The Plague Scrolls

He looked directly at Francesca, who blushed and lowered her head.

“We have been learning about the Alps, Papa. Great mountains in the North, covered in snow. I would go there, Papa? Niccolo declared. “Mmm, the Alps eh? Great, grand mountains, they are indeed”. 

My father paused and turned as the servants had entered the dining room, carrying steaming silver bowls. He turned back and looked directly at Niccolo, who now sat up as straight as a die, and had somehow managed to dispose of his toy knight, God only knew where. In the fruit bowl, I surmised.

“We cannot go there Niccolo. The road to the Alps is a dangerous one, awash with cut-purses, scoundrels and heathens”, my father said and adjusting his biretta, leaned back, motioning to Luciana, who stood poised behind him, with a ladle in her hand. 

Niccolo eyes widened. “Whoah…cut-purses, scoundrels, heathens”, my little brother slowly repeated the words and I shivered, gooseflesh on my skin. 

“Papa, have you been there? To the Alps?” Niccolo’s voice now shrill and loud. “Mmm….I have..I have indeed…aspetto un momento. Ah Luciana, what do you have there?” 

Luciana bowed her head slightly as black wispy curls escaped her headdress, and I noted, her mouth was a pinched smile. 

“Ser Alessandro”, Luciana paused a moment and dug the ladle in, stirring the hot steaming broth.

“ We have chickpea soup, followed by civet of venison with an herb salad”, Luciana, stated whilst somehow mastering a curtsey and presenting the bowl to my father, who dipped his head appearing to relish the aroma and nodded approvingly. 

“Molto bene, molto bene Luciana.  Vieni qui, Vieni qui”, my father slapped his hand on the table, which shuddered slightly as he did so. Niccolo screwed up his face in disgust and Francesca frowned, nudging Niccolo with her elbow. My mother shook her head, giving her only son one of her looks.

My father clapped his hands and Luciana proceeded to ladle out the chickpea soup, as Giovanni poured red wine into my father’s pewter cup. “Madonna - lemon and hot, boiling water?”, Giovanni handed me a white, china cup, the sharp scent of lemon stinging the air. 

“Thank you, Giovanni, and some for Niccolo too,” I said. 

Niccolo vigorously shook his head and glared at me. “It is so hot today, Caterina”, my mother interjected. “Would you not have some cold, spring water?” I shook my head. 

“No Mama. I have told all of you, many times - if you boil the water, it somehow changes its properties and, then it becomes safe to drink. A slice of lemon gives it flavour, and the lemon is good for you too.” 

Francesca rolled her eyes, as if in disbelief. I motioned to Niccolo to drink his steaming, hot lemon water. He ignored me and placed his elbows on the table, with his head in his hands. My mother took a sip of her wine. 

“Your mother has good sense; a cup of wine is good for the stomach, not some godless hot water and lemon”, my father said.

“Niccolo. Your elbows! A good cup of wine from the Duoro Valley, not Italian, but still the best in all of Christendom. Now that is good for the stomach”. 

He slapped the table again, this time causing the crockery and the candelabra to shudder. 

“Francesca – Grace please”, he said and then bowed his head slightly, shyly looking at my mother as if he were a child seeking approval from a parent. 

“Yes Papa, “said Francesca.

I pressed my hands together, closed my eyes and drifted off as my sister recited the familiar words of our Lord’s prayer. 

“Thank you, Francesca”. My mother’s voice soft and low. “Now, we may eat”. 

Opening my eyes, I dipped my spoon into the chickpea soup, tasting it slowly. It was earthy, wholesome, and salty with a tang of rosemary and bay leaf. 

“Delizioso Luciana, delizioso. Who cooked this?” 

“Amilla cooked the soup, Mio Signore”, Luciana answered whilst placing scalding, hot bread onto my plate. Niccolo was playing with the spoon in his bowl, eyeing the thick, brown liquid with suspicion. 

“Eat your soup, Niccolo. There will be no dessert, if you do not”, admonished my mother. Niccolo, looked at my mother, then my father, and then attacked his bowl of soup with a fervour, as if the memories of sitting at the table, whilst we ate plums in rose water, and as he stared at his empty plate, doused his mind. 

We laughed. It was indeed comical. Nothing on God’s sweet earth could make Niccolo eat anything green. We had all but given up ever trying to force him to eat, even a morsel of Luciana’s fragrant salad. 

“Hunger,” my father roared, tearing the hot bread apart and dunking it into his bowl. 

Niccolo stiffened slightly, Francesca’s eyes glazed over, and my mother took another sip of wine. 

