Page 30 of The Stone Witch of Florence

TWENTY-NINE

ALLE PANCHE

Night, July 8th of 1348, an Infamous Tavern

W ith an amethyst in her cheek and the heliodor held aloft like a lantern, Lucia crept through dark and empty streets toward the infamous tavern Alle Panche. It was black as a hole outside the small golden sphere of light cast by the gem, and even with the magic beacon, her mind still played tricks as she hurried past the doorways of dead neighbors. Several times, she heard whispers and pattering steps, a pleading cry ending in a muffled whump . She held her breath and pressed against walls, clutching the light, until the silence was full again, and it was as Ginevra said: nobody noticed her. Quickly, quietly, Lucia hurried onward. In her old life, she would never have left her home after curfew. Certainly not to visit Alle Panche. But still, she knew where it was. Everybody in Florence knew where it was, either to seek it out or to avoid it.

Alle Panche was the sort of place where naive travelers were robbed of their purses and young men met to realize the grisly ends of familial vendettas. Whenever there was a criminal led through town on a donkey, you could bet the location “Alle Panche” would be yelled out in the catalog of his crimes. But it was also the sort of place that guaranteed an exciting evening, if you could manage to just observe the trouble instead of joining it.

It was with this intrepid thought that Lucia steadied her nerves, tucked away her light, and stooped through a sunken door into the low vaulted interior. It was smelly inside, and dim, and it was crowded , and the rumble of conversation was punctuated by real, actual laughs. Here are all the people with life left in them! she thought. Instead of the repulsion she was bred to feel, a sense of camaraderie swelled in her breast—and as she observed the dirty crowd, sitting close to one another on rough wooden benches, she almost had to wipe away a tear. She peered through the smoky light of clay lamps and saw a man in a monk’s habit perched importantly atop a mighty stack of barrels.

Lucia made her way to him across the sticky floor and called, “Hello... Brother Monk? Are you the keeper of this place? May I have some wine please?”

“Hello, Sister Lady. Are you a patron of this place? May I have some money please?”

“Oh, yes, of course, forgive me. How much?” She pulled her purse out and the monk eyed its heft.

“Two lire.”

“Of course, I have that.”

“And that is just for the wine,” he added hastily. “You must also pay to rent the vessels.”

“I see...and what is the cost of that?”

“Four lire for a jug to hold it and a cup to drink from.”

“Twice as much as the wine??”

“If you’d rather, you can kneel down and I’ll uncork my barrel straight into your mouth.”

Though Lucia did not grasp his meaning exactly, she understood well enough she was the butt of a joke. “How dare you suggest such a thing, that I would dirty my dress on this disgusting floor!”

“Oh, come off it, from the looks of it, you’ve kneeled down in far worse.”

Lucia remembered that she was wearing Antonella’s old dress—without her own fine garments, she was subject to the crass treatment of a common woman.

“Well, actually, I haven’t, so—don’t say I have!” she retorted, dropping coins obediently into his greasy, outstretched palm. The maybe-monk stashed them, and passed her a rough earthen vessel filled to the brim. She clutched it to her chest and looked over the crowded benches of strange faces, not seeing any open place for herself.

“Brother, where shall I sit?” she inquired of the monk.

She really was making it too easy for him.

“Right here,” he replied, grabbing himself. A few nearby patrons sniggered.

“I do not believe you are a monk!” said Lucia, mortified. The nearby patrons lost all composure.

“Look, darling, you don’t want to mess with that,” said a disheveled drunk, between guffaws. “I’ve got a nice straight one, sit on me instead.”

Lucia looked around desperately and decided to move back toward the door, the farthest point from the rude men. She spotted a man and woman in conversation near to the entrance. Surely, in the company of a woman she’d be safer from terrible jokes. Also, it was usually easier to get gossip out of couples, since they were always trying to show off to the third party how witty they were. Right. Forget the monk and his drunks. She was going to ply this couple with drink, and ask them about the thief once their wits had been dulled. She made her way through the crowd, bumping into everyone and spilling her wine all over.

“Hey, watch it, whore!”

“Excuse me, pardon, I’m so sorry!”

She reached the couple.

“Salve,” she said in greeting, interrupting their conversation.

“Salve,” said the man warily, eyeing the carnage of wine-soaked patrons behind her.

When Lucia did not speak further, the woman asked, “Can we help you?”

“Oh, yes! May I barter some wine for a seat?”

“Certainly,” said the woman. Lucia made a move to sit down.

“Providing,” she continued, “that you first tell us where you come from.”

“From Florence, of course.”

“But where in Florence?” said the man.

Lucia remembered how Pampinea had been afraid to come near her, and decided a small lie was the best way forward. “In the...parish of Santa Croce. Not so far from here. I heard this was the best place to find others of my own disposition, that is, alive and enjoying themselves.”

The lady laughed at the small witticism, relaxing. “Santa Croce, it’s still alright there. They still have their relic of the cross. Come, sit. My name is Maria and this here is my man, Lorenzo.”

“Charmed,” beamed Lorenzo, visibly tipsy now that his guard was down.

