Umiltà paused to inspect a loose thread at the edge of her sleeve. “The rector of the Ospedale of Santa Maria Alemanna in Messina is seeking to commission a set of altar panels for the chapel. Messina’s Ospedale is not equal to ours in scale or grandeur, but perhaps that opportunity might be of interest. You are almost finished with the Assumption, are you not?”
Gabriele felt the heat rise to his face. “I shall complete this fresco within the next two days, with God’s help, and I would be honored to be considered for the Messina commission.”
“That is excellent news. I have, in fact, already suggested to our rector that he bend his considerable influence toward your candidacy. A letter praising your work is on its way to Messina. It is an excellent time of year for travel south.” Umiltà smiled briefly and turned to enter the Ospedale. Gabriele lagged slightly behind to stare up at his painting. He had never spent much time examining it from below, and the novel perspective made it look unfamiliar. As he watched, his focus blurred, and he saw the fourth angel incline her head slightly to meet his gaze, her hair streaming out behind her like a dark flame.
PART VI
THE CONFIDANT
It took three days of steady riding to get to Pisa, but we had no more unpleasant surprises along the way. We traveled north to reach the Arno, then west toward the coast where Lugani’s ship would be waiting. At the first nightfall, we stopped at a roadside inn. There I made the unhappy discovery that Clara snored. I could stop the noise by kicking her under the covers of the bed we shared. She’d snort once and resume breathing more quietly for a while. I’d try to fall asleep before she started snoring again, but I rarely succeeded.
Along the road we passed a few imposing abbeys and castles that made me stare—I had seen photos in guidebooks, but instead of ruins they were alive and active. Imposing soldiers guarded the castle gates, and turrets bristled with brightly colored pennants. Abbeys were surrounded by fenced gardens or pens of livestock tended by robed monks. Lugani insisted we avoid the major towns, including San Gimignano and Poggibonsi, and after the first night in the inn, we found lodging with contado landholders. Apparently the wealth of Lugani’s party softened our arrival—several gold pieces exchanged hands to mutual satisfaction. The armed guards probably helped too. And each night of the trip, a guard kept watch outside our door.
We rode into Pisa as the Terce bells were sounding. Two guards at the gate lowered their weapons to let our party enter the walled city. A street lined with bustling shops ran along the gleaming curve of the Arno, and flags fluttered in the early fall breeze, displaying a white cross on a red ground. I could see two curved bridges spanning the water in the distance; one was an arcade, lined with small businesses. The broad walkways along the river teemed with pedestrians. As we crossed the Ponte Nuovo and faced north across the river, the great bell tower appeared, not yet finished but clearly already leaning. I suppressed a laugh at the tower that would become one of the most well-recognized buildings in history because of an architect’s mistake. Cane pulled up beside me after we crossed the bridge.
“Is there something you find amusing, Monna Trovato?”
He caught me off guard. “Oh, just the tower. It’s funny to see it in person finally, leaning already. One little error can make an architect famous—or infamous.”
“Have you seen paintings of the tower before?” Cane looked at me sharply and I realized I’d made a dangerous slip. “Or perhaps you have been here on an earlier occasion? Meeting your companions, the ones you said ‘moved on without you’ when you chose to stay in Siena? Ones who might, for example, be inclined to accost travelers en route to Pisa, and divide the spoils of the attack with you?” Now I saw what he suspected me of. It wasn’t anywhere near the truth, but it was a dangerous suspicion.
“I’ve been told about the tower,” I said, “that’s all.” It wasn’t clear he believed me.
Our first stop was Pisa’s Romanesque cathedral, where Lugani, with the same compassion he had shown at Antonio’s death, arranged the burial with the cathedral canons. He had me write a letter to the family Antonio left behind.
“Young Antonio was a short distance from home when he lost his life,” Lugani said quietly. “But the brief time he spent in our company proved his worth. We must express our gratitude to his family, along with the sad news. Would that we had instead news of his success.” He sighed as I transcribed his words onto parchment. I couldn’t figure the man out—so brusque but also unexpectedly sympathetic. The combination was strangely compelling.
It took almost a week to arrange our passage. Lugani had wanted to find a modern carrack to charter, faster and more efficiently rigged than the nave we eventually acquired—a flat-bottomed, but stable cargo vessel.
“Old-fashioned tub,” he said, with obvious irritation, but there was no other vessel of appropriate size available. At least it was watertight.
I knew Latin and Italian, but now I had to learn medieval nautical language; my head hurt from all the new vocabulary. Fore, aft, lateen sails, rigging . . . pyxis.
“Pyxis, isn’t that the round container used for Communion wafers? Will we be giving Mass on board?”
Lugani’s laughter was genuine. “Your questions never cease to amuse me. Your value in that regard far exceeds that of your predecessor. And he was considerably less attractive.”
“I would do an even better job if you would answer my questions directly,” I replied.
Lugani looked into my face with the surprise often engendered by my straightforward approach, but answered without comment this time. “Pyxis is a compass, named for the small round box which houses it, similar to the Host’s receptacle. We will all be as glad to have the direction afforded by that instrument on this voyage as we would be from the guidance of our Lord himself.”
I nodded. “Ideally we will have both.”
Lugani laughed and put his hand briefly on my shoulder. “We’ve work to do, though I do enjoy the exchange of wit, Signora. Back to writing.”