“Bambinis, bambinis, my bambinis…you have never felt hunger like I have. Never. Luciana has… Luciana has, where is she, where is my favourite slave?” 

“Servant, Alessandro, servant. Luciana is our servant”, my mother said. “We do not suffer slaves in our house”.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. My skin was nut brown. - Just like a peasant working in the fields - Francesca would say and my mother would nod in agreement and manage, in that same moment, to give me a withering look. 

A bead of sweat ran down my face. Impatiently, I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

“Maria”, I said. “Do you ever go swimming?” Maria continued to tug at my hair. “Mmm...swimming”. She paused a moment. “Why do you ask that Madonna?”, suspicion in her voice. 

“This heat is insufferable. I cannot bear it and I dream of floating in deep, cold, icy water,” I said as I looked at my reflection in the mirrored glass. 

“Mmm.. swimming is not for young ladies”. Maria paused a moment, pulled my hair again and continued. “My brother and our cousins often swim in the Arno, outside the city walls. No, swimming is not for young ladies – peasant boys, yes. After all, they never get a chance to have a wash, do they?” 

She adjusted a curl and after interlacing the last blue flower, she added a string of pearls.  

Maria was silent for a moment, and then stepped back and admired her handiwork. 

“You look beautiful, Madonna,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. 

“Thank you, Maria” I said, as I hastily patted my hair, smoothed down the creases in my gown, and swooping up my fan and a jade velvet shawl, I slipped out of the door and down the marble stairs to the Palazzo dining room. 

Our dining room was small by the standards of Florence’s wealthy merchants. The floor was laid with uneven, black wood, and creaked with every step. I stared at the wall and I hesitated for a moment, as I realised that the tapestries on the wooden panels had not been taken down. I need to remind Mama, I mused, as I stared at the familiar scenes of David and Bathsheba and Italian hunting scenes, bright hues of red, gold and blue woven into a flourish of a tale. 

“Good evening, little sister”, Francesca said, her mouth curled in a smile. At her side sat Niccolo, who was playing with a carved wooden figure of a knight, his head bowed and so engrossed in his game, that he did not appear to notice my presence. 

Francesca was dressed in blue velvet and sapphires were scattered in her raven black hair, accentuating her ivory, white skin. 

“Very unusual indeed - your sister’s fair skin and blue eyes,” Maria commented on an almost daily basis, as she laid out my gowns or attended to my hair. 

“Have you ever seen a Florentine with blue eyes and that pale, pale skin? I never have, in all my given days. Never.” 

To this, I would shake my head and concede that I had not. 

“My Giovanni says it’s the Irish that have blue eyes, black hair and skin as white as ivory. Seen them in the slave markets ‘e 'as; in Venice, Messina and Constantinople. Captured by the English, the poor wretches and sold, only God knows who to. Puts me in mind of the tale of the slave girl and the King of Naples....” 

“Francesca”, I said curtly and sat down at the oak table, nearly knocking over a large ornate pot. 

“For God’s sake Caterina, that’s Mama’s best pot from Montelupo!”, Francesca exclaimed. 

I said naught, and this seemed to madden Francesca even more. 

“Ungainly girls never get married”, Francesca said tartly. 

“Caterina does not want to get married”, blurted out Niccolo without looking up from his game. I glared at Niccolo. My little brother was dressed in a red doublet and brown breeches, looking very much like a Roman patrician with his tight, black curls, aquiline nose and pallid skin. 

“We know Caterina does not want to get married,” Francesca said slowly emphasizing each word. “God knows what else she thinks she can do”, she countered. 

“She can go to a convent, if no-one wishes to marry her,” Niccolo piped up, as he attacked a bowl of fruit with his wooden knight and not noticing my scowl, he picked up a small bread knife and proceeded to gouge a hole into an apple.

Shrieks of laughter and heavy footsteps against marble. 

“Where are my darling children!” It was my father’s voice booming across the Palazzo. We all jumped up, and Mama and Papa entered the dining hall, followed by the servants. My mother smiled, fanning her face with her hand, and sat down at her place at the end of the table and my father waited at his seat at the head. Once my mother was seated, we all sat down. My father, resplendent in his silk and velvet jerkin bejeweled with gold chains, precious stones and the signature black biretta on his head, motioned to the servants who bowed and curtsied and, in much haste, then left the dining hall.

“So, my dearest children. What have you learnt today?” my father questioned, whilst picking up his napkin and placing it on his lap.

