Page 26 of The Stone Witch of Florence

TWENTY-FIVE

SAN PAOLINO

Afternoon, July 8th of 1348, City of Florence

B eetles. The humming came from masses of tiny iridescent beetles that crawled like shimmering waves atop the yard of San Paolino. Ginevra’s amulet grew hot. All the people missing from the streets seemed to be crammed into this very plot of earth. Plants had been ripped up, gravestones pulled out and moved to the edges of the yard, and even the street-pavers along the boundaries had been chiseled out to make room. Nobody had received a proper burial here in weeks, though the burying beetles were busy at work, reducing flesh to tidy bone. Adding to this macabre and industrious scene were people, even more wretched than Becchino, picking through the bodies searching for treasures. Ginevra saw one person cut the finger from a hand.

“What is he doing?” she asked, speaking loudly over the sound of the insects. “Do you think he found a ring?”

“Nah, it’s the finger he’s after.”

“The finger? What will he do with it?”

“He’ll sell it to a charlatan apothecary, who will sell it to somebody who thinks it can protect them. Of course, the thumb’ll be from San Sebastiano or the like by the time it reaches its final customer.”

“Of course,” replied Ginevra. Maybe this thing was not so mysterious as the inquisitor believed. In times like these, there must be a class of wealthy clientele willing to pay for relics with guaranteed provenance. Perhaps if she followed these false relics taken from San Paolino, they might lead to the genuine articles. She turned to Becchino and asked, “Do you know where I could find such a business as that?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know when you could take your pick of any number of fine fingers right now?”

“Oh, um. Not for me. I am fine with my own ten fingers, thank you. I have a friend who believes in these things and needs to be cured of her illusions.”

“So long as you don’t mix me up in it. Wouldn’t want to ruin someone else’s business.”

Ginevra crossed herself solemnly.

“Right. There is one I know, who was scamming pilgrims long before the plague times. He is old as Methuselah; if something could kill him, he’d have been dead fifty years ago. You can find his shop on the street of the apothecaries, under the sign of the twin Janus head in the old sestiere of San Pancrazio.”

“San Pancrazio—I think I remember...” Ginevra trailed off, looking past Becchino and noticing for the first time that the entrance to San Paolino was wide open. But not in the welcoming way; the entrance was black and gaping, a place abandoned. She moved toward it.

“Hey, you!” said Becchino, waving his hands in front of her face. “Where should I put her?” He gestured toward Antonella.

“Huh? Oh. I’m not sure—will you put her aside for a moment? I want to go inside the church quickly to say a prayer.”

“As you wish. Say one for me, too, while you’re at it.”

Ginevra entered into the dark sanctuary and paused as her eyes adjusted. No candles were lit, no incense burned. And no Franciscan brothers, who were meant to be the keepers of this place, came forward to entreat her for coins or offer a candle. Instead, garbage and leaves, the refuse of a beggar’s bed, and the smell of stale urine. An easy target for a thief.

Ginevra walked up to the apse and paused before the main altar. Grime covered the windows, so it was barely visible in the gloom; a slab of stone over a diamond-patterned iron grate. She knelt down, as if to pray, but instead peered through the grate to view the relics below the altar stone. No carved crystal goblet or gilded effigy. Just a simple glass box, the panes held together with uneven lead solder. There was something inside, something lumpy and bulbous, but it was so dark that no matter how she strained her eyes she could not see. She walked around to the back of the altar, entering the sacred space normally off-limits. “Hello?” she called out cautiously. “Is anyone here?”

But no disapproving priest came out of the shadows to ask her business. The back of the altar was closed with a grate the same as the front. She knelt down again and saw the corner was eaten by rust, and that a hole had been broken through. There were flaky bits of metal all on the floor. Somebody had poked at the hole recently! She looked around again, and seeing no one, crouched down more and stuck her arm through the hole, but the box was too far for her to reach. She strained farther, the rough broken edges of the grate pressing into her shoulder.

“Hey! What are you doing??”

Ginevra’s heart lurched into her throat and she jerked her arm back.

“You know you’re supposed to pray to the front of the altar, not the back of it, eh?”

It was only Becchino.

“I told you to wait outside! To bury your others first.”

“Well, I already did that. Doesn’t take so long when you just dump ’em in a pile. What are you doing, anyway, reaching into there?” he said, crouching down beside her.

“I can’t see in the dark but it looks like there is something strange about the reliquary...”

“Uh-huh,” said Becchino skeptically. “It’s supposed to be San Francesco’s shoe.”

“My arm is not long enough to reach it; it’s very far back. We need a stick or something.”

“I can help with that,” said Becchino. “Wait here.” Several minutes later, he appeared with a withered arm, the hand frozen with rigor mortis in a gesture of pointing.

“Jesus Christ, isn’t there just a regular stick?” said Ginevra.

“No. Want to see what’s in the box or not?”

She grimaced, and grasped the shoulder socket so that the dead hand looked like an unnatural extension of her own arm. She lay down again on the floor and the grisly tool did its job and soon the box was in her own live hands.

“Here you go,” she said to Becchino, handing him back his corpse arm. They walked back toward the entrance, to where there was enough light to see into the box. It was a bundle of red velvet, tied up with gilded thread.

