The Miracles of Prato (29 page)

Sister Pureza saw Lucrezia's wet cheeks, and remembered that first day, when the novitiate had begged to keep her silken
panni di gamba
from home.

“Don't cry, Lucrezia. It's not too late for you. We'll pray to the Virgin. We'll find your son.”

Lucrezia shook her head.

“Sister Pureza, do you honestly believe the Virgin will help me, even now?”

Sister Pureza paused. She believed the Virgin surely saw and took pity on the young woman's suffering. She believed the Virgin was good and merciful, and that she would help Fra Piero carry out the task that her plan depended upon. But she couldn't say this to Lucrezia.

“I believe the Virgin knows the sorrow in your heart and that she loves your child.” With rough brown fingers, she wiped the girl's cheeks. “Now drink this herb. We need you to be strong.”

Friday of the Thirteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1457

Candles and oil lanterns flickered and hissed as the painter paced before his frescoes and studied them carefully. He'd lived with this cycle for nearly six years now, and its stories and images had come to resemble those of his own life. In Saint Stephen's separation from his parents, the painter saw the pain of losing his own mother and then his father; in the birth scenes he saw the luxuries he'd wished for Lucrezia; in the martyrdom of Saint John the Baptist he saw his own desperation; and in Salome, who was ripe and full in her sensuous beauty, he saw a seductive rendering of his own beloved Lucrezia.

He'd been working through the night, but the monk squared his shoulders and stared at the scene of Saint Stephen's birth. A
balia
sat on the ground of the birthing chamber, the infant in a basket next to her. Yet these figures didn't adequately illustrate the legend of Saint Stephen in peril—a tale that Fra Filippo had begun to realize was terribly close to his own son's life.

As the sun made its first faint appearance in the east, Fra Filippo stirred a fresh jar of
terra verde
and dragged a ladder across to the northern wall of the chapel. He climbed the scaffolding that abutted the lunette, and began to paint
a secco,
putting a new layer of paint onto the dried plaster. His brush created a spectral green image in the midst of the placid birth scene: a winged demon, hunched over the infant's cradle. The demon held the infant saint in his left arm as
he placed another, ordinary child, into the blessed infant's basket. In a moment the green demon would carry the true Saint Stephen away from his mother, even as she lay blissfully unaware on her high bed.

For hours Fra Filippo worked on the green satanic figure, making it as real as the other figures in the scene. Then he stepped back and studied the evil creature. It was even more deathly, more horrible, than he'd pictured in his mind. With this new creation, no one who looked at the fresco could fail to see the demons that haunted the painter's life.

He heard Tomaso arrive, and Fra Filippo bellowed for a bucket of plaster. As soon as the assistant scrambled up the scaffolding, the painter took the bucket and began to smear a fresh, large circle of
intonaco
on the outer limits of the scene. With facile strokes he created an orange-robed nursemaid, her simple gown falling in heavy folds. In her outstretched arms she held a small baby, his rounded head a perfect, foreshortened sphere. She passed the child to a waiting clergyman, whose green robe matched exactly the
terra verde
demon. The connection between the two figures was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. Although the cleric's robe was green instead of the red of Provost Inghirami's cassock, Fra Filippo was certain he'd painted an image that would stab at the man's heart.

Inghirami will burn with shame when he looks at this scene,
the painter thought, and for just a moment his misery was eased by something approaching satisfaction.

He used a rag to wipe the splatters of paint from his hands, leaving the brushes and buckets for his assistants to clean. It was still early, and he didn't want them to know he was leaving for the day; perhaps for many days. He had to be alone to devote himself to the altarpiece of the Holy Belt in penitence and humility. For him, praying was painting, and he intended to pray with all his might.

With a pack on his shoulder the painter hurried away from the church, carefully pulling the small cart with his work behind him. Only Fra Piero knew where to find him.

 

P
rior General Saviano's carriage rolled into Prato and stopped at the
Pieve di Santo Stefano.
Brushing past women scrubbing the steps, he marched through the front door and demanded olive soap to wash his hands, peppermint oil for his feet, and silk sheets for his bed.