Stepping on the cold, grey flagstones as I wended my way through the chapel, I glanced at the large, wooden trapdoor. There was no time now. It was Holy Day and supper would be served soon. On the morrow, I would remove the Persian rug from the library. No one will notice. I was the only one who entered the library anyway.

The heat was unbearable. A Tuscan summer is always hot, yet the heat this year was stifling. “Hottest summer in living memory” were the words on everyone’s lips. 

I knelt at the altar, took a deep breath and wiped the hair from my face. Sweat poured down my neck and onto my breasts. It was cooler in the chapel. I pulled at my gown. God’s teeth I would cut off the sleeves with a knife if I could, I hated the infernal things. I took the ivory fan from my belt, swept it across my face in short, sharp bursts, savouring the cool air against my skin, placed the fan on the nearby pew, put my hands together and knelt on the red velvet cushion and stared at our Lord on the Cross. 

The great bell of the Cattredale di Santa Maria del Fiore chimed, its deep, sonorous tone broke me from my reverie.  Supper. I would be late for supper again. Hurriedly I picked up my fan, grabbed my skirts and ran towards my bed chamber. The golden light of sunset splashed through the large window above my bed and a silhouette stood up from the carved, mahogany chair at my dresser.

“Where have you been Madonna Caterina? Supper will be served soon. You do not want to upset your mother again, do you?” 

It was Maria, my ever-present waiting woman. Christ’s nails. There seemed to be no escape  from this Harpy.  

“I have been in the chapel Maria”, I retorted and I could feel my face reddening. “In prayer”, I added pointedly.

“Hmm, in prayer”, Maria muttered, as she hauled a steaming cauldron and poured the water into the white china bowl on the table. “Never attended a lady who washes so much in one day”.

“And that is not a good thing Maria? You told me the Contessa stunk to high heaven”. 

 Maria shuddered.  “Hated water did the Contessa, she had a bath but once a year. Her husband was even filthier”.

I grabbed the lye soap and placed it to my face. Soap made from lye and olive oil in Castile and fragranced from lavender. It smelt delicious.  Maria grabbed my hair and twisted it. 

 “Filthy, the pair of them. Mean too”. I nodded. I had heard all this many times before. 

“Treated me no better than their slaves”.  

One more yank of my hair and then she began intertwining tiny, yellow flowers and emeralds into my unruly curls.     

"Sister, it is I. Francesca".

I nearly dropped the lance. I froze. Luciana, holding a lance in her right hand, crossed herself with her left. 

It was Francesca. It was my sister Francesca. Francesca was at the trapdoor.

I shook my head and placed my fingers to my lips. A look of utter horror crossed Luciana's countenance as she realised what my meaning was. I shook my head again. All colour had now drained from her face and she cupped her hand across her mouth.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Caterina, I know you are there". I cut the air with my hand as if it were a knife. Luciana slowly nodded.

"Let me in Caterina. For the love of God. Let me in". Loud sobs and coughing.

Luciana crossed herself again. I motioned to her go to Niccolo. She nodded and with what could be called a certain grace, held the lance in her left hand and picking up her skirts in her right hand, she disappeared down the steps into the darkness.

I should have told Luciana to take Niccolo to the lower crypt. I hoped that she would have the good sense to do that.

"Caterina. Let me in. I will die out here".

My hand gripped the lance. I was shaking. She is my sister. My dear Francesca.

"Caterina. Let me in. I am your flesh and blood".

She is my sister. My sister, but I have to let her die. Otherwise we will all die.

"Caterina. I know you are there. Let me in. I wish to see you and Niccolo before I die. Let me in".

She is infected. I cannot let her in.

"Caterina. Caterina". She said softly, between sobs. "I berated you for your cleverness, your ingenuity. I should have listened to you."

I said naught.

The trapdoor rattled and shook.

"I am begging you. Let me in. I do not wish to die out here alone". Dust and dirt and stone fell onto the steps, causing me to stumble. I held the lance, remembering what Pietro had shown me. Feet slightly apart, lance in both hands, thrust towards the enemy. I knew the trapdoor would stand fast.

A large lump of dirt fell with a thump onto the flagstones. I adjusted my stance. The trapdoor shuddered. 

Was she alone? Where was the foppish husband of her? Her overbearing mother-in-law? Where were her servants? Her slaves?

Hammering, thrashing, shaking. Coughing, spluttering, sobbing and then silence. I leant against the wall of the crypt to steady myself.

The coughing became louder. A rasping, rattling cough. "I cannot find my breath Caterina..."

She was infected. My beautiful, capricious sister Francesca was infected with the Pestilence.