“Well, that looks as it should,” said Becchino. “Let’s put it back quick before we get ourselves cursed...”

“No,” said Ginevra. “Look!”

The fabric was very old, and there were faded lines on it, the ghosts of careful creases that were no longer in their place. The gilded thread was in a loose and messy knot, not a neat bow. Somebody had put this back together recently and hastily. She pulled on the thread and the packet fell open, revealing an old sandal with holes through the bottom. The relic of San Paolino remained in its place.

“The shoe of San Francesco,” said Becchino, touching it reverently. “Dama, I’ve got a friend watching my cart, but he’s not such a good friend. Please put the shoe back. It’s bad luck to steal from the poor.”

“Yes, go. I’ll be out shortly. Let me just return this.” She rebundled the shoe and put it back inside the altar, then took out the inquisitor’s list of thefts again. San Paolino was not so far from Santo Stefano, one of the four Rogazione churches that had been robbed in May. And the church of Santa Trinita, also, was but minutes away. Had the thief struck all these churches at the same time? But why take the time to break into San Paolino’s altar, only to leave his prize where he found it? He must have been looking for something else. The shoe of San Francesco was a worthy relic by anyone’s estimation—surely, it had significant monetary value. With lead stylus, she made additions to the list, her crude characters next to the inquisitor’s expert flourishes:

Santa Trinita—shoulder of San Giovanni Gualberto.

Theft noticed: July 8. Relic last seen: unknown.

San Paolino—shoe of San Francesco.

Attempted theft noticed: July 8. Relic tampered with, left behind.

It struck her, then—the golden crucifix of San Giovanni, overlooked in favor of the less-valuable shoulder. The shoe of San Francesco, inspected and then put back in its place. He only wants the relics that are body parts. Ginevra had the sudden urge to be in full daylight. She tucked the inquisitor’s colorful parchment away and went back outside, where her Becchino chatted to another.

“Well, Becchini,” she said, “you must be rich men, with business so booming.”

“Ha! It’s true, the world’s misfortune is our fortune. Were they to redraw the guilds, the gravediggers should be placed above the bankers, the physicians, all of them, for we are the only ones who keep to our posts. But even with this good run, I will never be a rich man.”

“Why not?” asked the new becchino .

“Because! None of us are here for long, so I spend my money as soon as I get it.”

“Where does one spend money right now?” asked Ginevra. “Whose business is open?”

“There are people with things. Live ladies and barrels of wine, if you know where to look for them, and anything fun right now costs almost as much as a decent burial.” He winked at Ginevra. The camaraderie she was beginning to feel faded.

“You are wise to spend everything as it comes,” said the new becchino . “I’ve just come from the dead parish of Santo Stefano; the Lord Girolami has expired.”

“See what I mean?”

Girolami... Ginevra knew the name—they were rich enough to be famous even during her youth. “You mean the Girolami who say they are descended from Zenobio, whose head is missing?”

“The same,” the second becchino said. “He spent all his days being mean, gathering and guarding his fortune. This is why Zenobio cursed him and left.”

“Why do you think Zenobio would do that? I thought the Lord Girolami built him the chapel in Santa Reparata, that he paid for the silver head casket.”

“Everyone knows the chapel was only because it saved him on his taxes. And the rest—all these things they say they do for Zenobio are only for themselves, to gain the favor of the populace. But all Ser Girolami’s grasping has been for nothing. I hear his wife and his sons are sick, too, so his whole pile of gold will probably go straight to the commune.”

“The children and wife—they are sick, but not dead yet?” asked Ginevra.

The second becchino shrugged. “If they are sick, they are dead. Along with the rest of their parish. It was only a matter of time; the relic was taken from the parish church weeks ago.”

Ginevra remembered how the Girolami family were intimately involved with the annual mass celebrating his head relic. If anyone had the opportunity to see something, notice something amiss, it would be them. But already the man was dead. She must hurry if she was to speak with his wife.

“Thank you for the information, Becchini. I must take my leave.” She turned to go.

“Hey! Wait a minute, what about your friend here? Where do I put her?” Becchino gestured to the full graveyard with the dead arm, still held in his own.

“Won’t you put that down?”

“Nah, I kind of like it. Adds a gravitas to whatever I have to say.”

Ginevra looked around the hellscape that was the churchyard of San Paolino.

“Becchino, is there no other option?”

“We could wrap her with stones and sink her in the Arno. It’ll keep her from the scavengers, at least.”

“Very well, let’s do that, then.”

“I’ll need some money for rope, and for the extra time spent...”

Ginevra took the dead arm from him and threw it back into the graveyard. It landed at the feet of a scavenger, who picked it up appraisingly. “You press too far, Becchino! Do not take me for some girl-child. You have been paid enough to throw ten maidens into ten rivers!”

“Alright, alright,” he said, miffed, as the second becchino snickered. “You can’t blame a man for asking.” He took his cart, now empty except for Antonella, and rolled away singing:

“A rosy maid in crimson gown

Weds noble youth with golden crown

But lo, their beauty soon departs

See rotten eyes and wormy hearts...”

Ginevra turned away from the foul place and headed toward the dead parish of Santo Stefano al Ponte and the tower of the Girolami.