Page 47 of The Stone Witch of Florence

FORTY-SIX

THE PLAGUE SAINTS

July 14th of 1348, City of Florence

O ur Lady of Requisiti was a wooden statue, slightly larger than a real woman, carved by the Apostle Luke. She was passed to San Romolo (for whom Giancarlo’s town was named) in ancient times, and the saint hid her in a cave in the woods outside of Florence so she would not be destroyed by pagans. She remained hidden for centuries, until a farmer and his wife became lost in a storm. The wife was about to give birth, but it was all rain and lightning and there was nowhere for them to go. The farmer prayed to the Virgin and suddenly his oxen knelt down in adoration before the entrance of the Virgin’s hidden cave. The little party entered and were dazzled by the beauty of the statue. The farmer’s wife gave birth to a healthy boy who lived to be one hundred years old.

The Madonna was carved as one piece with her throne, and the Christ child upon her knee. She was painted in polychrome with a veil of blue and gold stars. Inside her was a large cavity—just big enough to fit twelve of the most revered relics of Florence.

On July 14 of the year 1348, the bishop ordered her placed on her palanquin of red silk brocade and paraded through the streets on the shoulders of his Swiss mercenaries. A curious crowd of citizens came out of their houses to follow and pray. They had not seen her since her initial refusal to stop the plague. Perhaps she was ready, now, to reconsider her stance. Their bishop seemed to think so, anyhow.

They stopped as one in front of the stinche , where with hands bound behind their backs, and leather straps tied across their mouths, Ginevra di Gasparo and Fra Michele di Lapo Arnolfi were dragged onto the street by the soldiers. The procession of the Virgin continued now to its destination, the ringhiera platform. The Madonna was placed reverently atop a cloth-covered altar to oversee the trial. Tiered wooden benches, dusty with disuse, were also placed upon the platform. The mercenaries then dragged out a smaller separate platform with a hole in the middle to steady a tall gallows tree. Bundles of kindling to burn the bodies after they were hanged were politely kept out of sight around the corner. The Swiss soldiers picked their teeth, satisfied with the work they had done.

Ginevra and Fra Michele were not given seats on the bleachers, but would stand on view for the growing crowd. Ginevra was still weak from her illness. The filthy, steaming jail cell and an inquisitor for a nurse had not made for an easy recovery, and it was painful to stand in the hot sun.

She looked out at the piazza. Dust devils, trash. Scared faces. Those damn daytime rats. And here was the Madonna of Requisiti, staring at her, lovely and judgmental. She regretted curing herself of plague now. She had been motivated by the immediate physical pain, but hanging to death would be worse. Without her coral, she was unprotected. She felt the malocchio , feeding on the emotions of the gathering crowd. The bishop had let her live, once. He would not again. Still, she did not wish to make it easy for him, and bit hard into the leather strap that kept her from speaking.

She looked at Fra Michele, who caught her eye and nodded.

A tug at her dress, and there at last was dear Piero.

“Ehmmphphhm,” she said to him.

“Do not worry,” he said. “Monna Tornaparte will save you, I think.”

“Hommphummeth?” she asked.

Bishop Acciaiuoli arrived and took his place, in crimson robes and a pointy white hat. He sat at the highest part of the bleachers, and scowled at the soldiers when he noticed all the dust and cobwebs still upon the boards that stuck to his clothes. He saw Piero with the prisoners and scowled again.

“Come, boy. You should not stand so close to nasty people.”

Fra Michele tried to yell at the bishop through his gag.

“Michele, for once, be quiet—I’m sorry it’s come to this, really. I told you not to concern yourself further, but you did, and now here you are, with only yourself to blame.”

Michele continued, anyway, but even if he could speak properly, the din of the piazza was loud now and drowned him out. Word of the procession and trial had spread, and people came, standing far apart from each other in little groups, to pray to the Lady of Requisiti and view the treacherous criminals who had... Well, nobody was really sure what they had done, but whatever it was must be terrible for the bishop to call a trial like this in the middle of a plague.

For many, it was the first time they’d ventured from their own home in weeks, months. There was giddy anger from some, trepidation from others. The revelers and looters of peoples’ houses stood in their own knot, in brightly colored clothing too festive for the occasion. Others were swaddled up from head to toe, only their eyes visible. Many carried large bunches of leaves and flowers and stuck their faces in them, filtering the air. In this strange crowd, Lucia and Giancarlo positioned themselves, she with a veil over her face and he in a deep dark hood, eyes still bandaged, their unusual garb blending in with the unique plague fashion of their fellow citizens. The conversation was getting louder and the Swiss soldiers were making a game of guessing which ladies were beautiful under their silly outfits when the bishop walked to the center of the platform and raised his hands before the statue of the Virgin. The crowd became silent.

