The Fourth Week of Easter, the Year of Our Lord 1457
Fra Filippo was at the center of activity in the cappella maggiore. Fra Diamante had been called away again, and there was much to accomplish before the intonaco could be mixed and the sketches transformed into the colorful figures of King Herod and his banquet guests. The painter felt the power of a king in his very fingertips, and wanted to get to work before the feeling slipped away.
“Andiamo,” he snapped at Tomaso. “Prepare this surface so we can begin.”
Giorgio was stretching a cord across the wall to check the accuracy of the perspective line, while Young Marco ground the pigment for yet another batch of giallorino.
“You, too, Giorgio, hurry up. And Young Marco, how long does it take you to mix some binder?”
Frustrated by the slow progress of the frescoes, the painter turned his thoughts to the Bankers’ Guild altarpiece. To quicken his progress, he planned to copy two of the figures he’d already sketched for the frescoes, using a rabbi from the synagogue as the figure of Saint Matthew beside the nursing Madonna, and two others from the same scene for the figures of the saints on either side panel. It was a common practice, and one the men of the Arte del Cambio would never notice.
The painter was contemplating the figures of Saint Jerome and Saint Matthew when he felt the air beside him stir, and looked up into the solemn, gray face of Provost Inghirami, whose red robes swirled around him.
“It’s been too long,” Inghirami said, his voice cold and measured.
Fra Filippo stiffened, shuffling a blank piece of parchment on top of the sketch in his hand. He hadn’t seen the provost for many weeks. He tried to take a measure of the man, to determine if his were the red robes that seemed to be haunting him.
“What are you working on, Fratello?”
Moving aside the silverpoints and parchment, Fra Filippo picked up the sheet on which he’d drawn Inghirami’s face. He held it up for the provost and saw he’d been too kind. In the sketch the man looked sharp and graceful, fully alive.
The provost narrowed his eyes.
“It’s fine,” he said. “The Comune di Prato has approved my likeness. But we have heard you’ve taken an additional commission, Fratello.” The provost let his eyes roam the clutter on the worktable. “Remember, you’re indebted to Santo Stefano.”
“How can I forget?” Fra Filippo smelled the sardines the provost had eaten for lunch. “You seem to be everywhere. Reminding me.”
The provost raised himself even taller, his spine erect. He glanced beyond the painter to where the assistants were busy at their work, safely out of hearing.
“I don’t like your tone, Fratello,” Inghirami said. “Remember, the comune gets its reports from me. Don’t let the Bankers’ Guild supplant your obligations to the Church. It will not bode well if you do.”
With a nod, the cleric slipped away again, his red robes hissing along the limestone floor as they dragged behind him.
He’d barely left the chapel when Fra Filippo felt a hand on his shoulder and turned abruptly to face his friend Fra Piero.
“You startled me, Piero,” he said, trying to hide his unsteady hands. But the procurator knew him well, and pulled him into the nave, where fresh air entered from the open doors beyond the narthex.
“What’s the matter, Filippo? You look terrible,” Fra Piero said.
The artist shook his head and forced a smile.
“Mio amico, you know how it is when I’m puzzling over something in my work.” He shifted his body, craning to see the mouth of the cappella maggiore. Fra Piero followed his gaze.
“Something’s troubling you,” the procurator said. They stood beside the wooden statue of Saint Elizabeth, the row of votive candles flickering around the base of the pedestal. “What is it?”
As Fra Filippo prepared to answer, he caught another spark of rippling red fabric, and his body twisted. The motion came from a doorway that led to the stairs accessing the church’s crypt. A tall figure in red slipped quickly through the door, shutting it silently behind him.
“Inghirami?” the procurator asked.
Fra Filippo was hesitant to speak. “I seem to be seeing red robes everywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
Reluctantly, the painter told him about the figure at the window on Easter morning, the man in red who seemed to shadow him through the streets.
“The provost doesn’t move with ease. He’s old and slippery, not quick and strong,” Fra Piero said. As he spoke, the procurator wondered if his friend, who was under a great strain, was letting his imagination get the better of him. “Probably it’s just someone who’s curious about your affairs, Filippo. Don’t let it trouble you.”
Still gazing across the nave, Fra Filippo put a hand to his temple and rubbed his eyes.
“My head’s pounding,” he said.
“You should rest. Go home, check on Lucrezia.”
“Si, si, I will,” Fra Filippo said. “But first I must go to the apothecary and get a tincture for my head.” He blinked, and there were dark spots in front of his eyes. “I’ll have to come back later, but an hour of rest will do me good.”
The painter hurried toward the apothecary, taking a shortcut through an alley behind the cobbler’s shop. He was looking down at the street, aware only of the throbbing in his temples, when he felt the rush of a man on either side of him. He turned right, then left. The men moved in front of him, blocking his way.
“Buongiorno, Fratello.”
“Buongiorno.” He nodded. He barely gave them a second thought until the oafs stopped, forcing him to yield.
“We’ve come from the Bankers’ Guild,” said one. Fra Filippo looked from one man to the other. The first was short, his face covered in stubble that barely concealed an angry purple scar. The other was tall and thick, with arms the size of a horse’s flank.
“What is it?” the painter asked irritably.
The short one stepped closer. The painter’s heart began to race.
“Our master would like to see the work you’ve done for the altarpiece,” said the short man.
Fra Filippo’s head was pounding.
“I don’t have it with me,” he said, irritated. “It’s at my workshop.”
“Take us there,” the tall one demanded. “Show it to us.”
The painter tried to pass the larger of the two, but the man moved in front of him and uncrossed his arms. Fra Filippo could see he was strong as a bull, and probably just as mean.
“We’re not the Casa del Ceppo, we’re not a charity house,” the man said. “The painting is due soon after the solstice. The guild wants to see that you’re working on it.”
“If the Arte del Cambio wants to see what I’ve got, tell them to come to my bottega in a civilized manner.”
“We know what you’ve done.” The man spat at Fra Filippo’s feet. “If you’ve got something, show it to us now, and we’ll report back to the guild.”
Shaken, the monk tried to move back, but he bumped up against a building. The two men in black parted, and a third, in red, stepped forward. Fra Filippo felt a chill of recognition as the red robes rippled.
“I’ll gladly come to see what you’ve done.” The man addressed him in a far kinder tone than the others had used. Fra Filippo thought he heard an accent from the north of Italy, perhaps somewhere near Milan. “Shall I come now?”
Fra Filippo’s eyes moved left and right, casting about in his mind for some other sketch he might pass off as the one for the bankers. But there was nothing.
“I thought so, Fratello,” said the small man. Fra Filippo remembered him sitting behind a table at the guild offices, on the day he’d signed the contract. “We may not be men of high art, but our money is good, and you have our twenty florins.”
Fra Filippo was silent.
“Either you deliver the altarpiece on schedule, or you give us back the money while there’s still time to commission someone else. Maybe even your friend Fra Diamante.”
“Do not threaten me,” the painter exploded. “I am under the protection of the eminent Cosimo de’ Medici!”
“Not in Prato,” the man said. He put out a hand, much larger than Fra Filippo had expected, and pushed against his shoulder. “Do we understand each other, Brother Lippi?”
The monk clenched his jaw. His head felt like it was about to explode.
“Do we? Or shall I stop in at your bottega tomorrow, and take some things to guarantee you’ll give us what we want?”
“Don’t you dare!” he said as he clenched his fists. “You stay away from my home.”
“Don’t test us,” the man said, stepping away and letting his shadow cover Fra Filippo’s. “We are not patient men.”