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Authors: Michael Ennis
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away in the local Romagnolo dialect, a tongue so foreign to most Italian ears that it could be mistaken for a German barking his way through some mongrel mix of French and Latin.
The Florentine appeared to understand well enough. He nodded, gave the boy a coin, and as soon as his little informant had run off, himself raced up the stairs at the far end of the court. Almost before you could say an Ave Maria he flew back down again, a heavy wool cape around his shoulders, and without a pause took his mule’s halter and led it back into the stables.
“Madonna, he is going out.”
“Bar this and open it only for me,” I cautioned, having already gotten to our door. “That boy is a spy of some sort. And now he has discovered something.”
Camilla asked almost plaintively, “But what, Madonna?”
I was already on the landing when I turned to answer. I could only shake my head.
As Camilla had suspected, I did not find the Florentine tending his mule in the stables. However, neither did I observe him runningdown the street that goes past the cathedral, so I quickly proceeded alongside our palazzo to the Via Emilia, where I could see all the way to the center of the city. This ancient road, which cleaves Imola in two, was perhaps not as crowded as a Carnival parade, but amid the wagons, mules, and people of all sorts, there must have been a dozen men who wore gray capes similar to the Florentine’s and were also headed away from me. Even so, I did not take long to recognize the familiar salad-head, darting from one side of the street to the other, as he first dodged a cart laden with vegetables, then steered around a conclave of tonsured monks.
I began a similar passage, lifting my skirts above the slush. As I made my way I was surprised to see almost as many soldiers as streetwalkers, most with youthful plowboy faces. But I remained fixed on the Florentine, who quickly reached the Piazza Maggiore at the center of the city but did not enter the square, instead disappearing down the Via Appia, which together with the Via Emilia makes a cross in the center of the city. Shortly I arrived at this crossroads and located him again, waiting on a corner three streets up.
He had not budged a step when I arrived at the opposite corner, partly concealing myself behind a farmer’s wife, so pregnant that she resembled an egg—and she was selling hens’ eggs out of her apron, all of them resting on her belly as if it were a shelf.
Just across the street, the Florentine was engaged in conversation with one of the candle-sellers, who had opened her cape to show him her tits. She bit her thumb at him and stalked off, whereupon the Florentine more carefully examined the palazzi on the opposite side of the street; I determined he was eyeing the largest of these buildings, the third from the corner, with an immense, black oak door that more resembled the hull of a Genoese carrack. Melting snow ran steadily from the eaves of the lofty tile roof, spattering on the pavement like a rain shower.
I waited on the corner, grateful to catch my breath, having been goaded into this pursuit by little more than a desperate intuition. The boy who had set me on this chase was no doubt some farmer’s son, and I suspected that whatever intelligence he had conveyed to Messer Niccolò would lead us into the countryside, which was still rife withrumors concerning the dismembered woman, as Messer Niccolò himself had told Camilla.
Now I wondered if some of these rumors were closer to fact, the reports of witnesses too frightened to reveal themselves—perhaps because they had seen something involving the condottieri . And perhaps rumors of this sort had reached the ears of the Florentines, who would have good reason to be interested: as Valentino had told me the previous night, the Florentines regarded his imminent treaty with the condottieri as a grave threat to their republic. If Messer Niccolò was a clerk attached to the Florentine embassy, as I had
The Florentine appeared to understand well enough. He nodded, gave the boy a coin, and as soon as his little informant had run off, himself raced up the stairs at the far end of the court. Almost before you could say an Ave Maria he flew back down again, a heavy wool cape around his shoulders, and without a pause took his mule’s halter and led it back into the stables.
“Madonna, he is going out.”
“Bar this and open it only for me,” I cautioned, having already gotten to our door. “That boy is a spy of some sort. And now he has discovered something.”
Camilla asked almost plaintively, “But what, Madonna?”
I was already on the landing when I turned to answer. I could only shake my head.
As Camilla had suspected, I did not find the Florentine tending his mule in the stables. However, neither did I observe him runningdown the street that goes past the cathedral, so I quickly proceeded alongside our palazzo to the Via Emilia, where I could see all the way to the center of the city. This ancient road, which cleaves Imola in two, was perhaps not as crowded as a Carnival parade, but amid the wagons, mules, and people of all sorts, there must have been a dozen men who wore gray capes similar to the Florentine’s and were also headed away from me. Even so, I did not take long to recognize the familiar salad-head, darting from one side of the street to the other, as he first dodged a cart laden with vegetables, then steered around a conclave of tonsured monks.
I began a similar passage, lifting my skirts above the slush. As I made my way I was surprised to see almost as many soldiers as streetwalkers, most with youthful plowboy faces. But I remained fixed on the Florentine, who quickly reached the Piazza Maggiore at the center of the city but did not enter the square, instead disappearing down the Via Appia, which together with the Via Emilia makes a cross in the center of the city. Shortly I arrived at this crossroads and located him again, waiting on a corner three streets up.
He had not budged a step when I arrived at the opposite corner, partly concealing myself behind a farmer’s wife, so pregnant that she resembled an egg—and she was selling hens’ eggs out of her apron, all of them resting on her belly as if it were a shelf.
Just across the street, the Florentine was engaged in conversation with one of the candle-sellers, who had opened her cape to show him her tits. She bit her thumb at him and stalked off, whereupon the Florentine more carefully examined the palazzi on the opposite side of the street; I determined he was eyeing the largest of these buildings, the third from the corner, with an immense, black oak door that more resembled the hull of a Genoese carrack. Melting snow ran steadily from the eaves of the lofty tile roof, spattering on the pavement like a rain shower.
I waited on the corner, grateful to catch my breath, having been goaded into this pursuit by little more than a desperate intuition. The boy who had set me on this chase was no doubt some farmer’s son, and I suspected that whatever intelligence he had conveyed to Messer Niccolò would lead us into the countryside, which was still rife withrumors concerning the dismembered woman, as Messer Niccolò himself had told Camilla.
Now I wondered if some of these rumors were closer to fact, the reports of witnesses too frightened to reveal themselves—perhaps because they had seen something involving the condottieri . And perhaps rumors of this sort had reached the ears of the Florentines, who would have good reason to be interested: as Valentino had told me the previous night, the Florentines regarded his imminent treaty with the condottieri as a grave threat to their republic. If Messer Niccolò was a clerk attached to the Florentine embassy, as I had
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