“Benevolent Mary, Mother of Jesus Christ, the King of glory, help us to make the right use of all the suffering that God sends, and to offer to Him the true incense of our hearts; for His name’s sake. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the crowd.

“We begin,” said the bishop.

“Ginevra di Genoa, in the year of our Lord 1340, you were found guilty by this court of heretical depravity , consisting of the trafficking of necromantic books; possession of notebooks containing witchcraft; destruction of property; practicing medicine without a license; and disrespecting a member of the Guild of Doctors, Apothecaries, and Grocers. Is that not so?”

“Mmphh.”

“That is a yes. Florentines: here we have a woman—allowed back into our city on the most Christian principles of forgiveness. But! She takes advantage of our kindness, of the absence of our protective relics, and is here again accused of attempting to spread plague further through witchcraft; of practicing medicine without a license; of causing the death, through said means, of Sister Agnesa of the Convent of Sant’Elisabetta delle Convertite; and of seducing our own inquisitor again by means of sorcery, entrancing him so he might be an accomplice to her terrible designs and who now must stand next to her accused of all the same.” He looked over at the stunned crowd with satisfaction.

Ginevra’s head snapped to the bishop. She had been accused of many things in her life but seducing an inquisitor was surely the most insulting.

Fra Michele did not appreciate it, either, and grew very red in the face.

“Are you sure, Bishop?” yelled a voice from the crowd. “If ever a man was afraid of a naked lady, it’s that one. He’s red as a rooster at just the suggestion.” There were some cackles from the square. Ginevra looked out, and saw it was Becchino.

“His embarrassment is only that he is found out,” said the bishop. “There are witnesses .”

“Hnnnen?” said Fra Michele incredulously.

“Who’s been watching our inquisitor go at it? And why wasn’t I invited?” yelled Becchino.

Another murmur of laughter from the crowd.

“Brother Leobaldo, you will come forward,” exclaimed the bishop, ignoring the laughter.

The Swiss soldiers escorted the reluctant monk onto the stage. Nobody liked to be a witness at a trial. Especially of someone accused of witchcraft.

“Ah, there’s the great pimp! The friar who found a whore for the inquisitor!” yelled Becchino.

“I’ve never pimped except for your sister!” retorted Leobaldo.

A few gasped at the monk who would speak so in front of the Virgin, but most of the crowd erupted into laughter, proper and loud. This trial was going to be fun . Ginevra herself smirked, even all tied up as she was. Laughter to drive away the Eye , she thought, willing Becchino to keep at his jokes. It saved Giancarlo and can save us again. Here was the one magic possessed by all people, one that required no jewels to work.

“Monna Ginevra,” said the bishop, eyeing her smile. “You wouldn’t make light of your situation if you understood its gravity. Now, Fra Leobaldo: You say you went to the home of the inquisitor, and interrupted a visit that was meant to be just the two of them? Man and woman?”

“Well, a donkey was there also.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“QUIET!” yelled the bishop. “Brother Leobaldo, would you say that their company had a familiarity and intimacy to it?”

“I saw her place her hand upon his arm, Ser Bishop.”

“But what happened with the donkey?” yelled Becchino.

“QUIET,” said the bishop, and to his soldiers, “Somebody get that guy out of the crowd!”

The Swiss soldiers pantomimed agreement, but they were enjoying the spectacle too much. A few marched toward Becchino, though none had any intention of actually detaining him.

The bishop nodded again, and other soldiers brought up the apothecary of the Twin Janus. The anchovy was gone from his beard, and he had been dressed in a clean new robe.

“Here is Maestro Guido del Garbo, a respected member of the Guild of Doctors, Apothecaries, and Grocers. Maestro, tell us of your encounter with Monna Ginevra.”

The maestro (who was a guild member, but not really a respected one) told of how she came with another woman, how they had bewitched him.

“Do you deny knowing this man?” the bishop asked Ginevra.

Ginevra shook her head “no” and chewed at the leather. It was getting softer and her mouth was filled with the bitter taste of it.

