Page 38 of The Stone Witch of Florence

THIRTY-SEVEN

NOT A CHICKEN

July 11th of 1348, the Residence of the Bishop

B ishop Acciaiuoli was staring at his lunch, served on one of his favorite plates. The plate was painted with the image of a young woman riding some sort of fantastical eel-looking creature. A limited edition from the famed kilns of San Romolo. Normally, he looked forward to the moment when his food was finished, the tantalizing image fully visible. Today, though, it was hard for him to eat at all. His plan to recoup funds for his bank had taken a turn for the worse. Autumn was not far away. The plague would withdraw, as all plagues did with the cold, and his shareholders would resume their hounding. All this was in his mind when the beaming and quick-talking inquisitor arrived, wrapped head to toe in fragrant linens. But as the inquisitor went on, the bishop became more and more interested.

“Let me see if I understand: you believe the relic thief is the man who makes pottery in San Romolo?” He pushed aside a bit of his lunch, and eyed the eel-woman’s green legs clutching violet scales.

“Yes. And I believe he has stolen all he means to steal, so may be returning back to his home.”

The bishop shook his head and resumed eating.

“Well, anyhow, haste is of the utmost import, we must intercept him before our relics are subject to unholy ritual—we must pray we are not already too late! If your guard leaves now, they can make it there early in the day tomorrow.”

“No,” said Acciaiuoli between bites. “But, have the woman go on her own. I’ll not risk my men on this foolish journey.”

“Foolish? There could be no quest more sensible! To rescue the items that protect our citizens, give sanctity to our churches, and a soul to our city!”

“I know what a relic is, Inquisitor. I’ll not send my last healthy men on a long journey to an infected town. This theory is rather fantastical, you must admit.”

“But...the bottles! The moonless nights! The saint made of saints!”

“Please, Michele, a saint made of saints? You sound ridiculous. But still, I agree your Ginevra should at least go. As inquisitor, you must be thorough. On the small chance she finds something in San Romolo, she can report back, and I promise you’ll have my men at your disposal.”

“But...we need our relics back as soon as possible! That is the whole point.”

The bishop put down his bread. “You don’t think I know that? That I do not pray they will return, reveal themselves to the individual they deem most worthy?”

“Yes, such a thing would be the greatest of miracles. But to be stingy with resources now? When we have identified the criminal? Every moment they are in his custody, they are in danger of unholy violation—”

“Enough! Enough.” The bishop wiped his mouth and stood up, walking over to the inquisitor. “Michele, let us speak as men to each other: I have indulged you for some weeks now. I helped you bring back a most strange investigator. I understand how it is. It is a hard time and, frankly, you’ve been drinking too much, so you needed the help. But now, do you see what pathetic result it has come to? You really can’t expect me to use my personal resources to solve your problem.”

“ Indulge me? Signore, you insult me! I will not leave until—”

“Control yourself!” said Bishop Acciaiuoli, slamming a fist down on the table so hard that his plate leaped off and shattered on the floor. “You forget it is I to whom you owe your position—and do you know why I nominated you? I chose you because I thought you would shut up and respect your place, unlike your predecessor. But you’ve been nothing but a fly buzzing around my face. Make the strange Ginevra go by herself. That was your plan, wasn’t it? To have her do the job for you? I’ve extended myself enough on your behalf.”

“Why will you not help me, Bishop?”

“Michele, you had better go home before the miasmas get to you. It’s only a matter of time, with how widely you open your mouth. You know the way out.”

Inquisitor Michele turned on his heel, leaving red and furious. As he hurried out, he bumped into a nun clutching a broken crystal orb.

“YOU—” said Ginevra as the inquisitor burst back through his own door. She had worked herself up. Yelling at an inquisitor would be the only redemption she would gain from this long and futile journey. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke. “You make a fool of yourself, like the chicken who sits at the back of the butcher stall, watching the other chickens get their necks wrung and thinking it will never happen to him. They ran the last inquisitor out of town. They will do it to you—”

The inquisitor grabbed her wrist, which was wagging a pointed finger in his direction. “I am NOT a chicken. And YOU. You were right. The bishop will not help us on our journey, insisted that you go alone. And so we must discover the answers for ourselves. Too long I have left my work to others. Woman, we go to San Romolo. Right now. If I die, I die inquisiting.”