Maria moved over to make room on her bench. “What’s your name, darling?”

“I am Lucia, it’s a pleasure,” she said, sitting down and passing her wine jug. Two more men stumbled into the tavern and waved their hellos to Maria and Lorenzo as they unwrapped cloths from around their faces.

“Does everyone here know each other?” asked Lucia.

“A bit. After a while, you remember the faces and, in truth, you’re the first new person I’ve seen come in here in some time,” said Maria.

“So...do you come here often?”

“Often enough. But we go from place to place, enjoying food and wine...little pleasures, wherever we can find them.” Lorenzo pinched Maria’s bottom at this and then looked away innocently. She gave him a playful whack on the head. Lucia noticed that Maria wore a girdle of silver over her rough linen dress, and that Lorenzo’s cap was of fine red wool...the expensive sort of textile her husband always complained about her buying. These were people Pampinea had described! People who stole from the homes of the dead. Just the sort to mingle with a relic thief. Lucia’s cheeks flushed with secret excitement at her discovery.

“Are...are there many of you who go around like this?”

“Too much asking questions, not enough drinking wine,” said Lorenzo, filling a cup and shoving it toward Lucia.

“Pshh, don’t be rude,” responded Maria. She turned to Lucia. “At first, there were many, yes, and we would all go around together, but our numbers dwindle as... And, of course, if somebody is from one of the dead parishes, we must shun them for our own safety, though it is a pity.”

“Ah, well,” said Lorenzo. “More for us.” He picked up the wine jug and drained it, then engaged Maria in a passionate bout of kissing that Lucia found quite fascinating.

“Sorry, darling,” said Maria, noticing her stare. “What were you saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” answered Lucia awkwardly. “You were talking about how everyone you know is dying?”

They continued kissing and Lucia sensed she was failing at her mission of making friends.

“I’ll go refill the wine!” she said (a strategy used since time immemorial to defuse uncomfortable situations). She tried her best not to engage the lecherous monk and the leerers who sat by the barrels, and managed to get her next jug with only loud squelchy kissing noises from her tormentors. Maria and Lorenzo smiled politely when she came back with the full pitcher.

“I’m sorry,” said Lucia, sitting back down. “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant. It’s just...you see, all my acquaintances are gone, and I’ve been staying in my house, so I don’t know how people are talking of these things.”

Maria sighed. “Who knows what to say or to do in times like these? It’s supposed to be the Lord’s punishment, but I see holy men and women struck down the same as the most abominable whores.”

“It is true,” said Lucia, thinking of her maid Antonella, who was a poor, devout virgin.

“I am inclined,” said Lorenzo, who was slumping lower and lower on his bench as the effects of the wine jug manifested, “to agree with the greatest minds of our day, at the University of Paris.”

“ Porco Dio , here it comes again,” said Maria to Lucia with a knowing wink. “There’s no stopping him on this one.”

“On March 20, 1345,” stated the couple in unison, Lorenzo seriously, and Maria in jest. He scowled good-naturedly at her and, with a gracious nod, she allowed him to continue on his own:

“Ahem, as I was saying, on March 20, 1345, the doctors at Paris have confirmed there was a triple conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars in the fortieth degree of Aquarius.” He attempted to give Lucia a grave stare, but his eyes were a bit out of focus so he looked more fool than wise man.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Lucia, suppressing a giggle. “I’m not well-versed in astrology. Tell me, what did this observation portend?”

“It made the earthquakes and floods that have bothered us these past years, it made the famines. And they determined that these shakings and quakings released the poisoned air we must now breathe, and this is the cause of the pestilence.” He smacked his hand down onto the table, rattling their cups.

Now Lucia was genuinely intrigued. She had not heard anyone, not even Ginevra, who knew so many things, provide a rational answer to the question of why the pestilence had come to them. Of course, as Maria had mentioned, the clergy said it was a manifestation of God’s wrath, but they said that any time something bad happened.

Maria saw the impressed look on Lucia’s face. “Don’t you listen to anything this drunk fool tells you.”

Lorenzo swiped his hand disdainfully, too stupefied by wine to provide a more articulate rebuttal.

“Well,” said Lucia, “regardless of whether it was earthquakes or floods or something else, I am at least glad to have met the two of you.” This was true, not just flattery in service of her secret task. Even though she knew they were robbers.

“Thank you, darling, likewise.” The two women clinked cups across Lorenzo. Maria’s cheeks were flushed now, and she was on her way to joining her man in his reduced state. Lucia settled more into her surroundings. She remained clearheaded and felt pleasant, and realized that the amethyst was hardly needed. Between her clumsiness and Lorenzo’s thirst, she’d barely consumed any alcohol. Even still, she tongued it in her cheek to check it was safe, and decided the time was right to begin her inquiries in earnest.

“Tell me, Maria, who besides myself is the newest to enjoy your company? What other sorts of stragglers have been hiding away in their homes like me?”

“Hmmm...there have not been so many... Actually, most here were known to us before the pestilence. You said you live in Santa Croce? Who is your baker?”

