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Authors: M. J. Rose
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inside of it.
I took the bottle of the sleeping water I’d prepared and shoved that into my pocket along with a handful of rags.
In the early afternoon they returned.
This was the first time other than the day of Serapino’s funeral that they’d come twice.
“Your trial is today, René,” Michael said.
“Not tomorrow?”
“No. And the abbot is waiting. I have prayed for a good outcome.”
This time he met my eyes, and I believed he meant it.
Caught up in that moment, I suddenly realized I’d lost the chance I’d been hoping for. This was when I should have opened the bottle and pushed the cloth up to his face when the others were not looking and then catch them by surprise. I’d been foolish. Touched by his words, I was unprepared.
The pain of Serapino’s passing had turned me soft and overly emotional. I would not survive this way. I needed strength, not tears.
The monks had me walk in front of them from the laboratory to the refectory, where the trial had been set up. It was the first such event at Santa Maria Novella. No infraction had ever been so great that a tribunal had been convened. But suspicion of murder was a serious matter. Protecting the name of the most revered apothecary in Florence was of grave importance to the reputation of the monastery and its pharmacy.
I’d never been in that room when food was not being served. Instead of the smells of hot dishes and fresh bread, the sweet smell of the gardens infused the air that wafted in through the open casements flanking the south wall.
The abbot and the two most senior monks in the monastery were in the same seats where they sat for meals at the long dining table. The beautiful slab of cherrywood, smoothed from years of use, was empty, and to my eyes looked naked. Out of context, you can see things anew and learn them better.
To the right of the abbot was the archbishop of Florence, Niccolò Ridolfi. This dour-faced man, with a protruding forehead and thin lips, was the reason we’d had to wait for the trial to begin. My life was proceeding according to his schedule.
The brothers who’d brought me to the refectory now escorted me to the table and offered me a chair facing my accusers and judge. Behind me other tables were filled with the members of the monastery. It seemed everyone was present.
“We are not here to condemn you without giving you a chance to explain yourself, René Bianco,” the abbot began.
My stomach began to ache. Sweat started to drip down my neck. I felt my bowels liquefy. I had spent so much time planning on how to escape and what to take with me, but I had not thought very much about the trial itself. I knew about civilian trials, but how did monks conduct such things?
“We are men of God and mercy,” Beneto said. “Please describe the events that led up to the passing of Brother Serapino.”
“He was very ill . . .” I started in halting words.
“Yes,” Beneto said, almost encouraging me.
I searched his face. Today he looked almost benign. I didn’t see the accusation I’d viewed that night in the laboratory when he came so soon after Serapino had died.
“Go on,” Beneto prompted.
“He had been ill for months. He grew weaker and weaker and was in constant pain.”
“The same illness that befell Brother Adamo during last winter,” said Brother Jacimo, the librarian, who sat on the other side of Beneto. He was an ancient man, at least eighty years old, with a keen mind. Serapino had always spoken well of Jacimo, and I hoped that would bode well for me. He had been of very noble birth—but a seventh son with no hope of inheriting any of his father’s estate.
“Yes, that’s right.” Beneto looked at me. “Is there a connection there? That they both had the same illness?”
I didn’t know what, if anything, Jacimo knew about Serapino’s experiments. I had thought no one other than I knew about the collection of dying breaths that Serapino had amassed, but I might have been wrong.
My
I took the bottle of the sleeping water I’d prepared and shoved that into my pocket along with a handful of rags.
In the early afternoon they returned.
This was the first time other than the day of Serapino’s funeral that they’d come twice.
“Your trial is today, René,” Michael said.
“Not tomorrow?”
“No. And the abbot is waiting. I have prayed for a good outcome.”
This time he met my eyes, and I believed he meant it.
Caught up in that moment, I suddenly realized I’d lost the chance I’d been hoping for. This was when I should have opened the bottle and pushed the cloth up to his face when the others were not looking and then catch them by surprise. I’d been foolish. Touched by his words, I was unprepared.
The pain of Serapino’s passing had turned me soft and overly emotional. I would not survive this way. I needed strength, not tears.
The monks had me walk in front of them from the laboratory to the refectory, where the trial had been set up. It was the first such event at Santa Maria Novella. No infraction had ever been so great that a tribunal had been convened. But suspicion of murder was a serious matter. Protecting the name of the most revered apothecary in Florence was of grave importance to the reputation of the monastery and its pharmacy.
I’d never been in that room when food was not being served. Instead of the smells of hot dishes and fresh bread, the sweet smell of the gardens infused the air that wafted in through the open casements flanking the south wall.
The abbot and the two most senior monks in the monastery were in the same seats where they sat for meals at the long dining table. The beautiful slab of cherrywood, smoothed from years of use, was empty, and to my eyes looked naked. Out of context, you can see things anew and learn them better.
To the right of the abbot was the archbishop of Florence, Niccolò Ridolfi. This dour-faced man, with a protruding forehead and thin lips, was the reason we’d had to wait for the trial to begin. My life was proceeding according to his schedule.
The brothers who’d brought me to the refectory now escorted me to the table and offered me a chair facing my accusers and judge. Behind me other tables were filled with the members of the monastery. It seemed everyone was present.
“We are not here to condemn you without giving you a chance to explain yourself, René Bianco,” the abbot began.
My stomach began to ache. Sweat started to drip down my neck. I felt my bowels liquefy. I had spent so much time planning on how to escape and what to take with me, but I had not thought very much about the trial itself. I knew about civilian trials, but how did monks conduct such things?
“We are men of God and mercy,” Beneto said. “Please describe the events that led up to the passing of Brother Serapino.”
“He was very ill . . .” I started in halting words.
“Yes,” Beneto said, almost encouraging me.
I searched his face. Today he looked almost benign. I didn’t see the accusation I’d viewed that night in the laboratory when he came so soon after Serapino had died.
“Go on,” Beneto prompted.
“He had been ill for months. He grew weaker and weaker and was in constant pain.”
“The same illness that befell Brother Adamo during last winter,” said Brother Jacimo, the librarian, who sat on the other side of Beneto. He was an ancient man, at least eighty years old, with a keen mind. Serapino had always spoken well of Jacimo, and I hoped that would bode well for me. He had been of very noble birth—but a seventh son with no hope of inheriting any of his father’s estate.
“Yes, that’s right.” Beneto looked at me. “Is there a connection there? That they both had the same illness?”
I didn’t know what, if anything, Jacimo knew about Serapino’s experiments. I had thought no one other than I knew about the collection of dying breaths that Serapino had amassed, but I might have been wrong.
My
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