Wolves in Winter

by Lisa Hilton

  The man was almost knocked down as the door opened and a woman rushed out, followed by a gaggle of little children, all crying Cecco’s name and all with his same bright red hair. Cecco’s mother held him tightly, exclaiming her thanks over and over that her son was safe, whilst his father stood by almost shyly, smiling quietly.

  I saw the raw stone above the doorplace, half of a weathered Medici ball not yet chipped away, and realised that the news of Piero’s fall had spread even to this quiet part of the city. I curtsied politely to Signora Corsellini when she asked me to step inside, but I was terribly conscious of how his little brothers and sisters stared at me.

  We entered the house. It was neat and brightly painted, though sparsely furnished like most Florentine dwellings. Cecco’s father glanced quickly down the street before carefully bolting the door, enclosing us in a smoky atmosphere thick with the scent of bean pottage. Cecco’s mother served the soup and thick floury dumplings stuffed with bietole and ewes’ cheese. We gobbled them down. All the time we ate, Cecco’s mother touched her son, exclaiming over his wounded head, making up a poultice, stroking his sleeve, his cheek. She shooed the children into an upper room and suggested courteously that I might like to rest. Obediently, I lay down on the settle that made one of the room’s few pieces of furniture, and dozed to the sound of Cecco’s voice describing the events in the Signoria, the riot, the rumours that Piero had capitulated to the French. So peaceful was that little home, so warm and stuffily snug, that I slept awhile, exhausted by all I had seen. When I woke, I saw a circle of eyes around me. The children were watching me, solemnly chewing at hunks of bread and lard.

  ‘Are you a witch?’ asked one of them excitedly.

  I pretended to consider.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered eventually. ‘Shall I turn you into a toad?’

  They screamed and ran away to hide in the corners. I grabbed a twig from the log basket and pointed it like a magician’s staff.

  ‘Whoosh! And you’re a pig!’

  They giggled and we began a game, each of them pretending to be a different animal, me ‘magicking’ them into ever more extravagant shapes, dragons and lions and turtles. We jumped and romped and even Cecco condescended to join us as a bear and then a rhinoceros. We played until the thickening of the shadow beyond the shutters told us that night had fallen and I helped Signora Corsellini to wash the little ones before she took them away to bed.

  ‘Don’t mind their teasing, dear,’ she told me kindly. ‘We’re odd enough ourselves, goodness knows.’ Her face was as plain as a saucepan beneath her carroty frizz, but I thought her the sweetest of women. She gave me a shift and a blanket and told me I might spend the night in their parlour. Before the family settled down for the night, everyone knelt down and Cecco’s father said the Ave Maria, then we all prayed that God would protect the Medici.

  ‘Goodnight, Cecco,’ I said as he took his tallow light to follow his parents to the sleeping chamber. ‘Thank you for letting me come here.’

  ‘It’s not what you’re used to, is it?’ he asked shyly.

  ‘I think you’re lucky. And I am too, to have you as my friend.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ He blushed until his cheeks matched his hair. I don’t know what made me do it, but I leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the mouth.

  ‘What d’you do that for?’

  I turned away, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. I meant nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s alright. See, I’ll give you one back.’ And he did, brusquely, his lips wet against my face.

  So I watched the dying embers of the fire until I slept again, and thought that someone had kissed me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT DAWN, WE RETURNED TO THE PALAZZO. ONLY THE scent of smoke suggested Florence was still a city of living beings, stirring behind their barred doors, for we saw not a soul as we made our way westward towards the Via Larga. No carts were drawn up in the street, no anxious line of petitioners shuffled their feet in the blue light of morning.

  ‘They’re gone, Cecco. I know it. They’re gone.’

  ‘Shut up! Ser Piero would never do so. As if he’d creep out of Florence like a thief!’

  Yet the gates of the house swung wide and the courtyard was empty. We walked through an enchantment, a silent palace of treasures that belonged only to us. The kitchens were empty, the stoves cold, only a few limp flour sacks cast aside on the floor to show us that the kitchen folk had made away with what they could carry. Slowly, we climbed the staircase, heavy with silence, and made our way through the upper rooms, all vacant, shimmering in their lost loveliness.

