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Authors: M. J. Rose
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The goal of capturing the soul in a dying breath so that it could be resurrected through alchemy was as heretical as saying a Black Mass.
Yes, it is true. Under God’s roof, Serapino had become a man who wanted to break God’s rules. And I had been his helper. We feared not the wrath of an omniscient being but rather that time would run out before we could figure a formula. And we had been right.
The evening before the trial, I finished sewing the vellum pages into my shirt. The same candles that had illuminated Serapino’s passing were now only a finger high. I had burned three weeks’ worth in half that time. But I’d succeeded in my task. Only the leather binding had proved too thick to save.
The most important part of my escape plan had also been the most difficult. Mixing potions is complicated. Perfumes do not have to be precise, but poisons do. If the scent of orange blossoms is slightly too strong or too weak in a fragrance, someone might notice, but no one would be affected. But too many grains of the same powered foxglove seeds that can help cure an ailing man can also kill him.
No, the potion I was making was not intended to kill, just to overwhelm. I had no desire to leave dead monks in my wake, only sleeping ones I could run from. This particular remedy required time to seep and become fully integrated. I needed it to be as strong and powerful as possible, without being fatal, and to work quickly.
During his lifetime at the monastery, Serapino had collected every herb, spice, flower essence, tree bark, metal, oil, pit and nut that could be grown in Italy or bought in Florence from the traders who came from other lands.
Often, I’d accompanied him when he ventured out to the markets by the Arno. We’d wander through the aisles of merchants, inspecting their goods, purchasing items that he needed to replenish or obtaining new ingredients that had arrived from far-off lands. Once he took ill, he sent me alone to the markets, and for the first time I practiced the art of haggling with the merchants, in the end getting even better prices from them than Serapino had.
As I followed his formula, which I intended to use to overcome my guards, I thought carefully about when I should try my escape. Before the trial? Or let it take place and, if I was found guilty, then make my exit?
I tried to calculate which would be easiest, but there was no way to judge. I had no one to ask. No one to confide in. The loneliness in the cell was overwhelming.
In the dark, at night, while I pushed the needle in and out of the hemp and into the vellum, as I dripped single drops of liquid into beakers, I went over and over my options, planning, calculating, trying to come up with the best plan.
I was able to remember the lessons Serapino had taught me and apply them. And one of the most important of those was to always keep your own secrets and silence. Never reveal any more than you have to. Watch and listen.
And so for ten days that was what I did. I watched and I listened. When the monks came to my cell, I was careful to study their body language, the way they looked at me, and to listen to what they said outside my door before they entered and after they left.
I had been told that the trial would be on a Tuesday. But on Monday when they came with my daily rations, none of the monks would make eye contact with me. Even Brother Michael, who usually asked after me and gave me some news about what was going on in the monastery, was silent. They came in, left the bread and water, cheese and fruit, and then departed.
What was going on? What had changed? I had no way of finding out. But I decided to prepare myself in case.
I had fashioned a holder for Serapino’s breath out of thick cord that I’d made into a belt of sorts. I wrapped it about my naked waist. The bottle was a small thing—no longer or thicker than my forefinger—so it was easy enough to secure and hide.
Over that I wore the shirt with the vellum book sewn
Yes, it is true. Under God’s roof, Serapino had become a man who wanted to break God’s rules. And I had been his helper. We feared not the wrath of an omniscient being but rather that time would run out before we could figure a formula. And we had been right.
The evening before the trial, I finished sewing the vellum pages into my shirt. The same candles that had illuminated Serapino’s passing were now only a finger high. I had burned three weeks’ worth in half that time. But I’d succeeded in my task. Only the leather binding had proved too thick to save.
The most important part of my escape plan had also been the most difficult. Mixing potions is complicated. Perfumes do not have to be precise, but poisons do. If the scent of orange blossoms is slightly too strong or too weak in a fragrance, someone might notice, but no one would be affected. But too many grains of the same powered foxglove seeds that can help cure an ailing man can also kill him.
No, the potion I was making was not intended to kill, just to overwhelm. I had no desire to leave dead monks in my wake, only sleeping ones I could run from. This particular remedy required time to seep and become fully integrated. I needed it to be as strong and powerful as possible, without being fatal, and to work quickly.
During his lifetime at the monastery, Serapino had collected every herb, spice, flower essence, tree bark, metal, oil, pit and nut that could be grown in Italy or bought in Florence from the traders who came from other lands.
Often, I’d accompanied him when he ventured out to the markets by the Arno. We’d wander through the aisles of merchants, inspecting their goods, purchasing items that he needed to replenish or obtaining new ingredients that had arrived from far-off lands. Once he took ill, he sent me alone to the markets, and for the first time I practiced the art of haggling with the merchants, in the end getting even better prices from them than Serapino had.
As I followed his formula, which I intended to use to overcome my guards, I thought carefully about when I should try my escape. Before the trial? Or let it take place and, if I was found guilty, then make my exit?
I tried to calculate which would be easiest, but there was no way to judge. I had no one to ask. No one to confide in. The loneliness in the cell was overwhelming.
In the dark, at night, while I pushed the needle in and out of the hemp and into the vellum, as I dripped single drops of liquid into beakers, I went over and over my options, planning, calculating, trying to come up with the best plan.
I was able to remember the lessons Serapino had taught me and apply them. And one of the most important of those was to always keep your own secrets and silence. Never reveal any more than you have to. Watch and listen.
And so for ten days that was what I did. I watched and I listened. When the monks came to my cell, I was careful to study their body language, the way they looked at me, and to listen to what they said outside my door before they entered and after they left.
I had been told that the trial would be on a Tuesday. But on Monday when they came with my daily rations, none of the monks would make eye contact with me. Even Brother Michael, who usually asked after me and gave me some news about what was going on in the monastery, was silent. They came in, left the bread and water, cheese and fruit, and then departed.
What was going on? What had changed? I had no way of finding out. But I decided to prepare myself in case.
I had fashioned a holder for Serapino’s breath out of thick cord that I’d made into a belt of sorts. I wrapped it about my naked waist. The bottle was a small thing—no longer or thicker than my forefinger—so it was easy enough to secure and hide.
Over that I wore the shirt with the vellum book sewn
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