At last, just as the first paleness of dawn begins showing through the narrow slits that pretend to provide air and light to the prisoners’ cells, Simone tucks the remaining stubs of charcoal into his cloak, rolls the sheaves of drawings, and nods his readiness to leave. After making sure the way is clear, the jailer leads him out. He is about to close the door when the painter stops him, speaking for the first time since entering the cell and beholding the dead man on the floor. “What can you tell me about him? What crime did he commit to merit such a death?”
The jailer—a man who has witnessed, and who has inflicted, more than a few deaths in his service to the Church—fixes the painter with a long look. Answering questions—especially troubling questions—was not part of the bargain he made with the Italian. He shakes his head and withdraws through the stone archway, and the door groans on its hinges. But just before it closes completely, he puts his lips to the narrow gap. “They claim he preached words from the Devil,” he says, “but I heard him speak only with kindness and faith. I’m a simple man; I don’t pretend to understand the arguments of these churchmen. But his crime, I think, was to put them to shame by his faith and his goodness. I do believe he was a holy man—the only holy man I’ve seen in my twenty years among cardinals and popes. His sin, I think, was to be free of sin.”
“You make him sound like Christ reincarnated.”
“I don’t expect him to rise from the grave, Master Simone. But if he does, the bastards will find a reason to kill him again.”
The vertical strip of shadow narrows, darkening into a thin black line, and then it is gone, displaced by oak planks and iron hardware. The opening into the darkness has closed, at least for now. Simone Martini—altered in ways he will not understand for years, if ever—turns from the realm of shadow and illusion and death, resuming his place in the world of life and breath, light and color.
CHAPTER 20
Avignon
The Present
LIGHT AND COLOR FILLED THE SQUARE, A LEAFY PARK that was jammed this Sunday morning with tables of bright fabrics, fresh flowers, watercolor paintings, and Proven?al delicacies—cheeses, wine, honey, olive oil, strawberries, raspberries. Miranda was auditioning samples of cheese and wine—wine tasting at 10 A.M.—to round out our picnic basket. Stefan had offered to meet us here and take us on a field trip to the Pont du Gard, an ancient aqueduct that was one of Rome’s finest feats of engineering. I wasn’t looking forward to having him along, but I was excited about the aqueduct. “Listen to this,” I said, glancing up from the guidebook. “The aqueduct is sixteen stories high and fifteen hundred feet long, but it drops only one inch from one end to the other. Can you imagine building with that kind of precision two thousand years ago?”
“Mmm.” Miranda smacked her lips. “I can imagine eating my weight in this goat cheese.”
“It carried forty-four million gallons of water a day. Isn’t that something?”
“You really are in touch with your inner nerd, you know that?”
“Where’s Stefan? He was supposed to be here half an hour ago, wasn’t he?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Try his cell phone, will you?”
“I have. Twice. My call went straight to voice mail.”
“Try it again. Maybe he’s over at the palace.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s at the palace,” she groused. “Which is why he’s not getting my calls. A nuclear blast couldn’t get through those walls, let alone a cell phone signal.”
“Then let’s just go over there,” I suggested. “Seems silly to sit here and wait for him. Either he forgot about the plan, or he got sidetracked by something.”
I hoisted the backpack over one shoulder—Miranda had managed to cram a hefty load of lunch treats into it—and we headed for the palace, a ten-minute walk away. As we approached, Miranda phoned again, but once more the call went to Stefan’s voice mail.
At the palace’s main entrance, we flashed our badges, ducked behind a cordon, and threaded our way down the staircases that led to the base of the treasury tower. “I assume he’s locked the gate behind him,” I fretted. “Do you think he’ll hear us if we yell?”
“I’ve got a pretty good set of lungs,” she said. “The last guy who grabbed me in a parking garage got a perforated eardrum to go along with his scratches and bruises.”
Surprisingly, though, Stefan hadn’t locked the gate; he hadn’t even bothered to close it. “He must be expecting us,” I said. “Either that, or he’s getting really careless.”
“If he was expecting us, he should’ve left the lights on,” Miranda grumbled. She flipped open her cell phone to wake up the display screen, and used the light to scan the wall for the switch.
“Ingenious,” I said. “You’re so resourceful.”
“Hey, I grew up watching MacGyver. I can make a computer out of matchsticks and paper clips.”
“Really?” Even by the faint glow of the phone, I could see her eyes roll. “Oh. You were being sarcastic.”
“Not sarcastic. Only hyperbolic.”
“Miranda, if you hope to have any success in academia, you’ve got to stop exaggerating. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you—”