“Right away,” he said. “Send them to the guest room in the rectory, along with your finest wine.”

The prior general had postponed his arrival for the
festa
as long as he could. He had no desire to publicly associate himself with the painter's escapades, and when he'd learned Lucrezia was still lying in at the convent infirmary, he'd made up his mind to forgo the comfortable room at Santa Margherita and stay instead in the tiny guest chamber at Santo Stefano.

The prior general drank the wine as soon as it was brought to him, then went to Inghirami's private kitchen and ordered a full meal, sending the kitchen maid back twice for more bread and gravy. He nodded coolly to Father Carlo, who came looking for Inghirami, and refused to let himself become worked up when the provost appeared and brought up the drama unfolding in Rome, where Pope Callistus III lay gravely ill.

“Never mind what's happening in Rome,” Prior General Saviano snapped as he wiped gravy off his lips. “I want to see the
Sacra Cintola
straightaway. I've got my own prayers for the Virgin.”

“Of course,” Inghirami said as agreeably as he could manage. “Of course, if you wish, we can go immediately.”

The church was filled with workers polishing the woodwork with lemon oil, sweeping the floors, brushing cobwebs and hornets' nests from the hidden spaces under stairwells. Stopping in front of the altar, Saviano strained to see what progress had been made on the frescoes, and barely missed tripping over a bucket of soapy water.

“Should we have a closer look at the fresco cycle?” the provost asked.

Prior General Saviano glanced around, noticed the white robes of the painter were nowhere to be seen, and consented. Fra Diamante and Tomaso stepped out of their path as the two clerics entered the
cappella maggiore
to survey the work.

“The scene of King Herod is quite fine,” Prior General Saviano acknowledged with a begrudging nod. “Don't you agree?”

“Yes, yes,” the provost answered as he squinted into the shadows under the scaffolding. He was hoping to see Young Marco and signal for the boy to meet him in the stairway of the bell tower later. Otherwise he'd have to hang his rope belt by the campanile door, and then wait in the meeting place for the boy to see the sign.

“What is the meaning of this?” Saviano demanded.

Provost Inghirami turned to see the red-faced cleric waving a hand toward the wall under the northern lunette.

“Is something wrong?” Inghirami asked.

“Look for yourself,” Saviano snarled as he made an angry gesture.

It took a moment for Inghirami's eyes to find the green demon, and to discern the message Fra Filippo had inserted into his painting. His eyes moved from the green cleric's robes, to the green wings of the demon, to the trim of green around the bottom of Prior General Saviano's rich cassock. Although legend said the infant Saint Stephen was nursed by a doe and then brought back from the wilderness and put into the arms of a benevolent bishop, it seemed clear that Fra Fil
ippo, in painting the cleric and the demon the same color, wished to imply a connection between the two, an evil thread that linked them in their intent to do harm.

“It's nothing, Your Grace,” the provost whispered. He gave a meaningful glance in the direction of Fra Diamante and Tomaso, who'd stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the two men. “Just the reckless imagination of a crazed artist.”

Inghirami was loath to take the prior general's arm and lead him away, and was greatly relieved when the prelate took his cue, turning his back on the fresco and leaving the
cappella maggiore
with a great flourish of his robes.

“Who does he think he is?” the prior general growled.

“He's got the devil in him,” Inghirami whispered. “He'll be sorry.”

As the two hurried to the Chapel of the Holy Belt, Provost Inghirami fumbled among the keys on his belt for the one that would open the bronze gates. The two men were silent as the chapel opened with a slow creaking.

A stream of light fell through the circular window in the rear of the chapel, and dust rose, swirling and shimmering as it caught the sunlight. Incense was burning nearby, and the air smelled of myrrh as the two approached the coffer that held the sacred relic.

As he did whenever he was about to open the reliquary box, Provost Inghirami genuflected and made the sign of the cross.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.”

“Amen.” The prior general's voice was loud in the hushed chamber. He nearly snatched up the coffer himself; only Inghirami's quick movements prevented it. The provost bent, laid his hands on the reliquary lid with its gilded volutes, and used his thumbs to release the clasps that held it shut. He took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.