“I was not in the town often, my husband did not like me to go about,” Lucia offered a bit too quickly. “He certainly would not approve of me visiting Alle Panche. But! I don’t have to listen to him now.”

“Huzzah!” Maria clinked cups with her again. “Oh. Sorry. Is he dead?”

“No, just fled.”

“Well then, huzzah!”

“Thank you! So, I’m the only stranger you’ve met lately?” she pressed.

“Well, not the only one. Who was that guy, Lorenzo? He wore a rough cloak—definitely not a Florentine. Who knows how he got in.”

“All the gatekeepers are dead,” offered Lorenzo without lifting his head from the table.

“How do you know he was foreign?” asked Lucia.

“Well, he asked lots of stupid questions, about how to get around the city, which churches were the best—” Lucia’s ears pricked up.

“And he stank like he was from the country,” said Lorenzo from the table. “Awful. Wouldn’t look you in the eye. Gave me the chills just to be near him. Could practically see my breath.”

“Do you think he was from a dead parish?” asked Maria, crossing herself.

“No—although, did you hear?” said Lorenzo.

“Hear what?” asked Lucia.

“Santa Maria Novella is missing its San Tommaso finger—it was shouted from the ringhiera this afternoon. Another relic switched for a bottled potion. Another parish, dead.”

Lucia was stunned. How could this be known? When she discovered the theft of Tommaso, she had taken the bottle with her. Had one of the other women seen her take it? “Shouted by whom?” she asked.

Before either could answer her, another man sat down roughly on their bench. The disheveled drunk, from over by the wine barrels. He reached his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly to him. Lucia struggled to keep her face away from his wine breath.

“Hello, Maria, Lorenzo.” He grinned across the table. “Why are you keeping such a fine young thing to yourselves?”

“Hello, Bertoldo,” said Maria dryly. “You know fine young things need no prompting to keep away from you. Why don’t you let go of her? The poor girl is wriggling like a caterpillar.”

“Yes, I insist you let go of me!” cried Lucia with as much dignity as she could muster.

“But it is a game. The more she struggles, the tighter my hold! If she becomes gentle and gives me a kiss, I’ll set her free.”

In Lucia’s whole life, no man had touched her besides her own husband. She pushed with all her strength, but he was large and she was small, and she could not get away. In response to her shoving, he squeezed her so hard she thought her chest might crack. He laughed at the little squeal that escaped her involuntarily. Maria stood up to put a stop to it, but Lucia could not take the pain any longer so she did what the man asked and gave him a dry peck on the cheek.

Bertoldo released his grip and Lucia fell onto the floor, gasping. “See,” he sneered, “that wasn’t so unpleasant, was it?”

“Bertoldo, you slimy goat, say you’re sorry,” scolded Maria. “You’ve hurt her!”

But Lucia had had enough for one evening, and gave up her plans of learning more about the stinky peasant and the person who announced thefts from the ringhiera . “Goodbye, Maria. Goodbye, Lorenzo,” she whispered, and fled toward the door.

“What’s the matter, my sweetest heart?” called Bertoldo after her.

Lucia held her tears as long as she could, but when she was far enough away from the tavern, she wept at how such a low man had ruined her plans and gained mastery of her. Overcome by emotion, she forgot to be afraid of the black night outside the light of the heliodor she carried, and her sobbing gave a terrible scare to a few people who were on their way to Alle Panche and could hear but not see her. Lucia tried to compose herself before she reached her home, but her face was still red and puffy and was noticed immediately by Ginevra, who was at the fire stirring her nasty pot.

“You’re back so quickly, what happened?” she coughed through the acrid steam. “Are you hurt??”

“Just my pride,” said Lucia, who plopped down next to the kitten and relayed her misadventures.

“We should have waited and gone together,” said Ginevra. “I knew it.”

“I was doing so well, too! I was talking to people, they said there was a man who smelled awful and made everyone cold and asked directions to churches—”

“Cold?” said Ginevra quickly. “This man made them cold? In the summer?”

But Lucia was not listening. “Ohhh, what have I done? My brothers would murder me if they knew. I can’t believe you let me go there by myself.”

“I didn’t let—never mind. Lucia: your brothers, be they living, won’t find out because nobody will tell them. You’ve never had to go places by yourself—I’m sorry to say that every woman who does is accosted like that from time to time. But the fact is a lady on her own, as you are now, will inevitably have to fend off a man at some point.”

“It was humiliating.”

“This Bertoldo is the lowest worm.”

“It is unkind to worms, to compare them to Bertoldo.”

“He is the mud, then, that worms crawl through. Do not waste your thoughts on him.”

Lucia spit the amethyst into her palm and drained the rest of the claret straight from the bottle.

“Ginevra, right before Worm Mud interrupted me, the people I was speaking to...they said that the theft of Tommaso’s relic had already been shouted from the piazza. How could that be when we only just discovered it?”

Ginevra stirred her bubbling pot, thinking. “It has to be somebody with prior knowledge of the crimes. The thief must want everyone to know of his misdeeds. The city has stopped the processions, so he spreads the word himself.”