  ‘They’re gone, Mora, they’re really gone.’ Cecco was bewildered, everything that made sense of his world had been taken from him.

  ‘We must leave too, now. There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go, please.’

  ‘What about Maestro Ficino. The books? He’ll need his books.’

  I had forgotten my master, I had failed him again. Our footsteps sounded horribly loud as we made for the scrittoio, where the Maestro was desperately trying to cram a few more volumes into a bulging sack, far too heavy for him to lift.

  ‘Last night,’ he panted, ‘they left last night. The best were packed, but my books, my books’ – his voice rose to a wail of grief – ‘I must save the books!’

  ‘Save them?’ I asked stupidly.

  Then I heard it. A great roar, swelling so that the walls of the palazzo vibrated with the rage of it, rushing on us like a storm. Ficino’s hands dashed frantically amongst the papers.

  ‘They’re here. Children, save yourselves, run!’ The first crash of shattered glass told me that they were inside, come to wreak their revenge on the fallen Medici tyrants as a steady chant ‘Liberta! Liberta!’ built beneath us.

  ‘No!’ screamed Cecco, as he ran for the door.

  I tried to stop him. I tried to pull him back. I thought we might go through the attic rooms, out onto the roof and hide until they were done. It was gold they wanted, not blood. But he was too brave, and too loyal, and all I could do was stand petrified in the doorway and watch him as he ran for the staircase, his arms spread out before him as though he could calm them. Then I had to look as that great crowd surged upwards, armed with a thousand greedy red mouths, yelling for Medici gold, a forest of staves closing over him, hands clawing him down, pulling at him as he tumbled.

  ‘Palle!’ he yelled, ‘Palle!’, his defiance turning greed to hate.

  They turned in on him, striking out with their boots, so the last thing I saw before the mob swallowed him up was the bounce of his bright hair against the marble, his blood spattering brighter still, a second or two, on the pale stone.

  I slammed the door, breathless. I could not think of what I had seen.

  ‘Help me,’ I spoke. Together, Maestro Ficino and I heaved the huge desk against the wall. The door was tried, rattled as we held our breaths, they passed on, baying in their frenzy.

  ‘They’ll kill us, Mora,’ he whispered. ‘When they see this, they’ll kill us. Savonarola’s fanatics will have us burned.’

  I cast my eyes quickly around the room, the books, the instruments, the jars of spices and ointments. He was right.

  ‘We could wait. Bar up the door better and just – wait.’

  ‘They’ll burn the palazzo unless the French king gets here to stop them.’

  Above us, we heard the chanting, the smashing, as cabinets were toppled and hangings ripped from the walls. I smelled wine, they had got at the cellars.

  ‘Then I’ll get us out,’ I said fiercely.

  His face brightened and I wondered for a moment if he expected a conjuring trick – a flaming angel from Toledo come to carry us through the window.

  The window! It overlooked the street, a narrow thoroughfare running off the Via Larga. I scrambled up onto the ledge and gingerly parted the shutters. Craning precariously to the left, I could see that the main street was packed with bodies, shoving to and fro, many of them trying to make away with bundles
, others pushing forward to get at the spoils of the palazzo. But beneath us, the street was empty. Too far to jump; we would be dashed to pieces from this height. I could not help remembering how I had stood, so bewildered, on another windowsill, with another fearsome crowd below me. Then, sickeningly, I thought of that bright blood on the staircase just a few feet away.

  There was time for this. I would live, we would live.

  Desperately, I cast my eyes around the street for inspiration. There was a flurry in the stream along the Via Larga. A wagon being backed into the side street, the horses stamping and protesting, their heads held by two women. A second wagon, then a third, squeezed cautiously into the tight space, the faded colours of their awnings almost buried in the November mist. The troupe. Crazily, I thought that my old friend the wolf might even have heard me in my moment of need, might have sensed the shuddering fear in my heart with his own.

  ‘Annunziataaaa! Immaculataaaa!’ I bawled in a scream that tore at my throat. ‘Here, up here!’

  Maestro Ficino may have thought I had taken leave of my wits, but I did not care.