The box was empty.

The provost gasped, and drew himself up in horror.

“What's the meaning of this?” Prior General Saviano demanded for the second time in an hour.

“My God, I have no idea.” There was a tremor in Inghirami's voice. He stared into the coffer, and quickly snapped it shut.

“Do I have to remind you that your most important duty here is to keep watch over the Virgin's relic? If the
Sacra Cintola
isn't here, where is it?”

“I don't know.” The provost ran a thin finger inside the neck of his robe.

“You have the only key, and it falls to you to explain what the devil is going on,” snapped the prior general.

“I don't have it, I can assure you of that.” Inghirami dropped to his knees.

“Dear Virgin Mother,” he prayed. “Please tell me what has happened.”

The prior general glared at the provost.

“Get off your knees,” Saviano hissed. “This isn't a time for prayer, it's a time for action. Stealing the belt is a crime punishable by death. If there's no other culprit, the blame falls to you.”

The provost closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd never intended to tell a soul that he'd surrendered the
Sacra Cintola
to Cantansanti last year. But surely, if pushed, Prioress Bartolommea would confess to having had the belt in her possession, and she would implicate him in its disappearance. Better to tell all that he knew now, while he had the prior general's attention. And it was possible, he thought, just possible, that the prioress and the Medici had conspired to take the belt a second time.

Steeling himself for Saviano's ire, Inghirami quickly recounted
the day Cantansanti had come to Santo Stefano and requested—no,
demanded
—the temporary surrender of the belt.

“Cantansanti carried a sealed directive from Rome, instructing me to surrender the
cintola,
” he said. “I have good reason to believe the Medici took the relic to the convent, to the secret keep of Prioress Bartolommea.”

“What?” asked the prior general. “How could such a thing happen without my knowledge?”

“It was for the painter, I'm quite certain,” the provost said in a low voice. “The same day the belt left the chapel, Sister Lucrezia left the convent. The next month, the painting they call the
Miraculous Madonna
appeared at the Valenti home.”

 

P
rioress Bartolommea heard the bell at the convent gate, and gave a startled glance in Sister Camilla's direction at the sound of steeds on the road.

“Who's that?”

Sister Camilla ran to the window.

“It's the prior general,” she reported.

The prioress removed her spectacles and hid them in the pocket of her robe.

“Prior General Saviano? Is he expected?”

“I'm here now,” the prior general said, sweeping into the room with the provost close behind. “What does it matter if I'm expected?”

The prioress stood and stepped out from behind her desk.

“Sister Camilla, you will leave us alone,” Saviano commanded. His temples pounded as he waited for the secretary and provost to leave. Then he shut the door behind them. He and the prioress were alone.

“How dare you take the Holy Belt?” He enunciated each word carefully.

The prioress forced herself to meet the man's angry glare.

“I assure you, Prior General, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Do not lie to me.” He pulled himself up to his most imperious height. “The belt was here in the convent; now it's missing again. You must return it at once.”

Prioress Bartolommea felt overheated. The prior general seemed to be taking up all of the light and air in her study. But her discomfort didn't change the fact that she didn't have the Sacred Belt of the Holy Virgin, nor had she seen it in nearly a year. She explained as much to Saviano.

“Only the Medici's emissary could arrange for such a transfer, and Ser Cantansanti hasn't been in Prato for more than a month,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts straight and appeal to the prior general's sense of reason. “If the sacred relic isn't in the locked case, then only the provost can know where it is.”

“Is that your final word, Mother?”

“I can't tell you what I don't know,” she said, her chin quivering.

“Very well.” Prior General Saviano flung open the door, and nearly knocked over the provost. He hissed into Inghirami's pale face.

“For your own sake, Gemignano, if you know where the belt is, tell me now.”

“I swear on my soul,” the provost stammered as he retreated. “I saw it safely returned behind the locked gates of the chapel nearly a year ago.” Inghirami remembered the terrible fate of the two men who'd been hanged in the square for the attempted theft of the belt in the prior century. “It must be here,” he insisted. “Search the convent, I beg of you.”

The prior general turned to the prioress.