Prologue
Florence, 1474
The beggar was an optimist but not a fool. He shrank deep into the shadows of the doorway as he heard the footsteps coming down the nearby alley. Two men, well muffled in dark cloaks, emerged from the narrow passage carrying a wrapped bundle between them. Making their way down a narrow flight of stone steps to the muddy shore, they put their burden into a small boat, climbed in, and rowed out into the middle of the river that ran through the city of Florence.
The night was very dark. The thin sliver of waning moon cast no light whatsoever. The fog was beginning to thicken as the wet mist touched everything. The beggar could not see the little boat and its inhabitants now, but he heard the distinct splash of something being dumped into the Arno.A body, no doubt,he thought, and he crossed himself. Then the small vessel became visible once more as it emerged from the water to be pulled back up onto the muddy shore. The two men got out and, making their way to what passed for a street again, disappeared into the darkened alley.
The beggar never moved as with unseeing eyes they passed by a second time without noticing him. He didn’t even dare to breathe. He knew that if he was to see another day, no one must see him. The footsteps of the two men faded away. The beggar closed his eyes to doze, in relative safety for the moment.
Chapter 1
She was the fairest virgin in Florence. Or so it was said of Bianca Maria Rosa Pietro d’Angelo. High praise considering that red-gold or blond hair was considered the height of beauty, and Bianca had ebony tresses. She also had flawless features, an ivory complexion, a heart-shaped face, and eyes that were a startling shade of aquamarine blue. As she crossed the Piazza Santa Anna from her home with her mother more and more, gentlemen came to catch a glimpse of what they could of her features, which were carefully and modestly concealed by a bowed head and a light veiling. An audible sigh of regret arose as mother and daughter entered the church for morning Mass.
“They will be waiting when we come out,” Bianca said to her mother.
“Sempliciottos!They are wasting their time,” her parent replied. “I do not mean to waste my daughters on Florentine marriages. I was sacrificed by Venice to this dark city. I will not allow my girls to be. Only my love for your father has kept me here.”
They found their way to the chairs set aside for their family and knelt in prayer on the embroidered red and gold kneelers. Mass began. They had music, which many smaller churches in the city did not—but Santa Anna Dolce was the family church of the Pietro d’Angelo family. It had been built by them a hundred years ago across from their large palazzo, which stood on the opposite side of the piazza. Upon its walls it had murals that depicted the life of Santa Anna, mother of the blessed Virgin. Besides the main altar, there were two other small altars. One to Santa Anna herself and the other to Santa Maria. The windows were stained glass. The floor, squares of black and white marble.
The Pietro d’Angelo wealth generously paid the livings of the three priests and the small choir that served it. The choir was a mixture of eunuchs and ungelded men with rich, deep voices. As long as they sang, they received a small stipend and were allowed to live in a dormitory attached to the church. The choir was a particularly excellent one, and much envied by its neighbors.
As their voices died, Orianna Pietro d’Angelo sighed softly with relief, Mass concluded. She had a busy day ahead of her and little patience for piety except where it benefited her. Father Bonamico was waiting for them at the door to the church. He was a chatty old man, and fond of the Pietro d’Angelo children. “Bianca’s prospective suitors grow more each day,” he noted, nodding approvingly. “Word of her beauty spreads.”
“It is ridiculous,” Orianna said irritably. “Have they nothing better to do than hang about like dogs after a young bitch? I must speak to Gio about seeing that the piazza is cleared when we cross to the church and back. Next they will be stomping and hooting at her. Her reputation will suffer then, though she be as innocent as a lamb.”
“They have too much respect for your husband to do that,” the priest responded.
“They are afraid of him, you mean,” Orianna answered drily.
Father Bonamico chuckled. “Perhaps that too, gracious lady. Young men will be young men. The lady Bianca is quite lovely. You cannot blame them for looking.”
