, so bereft she could no longer hide her truth in dispassionate behavior. One hand still upon his mother, Andreano reached his other out to her.