“She threatened me, stole my medical books,” said the apothecary, leaning into his role, “sneezed and a befuddling potion flew from her nostrils and onto my face.” The audience was in his grip until Becchino’s voice sang out from the same corner as before:

Grave Robber, Grave Robber

He breaks the fingers off the dead

Pulls the hair out of their heads

Ties them up with silken bow

And calls it San Sebastian-o

The crowd hissed, fingers formed horned gestures and pointed into the earth, and hands made crosses in the air. They did not question the allegations against the greasy apothecary—if anybody knew the truth about grave robbers, it was a becchino . A few who’d acquired relics from the man in the past removed the pouches from their necks and crushed them under their feet. The bishop yelled at his mercenaries to shut up Becchino once and for all. One of them finally complied and chased him off with a stick. The apothecary, feeling the horns pointed toward him, jumped off the side of the platform, bumping into the bishop in his haste. The bishop stumbled and Ginevra saw something fall forward in front of his robe—a black cord strung with an ancient coral figa . Her ancient coral figa was tied around his neck. She could not help but laugh anew at his hypocrisy.

“QUIET,” said the bishop, against the grumbling and shouts that kept rising with the temperature. The buzzing of voices was lessened only slightly by his admonishment. This was all proving too exciting: sorcery, grave robbers, an inquisitor who made love to both a heretic AND a donkey!

The bishop pressed forward. This was already taking too long. He needed to get to his point, to his miracle. He stepped to the front of the platform and thought of how soon he would be cardinal, rich once more, and never have to do anything this annoying ever again. He looked out into the crowd, held out his hands, and began to pray to Our Lady of Requisiti.

Oh, Blessed Virgin, who helps us in our hour of need

“Here,” whispered Lucia, who had been waiting and watching for him to stand exposed at the front of the platform. She grabbed Giancarlo and maneuvered her way to the front of the crowd, putting the jettatore in a direct line of sight with the bishop.

We have allowed the wicked to walk among us and rape our city

The devil has infiltrated the holy office of the inquisitor

The devil has disguised himself as a base woman

We have been punished but remain faithful

Have mercy on us and let our suffering end

People were listening to him now. They began to weep and pray; they knelt down in the square.

God wants us to rid our city of sinners

“Yes!” cried the people.

And we have found the two wickedest among us

“We have found them for you, Madonna!” cried the people.

Lucia squeezed her jettatore ’s arm.

“Now?” he whispered.

“Now,” she said.

She adjusted his hood to create a tunnel of vision directed toward the bishop.

“Alright,” she said, “go ahead.”

Giancarlo pulled the linen from his eyes and stared hard at the bishop who was speaking, eyes to the sky.

On the platform, Ginevra, who had not taken her own eyes off her stolen amulet, saw the coral begin to glow on the bishop’s neck . She ground her teeth into the gag.

Give us a sign, Madonna. Give us a sign that I have done right

The bishop began to step backward toward the statue.

In bringing these criminals before you

Give me a sign that you are pleased with my righteousness

That you favor our city and will intercede on our behalf with the Lord God

“He will not look at me,” said Giancarlo.

Give us a sign that we have discovered the source of evil

Return to us our relics, tell them we are righteous

Lucia did a gigantic, ridiculous fake sneeze, her trick from the apothecary’s shop, that echoed off the walls of the piazza. The bishop looked down at her. Giancarlo locked eyes with him. The bishop gave a little shiver and a puff of icy breath left his lips. He shifted his eyes skyward again.

Hear us, oh, Madonna, hear me, your bishop of Florence, and come to my aid!

The people writhed on the ground, complete in their supplication.

“Damn, I thought he would fall off the stage and die, like our poor kitten,” said Lucia.

“Lucia,” said Giancarlo. “He is smoking.”

“He is not just smoking. He is on fire. Hey! The bishop is on fire!” she shouted.

The crowd looked up.

The bishop looked down at himself and screamed as flames licked across his chest. The figa had grown so hot from the jettatore ’s stare that it lit his robe on fire. He ripped it off his neck and threw it. Ginevra watched it bounce off the throne of the Virgin and land on the gilded brocade at the statue’s feet.

As the bishop slapped out the fire on his chest, Becchino ran back into the square, brandishing the stick that the soldier had been chasing him with, dancing around the shocked Florentines.

“The soldier tried to catch me, but the plague caught him! Dropped dead in the middle of a step. That’s what you get, taking pay for dirty deeds! I would know!”

The bishop, now just lightly smoking, yelled for his mercenaries to kill Becchino, but now they would not. The Madonna had struck their comrade dead and lit their boss on fire. The mercenaries who had been minding Ginevra and Fra Michele walked over to the bishop to tell him that they were quitting his employ, that they wanted what was owed them today. All eyes were on the ensuing argument, so nobody noticed at first that flames grew upon the Madonna’s wooden skirt. Nobody besides Fra Michele, the inquisitor.

Yelping, he leaped upon the statue, and Ginevra jerked behind him on the ropes that bound them together. The flames shot along the ropes; Ginevra snapped her hands free of the burning fibers and began to swat at the fire that now attacked the inquisitor’s perfumed linen wrappings. When his garments died down to a smolder, she turned to the Virgin, and helped the inquisitor beat the flames from her painted robes. At last, Ginevra pulled the gag from her own mouth. She spun around, searching the platform for her figa .