A small smile touched the mother’s lips. “Well,” she allowed, “perhaps not.” Then she gracefully descended the church steps, her daughter behind her. “Walk next to me, Bianca,” Orianna instructed the girl as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She linked her arm with her daughter’s, and the two moved back across the square together towards the palazzo. They had almost gained their destination when a young man sprang in front of them holding out a small beribboned nosegay to Bianca.
“For you,madonna!” he said eagerly, smiling, his brown eyes shining.
Bianca looked up, startled, but her mother slapped the flowers away.
“Impudente! Buffone!”she said, scolding him sternly. “Where are your manners? We have not been introduced,but I know your mama. She shall hear of this breach of etiquette on your part. She did not raise you to accost respectable maidens in the public square, or to offend their parents, as you have now done.”
“Your pardon,signora,madonna,” the young man said, bowing shamefacedly.
The two men who guarded the palazzo’s main doors, finally remembering their duties, rushed forward and beat the young man away. He fled howling across the piazza while the others gathered and laughed at his retreat. Then they too began to disperse, hurrying after the daring one to learn what he had seen when Bianca briefly lifted her eyes to him.
“You should have come and escorted us from the church,” Orianna told the two servingmen furiously. “You saw that crowd of ruffians leering at the lady Bianca. If you do not do better in the future, I shall tell your master that you are dilatory in your duties and have you both dismissed.” She swept past, stopped, and then glared at them, waiting for the palazzo’s main portal to be opened so she might enter her home.
Bianca gave the two men a sympathetic look and hurried after her mother.
“A sweet maid,” one of the men said as he pulled the door closed behind his mistress and her daughter. “It will be a fortunate man who gains her to wife.”
“And a rich one,” the other man replied.
His companion shrugged, the motion conveying his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them. Of course the girl’s bridegroom would be a wealthy man. Her father was a wealthy and important man. Master Pietro d’Angelo was not likely to give any of his four daughters in marriage to a man lacking in distinction. The one who had just passed by would surely be matched soon. She was just fourteen, the second-eldest of her parents’ seven children. Her brother Marco had been born nine months to the day after their parents married. The lady Bianca had come thirteen months later, to be followed by Georgio, Francesca, the twins, Luca and Luciana, and finally the littlebambinaGiulia, who would be four soon. Thesignorahad produced no more children after that.
Like a good wife, the lady Orianna had given her husband seven healthy children. She was content with her privileged status as the wife of the man who ruled the Arte di Por Santa Maria,the city’s silk merchants. Their guild was named for the street on which the city’s many silk warehouses were located. The lady was aware, as all rich wives were, that her husband had a mistress he visited discreetly at a house he owned in a section near the river. It was the custom of important men to keep a mistress. One who did not was considered either parsimonious or less than a man. The master respected his wife publicly and, it was said, privately. He never flaunted his mistress, though her identity was known. He set an excellent example for his sons. Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo was a good master.
The servingman drew the great door closed once the women had hurried through. The city was becoming alive around them, although Piazza San Anna was a quiet enclave. The church and its musicians’ dormitory took up a side and a half of the square. The family’s palazzo took up another two sides. There was only one way both in and out of the piazza, which took up the remaining angle of the square. There was also a small park that was open to any whose behavior was respectable. The greensward had a beautiful white marble fountain with a naked marble naiad seated at its center. She was brushing her long hair. The water nymph was surrounded by fat, winged cupids, several of whom held porphyry vases from which water poured into the fountain. There were lime trees and terra-cotta pots of peach-colored roses that the family gardeners kept in bloom most of the year but for the winter months. There were three white marble benches for visitors to rest upon, and white crushed-marble paths for strolling.
From inside the palazzo, you could see the park only from the windows at the very top of the building, for the marble edifice had no windows on its lower floors. It was a Florentine belief that only a foolish man encouraged robbers by putting windows where someone could peer in from the outside and view your possessions, thus tempting theft. The Pietro d’Angelo palazzo was built around a large garden.