  The women turned about, wondering where this ungodly noise was coming from. Then one of them looked up and I pushed back my hood, leaning as far as I dared from the casement, hoping that my hair would show in the dim light. If Annunziata was surprised to see Margherita’s dumb apprentice wailing like a banshee from the most dangerous building in Florence, she had the sense not to hesitate. She raised her arms to me, questioning. I pointed, down, then raised two fingers. She nodded swiftly and eased her way round the head of the horse to the next wagon, beckoning. In moments she, Immaculata and the twins had shinned up the creaking awning, their hands at their lips in a warning.

  ‘We will need money, Maestro. What is there of value?’ I hissed.

  ‘The books . . .’

  ‘The books are lost. Quickly. Little things. The ivory clock, the little gold sundial. Cinnamon bark, peppercorns, anything, hurry. Fill your pockets and do as I bid.’

  He hopped about like a crow in his flapping robe, trying to move quietly, though the orgy of wrecking about us quenched any sound we could make.

  ‘Very well. Now take the stool, yes, climb up here where I am. Do as you are bid.’

  His good old face was terrified yet he obeyed me awkwardly. I wriggled past him and shoved at his slippered feet to boost him onto the sill.

  ‘What is this? Who are these people?’

  ‘We will die if you do not do as they say.’

  ‘But they tell me to jump!’

  ‘Then they will catch you. Or you’ll die anyway. Go!’

  ‘I cannot.’

  Behind me, I sensed a lull in the fury. They were calming now, questing about for what more they could despoil. They would try the door again in moments. I stood on the stool and shoved my head through Maestro Ficino’s robe. Chellus and Gherardus were planted, legs apart, on the struts of the wagon top, the girls on their shoulders, leaning together to make a cradle of their arms. I saw what they meant, but my master’s face above me was white with fear.

  ‘I cannot do it.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ll save the Pimander.’ Then I pushed him with all my strength.

  I did not wait to see what had become of him. I dumped the books from his abandoned bag and rifled through until I found his precious translation. I wanted to take more, at least to find something of my father’s, but one book was already heavy against my breast. In a moment I had the door open, pulled down my hood and shouted, ‘Here! In here! Sorcery! Here is the devil’s work!’

  I flew down the staircase before their feet could find me, keeping my eyes ahead, whipped out of the gates and turned right. I dived straight between the shafts of the backed-up wagon, knocking Addio from his seat at the reins. From far above came a fluting chorus of shattering porcelain. They were in the scrittoio.

  Addio was setting a green cap jauntily over one eye.

  ‘Well, mooncalf,’ he said. ‘You’re surely full of surprises.’

  ‘The way is too narrow. You won’t back the wagons through. We have to go forward, as fast as we can, to the river, away from the Signoria, to the Prato gate.’

  ‘Found our tongue, have we?’ But he was smiling, I could see he loved the thrill of it. He stood up at his full little height and yelled, ‘Popolo! Liberta!’ at the top of his lungs as he brought the reins cracking down. I joined my voice to his, and that is how we left Florence, swinging through the streets at a canter, crying out in pretended joy.

  *

  By the time the little hunchback king rode into the Piazza Signoria with his lance on his hip, we were at Careggi. Quite recovered from his odd circus adventure, and much restored by the safety of his Pimander, Maestro Ficino had directed the troupe to the Medici villa in the hills, a day’s journey from the city. We would be safe there, he said reassuringly. Whatever was happening in Florence, the contadini of the Tuscan countryside loved their Medici masters.

  He was wrong. We smelled the wet fug of burning wood before we saw what had become of the villa. No one came to challenge us as the wagons drew up in the courtyard. The body of the building stood, charred and blackened, but one wing had collapsed and the high loggias, whose balconies I had seen in my dream, were buckled and sagging, their fine-wrought stonework swinging like laundry where it had not already crashed to the walled garden below. They had been here, too.

  Maestro Ficino rushed straight to the library to see what had become of the precious books, while Annunziata, Immaculata and I looked out what dry kindling we could find for a fire in the gaping kitchen hearth. They had been very kind, asked me no questions, had not sought to discover what sorrow lay on me as we crawled through the dank bare landscape, but that night, when the beasts were attended to and we had scraped up a soup of herbs and soaked black bread, they asked me what I would do.

