Chapter 35 #2
He looked down at her, and his face was like a ship lost in a turbulent sea, torn asunder. “You should have left when I told you.”
“Antonio,” Ravenna whispered. “Won’t you let me go?”
A ripple of emotion flashed in his eyes. But he overcame it, and his expression turned severe. Stony. “I told you, Ravenna, there’s no other way. I have to do this, and you’ll only get in our way.”
She recalled what he’d said the night before. The pope had given him orders, holy orders. “How? What are you planning on doing?”
Instead of replying, he took a wet cloth and gently wiped her face. “You have some bruising near your temple, but at least your lip has stopped bleeding. Does it hurt to breathe?”
She inhaled slowly, and then shook her head. From the corner of her eye she caught a pair of rats nibbling at the straw, searching for food. Her stomach turned over, and she jerked her face from the sight of them.
“Nothing is broken,” he said. He wrung out the cloth and wiped her face again. “Are you hungry?”
“Let me go,” she said again, pulling at her restraints. She glanced at the window; it was still shut, but light streamed in through the cracks. “What time is it?”
“It’s early afternoon.” He stood and went to the wooden table, where a small basket filled with loaves of bread sat next to the wooden rosary.
He plucked the food and came to sit down next to her on the cot.
He broke off bite-sized pieces and fed them to her, offering sips of warm, diluted wine in between.
Then he retrieved a jar of beeswax ointment.
She recognized it, one of her mother’s creations.
She liked to be out in the garden, snipping weeds, collecting herbs.
He dipped his finger and spread the mixture over the bruising at her temple, the cut on her lip.
The scent of marigolds and home filled her nose.
It was this small gesture that gave her hope. He was still her brother.
“Antonio,” she said. “Look at me.”
He kept his head down.
“We won’t return home,” she whispered. “We’ll hide somewhere His Holiness won’t find us. Please don’t do this. There’s still—”
His face jerked up, the corners of his eyes tight. “Stop trying to tempt me,” he snarled. “Stop trying to fix me. I’m trying to save you, I’m trying to save us all. Why can’t you see that?” He jumped to his feet and marched out the door, slamming it behind him.
He left her alone with the rats.
The three of them didn’t return until well into the night. They must have made some agreement because they were silent as they prepared for bed. Not one word was spoken between them, even as they assembled a variety of weapons onto the wooden table.
Knives, daggers, and two swords.
“What are those for?” Ravenna asked in alarm.
They ignored her.
She tried again. “Antonio?”
He ignored her and positioned himself on one of the blankets next to her cot, his hands gripping the rosary. Ravenna watched him as he silently worshipped, his lips shaping prayers in the near dark.
She wondered whom he prayed to.
Because it wasn’t the same God she believed in. It couldn’t be.
When Antonio finished praying, he passed the rosary on to the tall priest, who’d made himself comfortable on the cot. The other patiently waited for his turn on the remaining blanket, his light eyes seeking out hers from across the room.
Ravenna found his outright staring unnerving, but she forced herself not to lower her gaze.
She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. She wouldn’t cower.
For hours she’d tried to escape, her wrists rubbed raw from the tight rope binding them together.
Anger had built in her slowly. Her brother was afraid of these two men, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
She knew Antonio like she knew her own soul, and every time he was near them, his body locked up, bracing for a blow.
The bald-headed priest received the rosary, and when he was finished he blew out the single candle, engulfing the room in darkness.
Ravenna didn’t fall asleep. All night she listened to their breathing, ears straining for movement. It wasn’t until dawn was finally breaking, the hint of morning light seeping into the room from the only window, that she allowed her eyes to drift closed.
When she opened them again, all three of the men had gone. They’d left the window open, the room flooded in bright sunlight. All of their possessions were gone. The clay jug and bowl, the rosary, the blankets, and the little wooden chest. The knives and swords were gone.
They had also taken the money Saturnino had gifted her; she could no longer hear the coins clinking as she moved.
Ravenna yanked on the rope, seething. But then her thoughts circled around the pile of weapons on the table, and a rush of fear enveloped her.
Where had they gone? What were they planning on doing so early in the morning?
It was Sunday. No one would be out and about. Government was shut down for the day.
The door swung open, the hinges squeaking.
Ravenna jerked her face toward the entrance to find the courier standing within the frame.
He’d opened the door with his sword, the tip of his blade pressed at the center.
His hood was up and over his head, covering the top portion of his face in shadow.
He looked up and down the narrow room; convinced she was alone, he strode toward her, yanking the hood back.
The courier placed a knee on the bed, and stared down at her, his expression a mixture of exasperation and impatience. His face was pale, sallow, as if he’d been terribly ill. He used a slim dagger to cut through her binds.
“Hello, courier.” She squinted at him. “You look awful.”
“I told you to be careful,” he said flatly.
“Three against one,” she said, sitting up, and wincing. Her back was sore and stiff. “What made you come back for me?”
“Sheer lunacy,” he muttered, getting off the bed. “Let’s go.”
She stood, her knees wobbling. She shook one leg and then the other, and then stomped both of her feet. “What time is it?”
“It’s early yet,” he said from the doorway. “Move, Ravenna.”
They went down the creaky stairs, and were out the front door moments later. Florence was beginning to wake up. The smell of baking bread wafted in the air from the open windows above them, and the sound of horses clip-clopping over the cobblestones interrupted the quiet.
The courier turned to her, pulling his hood back over his head.
He was half in shadow again, shrinking from the sunlight.
“That was the last time I help you, Ravenna. Go home and forget what I said about the pope. You have no chance against him.” He dipped his chin and gave her a pointed look. “Or your brother.”
“I understand,” she said, her heart cracking.
He nodded, turned to go.
“Wait,” Ravenna said, gripping his sleeve. “They were planning something. They had weapons, knives, and swords. What are they doing? Where were they going?”
The courier stepped out of her reach. “What did I just say—”
“Please, tell me. What have they planned?”
“Not this time, Ravenna,” he said softly. “You don’t want to witness this.”
“What is it?” she cried.
The courier hissed at her, dragged her to the side of the building, away from the wakening street. “Lower your damn voice.”
Somewhere in the distance, the bells of Santa Maria del Fiore tolled.
Ravenna jerked her head in the direction of the cathedral, the blood draining from her face.
It dawned on her then. It was Easter Sunday.
Everyone in Florence was getting ready to attend service.
Soon, the pews in the biggest church in the city would fill up with parishioners.
Merchants. Laborers and traders. Prominent guild members.
The Medici family. The Luni family.
Saturnino.
A roaring sound boomed in her ears, shaking her to the core. She felt the vibration in every corner of her body, her soul. She knew where her brother and his accomplices had gone. And why.
“Ravenna,” the courier said, alarm punctuating her name. “Don’t.”
But she took off at a dead run, following the sound of the cathedral bells.