“She has saved the Virgin!” yelled somebody in the crowd.

A fold of the Virgin’s wooden robes, weakened by the flames, fell aside.

“No, she has defaced her!” yelled somebody else.

Ginevra crouched, certain she was about to be stoned to death.

“BEHOOOLLLDDD SINNNERSSS,” screeched Fra Michele. He pulled Ginevra into a gesture of supplication before the Madonna, and raised one arm above his head, pointing.

The crowd went dead silent. And then they began to point at the stage and whisper. Not sure they could trust their own eyes. The wooden panel of the Madonna’s skirts had fallen in such a way that it was clear to them the Virgin had pulled aside the burnt robe herself for the benefit of her audience. And staring out at them from the folds of her garment was the skull of San Zenobio.

People started to cry out, “It is the relics! The Virgin has brought them back to us! She revealed them to the criminals!”

“NO!” said the bishop, fighting his way through the mercenaries. “No. No. No.” Never in his life had a plan gone so badly.

Giancarlo smiled and wrapped the blindfold back around his eyes.

Fra Michele and Ginevra began to remove twelve relics from the statue and place them at her feet.

The bishop stepped between the statue and the crowd. “These are counterfeit! Counterfeit relics, put here to trick you! They would not reveal themselves to sinners such as these!”

“That is Zenobio, I swear it on the graves of my children!” It was Lady Girolami, who made her way to the front. “He is my ancestor, I would know him anywhere.”

“No!” said the bishop. “You are wrong, a widow mad with grief.”

“But there is the bread,” said another woman’s voice. “The bread that I have guarded these weeks. I would know it anywhere.” Taddea collapsed at the front of the platform, weeping.

“No!” said the bishop, yelling down at the top of her head. “You are wrong, a silly nun who knows nothing of the world.”

“She is not silly!” cried Lucia. “That is the finger of San Tommaso, who I pray to in Santa Maria Novella! I know it down to the fingernail.”

“No! No, no, no!” said the bishop. “Foolish women, who believe anything they see! These are false! Bits of ordinary men, pulled from our own graveyards!”

“But smell the air,” cried somebody. “The odor of sanctity! The relics cannot be false.”

Ginevra sniffed and realized that the inquisitor’s smoking clothes gave off the sweet and musky odor of his pomander.

“It is a miracle! A true miracle,” cried Fra Michele in all earnestness, who was so used to his own perfume, he could not recognize it. He had not seen the jettatore , and truly believed the Virgin had interceded on their behalf.

The crowd believed this also, and fell down on their knees as one and crossed themselves and then began to clamor to touch Ginevra and Fra Michele.

Bless Me

Save Us

Forgive Us

The Swiss soldiers also knelt down, wept, and begged to see the North again, told the relics how they had been tricked and didn’t know for whom they worked. They crawled to Ginevra and the inquisitor and kissed the bottoms of their garments.

Bishop Acciaiuoli stood alone now, on the other side of the platform. In shock over the short ruin of his long ambitions. “Bishop,” called Ginevra. “I have found your relics, as you requested of me. Will you not kneel before them?”

So the bishop knelt in front of the relics he had hoarded for months, for what else could he do? But as he knelt, he found his robes had grown tight and itchy. When he put his hand on the planks, somebody stepped on his fingers by accident, crushing them, and splinters dug into his palm. Then another person stepped on him, then another, in their eagerness to touch the relics of their saints, and it was all he could do to slink away through their feet and fall off the edge of the platform.

He limped toward his palazzo, but on the way, a pack of dogs that normally kept to themselves chased him. He only just managed to keep them at bay by throwing his expensive bishop hat at them, the one with his family crest embroidered in gold and pearls, which they tore to shreds. When he reached his palazzo, he slipped on a letter that had been dropped on his doorstep. It was signed by ten of his creditors, powerful dukes of the countryside. If he did not return their investments immediately, they would be sending forces to recoup what they could from his personal property, plague be damned.

As he was reading, the Swiss mercenaries caught up to him and demanded again their own payment. He started to yell how he owed them nothing, how they had voided their contract by abandoning their posts, but he stopped when they held him down and ran a long knife from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his chin. The bleeding bishop crawled into a corner and the mercenaries ransacked his palazzo, taking what they wished and fighting among themselves as to who would claim the plates with the shimmering purple eel women.

Back atop the ringhiera , Ginevra di Genoa picked up her coral from the feet of the Virgin and tied it back to its rightful place around her neck.