  ‘You can come with us,’ said Addio. ‘We’ll go south. Get out of this damned damp. Maybe as far as Naples.’

  ‘The French will be there first,’ put in Gherardus.

  ‘And they’ll want entertaining, won’t they, the conquering heroes? We’ll be rich.’

  ‘You are welcome, Mora,’ added Immaculata gently. ‘Truly welcome.’

  I thanked them, but I would not go. I was esclava. I could not risk them being charged with stealing Medici property. Wherever Piero was, I belonged legally to him. Besides, I would not bring ill luck upon them, as I did all who tried to care for me. My mother had loved me, and I killed her with my arrival, my papa had loved me and died that I might keep my life. Margherita was rotting in a cell, or starved to death for all I knew and Cecco – I could not think of Cecco . . . yet of course I thought of nothing else. How his knuckles inked his forehead when he sighed over his work, his hand in mine in a bright spring street, the taste of ricotta and apple foam, the pride in his voice as he told me what it meant to be a Florentine. I bit my lip and gnawed at my fingers until they bled to squash down the thoughts.

  After the troupe had stayed a while, helping us to restore order in the tumbled rooms, gathering fuel and what poor supplies had been left, we said goodbye. I watched them on the road until they vanished from sight, the draggled streamers on their wagons showing bravely. I had no stomach for an adventure on the road. I would stay and mind my master, who cared for nothing but his books, so that I could not bring him harm.

  *

  The nobility of the famous republic dressed themselves as Frenchmen to greet Charles and the cries of ‘liberty’ were replaced in San Giovanni with ‘Francia! Francia!’ They set fireworks to dazzle his bulging eyes and stilt-walking giants to muddle his big lolling head with all the refinements of the most civilized city in Italy. For all that the city tried to turn this charade of welcome into reality, there were fights and woundings and rapes in the streets, and it was the French, they said, who had sacked the Medici palazzo, even as the good Florentines surrounded it with guards and sent the clerks to make an inventory. All this we
had in a letter from Signor Bibbiena, who was one of the clerks.

  Maestro Ficino wrote to Cecco’s parents, to tell those poor people what had befallen their son. How he had been brave and loyal to the last, as though that could comfort them. He offered me the letter, and a fresh pen to add my own words of condolence. I took it to my chamber, but I could not bring myself to write a word. Was I not the curse that had brought such terrible sorrow on that simple cheerful home? I could not bear to imagine Signora Corsellini’s plain sweet face all crumpled with grief, or the dignified quiet with which his father would bear it; those tumbling, happy children with their brother gone. I had seen how proud Cecco’s father had been of his son, the scholar, the hope of his family, who had died in a dream of faith to a man who barely knew his name. It was my fault, my fault. I had boasted to Maestro Ficino that I had the sight, and I had not even been able to prevent Cecco’s death; we had been saved by fairground tumbling, and the loud voice of a girl who had conned money from the credulous by feigning dumbness. Cecco had been my friend, my true friend, he had even kissed me, and I had not saved him. He had died and I, who did not deserve it, lived.

  I was glad that those first weeks were so hard, glad to have the ache of hunger always inside me, glad that after a day of hauling and fetching and cleaning I fell into a dreamless sleep in the nest of rags I had huddled together for a bed. That we had nothing did not seem to trouble Maestro Ficino. He did not mind the biting chill, nor the sorry messes of flour cakes and rotten cheese I scrambled together to feed us. By dint of an energy which surprised me in the old man, he made a snug place for himself in a little chamber off the library, where once I had rubbed the smoke stains away we saw that the walls were all set with coloured stones, a bright spring landscape which contrasted sharply with the endless grey without. He scavenged amongst the emptied closets and toppled cabinets and produced a collection of treasures. Such books as remained; a wonderful cup set in ivory, made of a single polished shell; a many-sided sundial in painted wood; an astrological chart in gilded leather with an ebony rim which he told me was ancient work, Arabic work such as might have come from Toledo.