Friday of the Thirteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1457
Candles and oil lanterns flickered and hissed as the painter paced before his frescoes and studied them carefully. He’d lived with this cycle for nearly six years now, and its stories and images had come to resemble those of his own life. In Saint Stephen’s separation from his parents, the painter saw the pain of losing his own mother and then his father; in the birth scenes he saw the luxuries he’d wished for Lucrezia; in the martyrdom of Saint John the Baptist he saw his own desperation; and in Salome, who was ripe and full in her sensuous beauty, he saw a seductive rendering of his own beloved Lucrezia.
He’d been working through the night, but the monk squared his shoulders and stared at the scene of Saint Stephen’s birth. A balia sat on the ground of the birthing chamber, the infant in a basket next to her. Yet these figures didn’t adequately illustrate the legend of Saint Stephen in peril—a tale that Fra Filippo had begun to realize was terribly close to his own son’s life.
As the sun made its first faint appearance in the east, Fra Filippo stirred a fresh jar of terra verde and dragged a ladder across to the northern wall of the chapel. He climbed the scaffolding that abutted the lunette, and began to paint a secco, putting a new layer of paint onto the dried plaster. His brush created a spectral green image in the midst of the placid birth scene: a winged demon, hunched over the infant’s cradle. The demon held the infant saint in his left arm as he placed another, ordinary child, into the blessed infant’s basket. In a moment the green demon would carry the true Saint Stephen away from his mother, even as she lay blissfully unaware on her high bed.
For hours Fra Filippo worked on the green satanic figure, making it as real as the other figures in the scene. Then he stepped back and studied the evil creature. It was even more deathly, more horrible, than he’d pictured in his mind. With this new creation, no one who looked at the fresco could fail to see the demons that haunted the painter’s life.
He heard Tomaso arrive, and Fra Filippo bellowed for a bucket of plaster. As soon as the assistant scrambled up the scaffolding, the painter took the bucket and began to smear a fresh, large circle of intonaco on the outer limits of the scene. With facile strokes he created an orange-robed nursemaid, her simple gown falling in heavy folds. In her outstretched arms she held a small baby, his rounded head a perfect, foreshortened sphere. She passed the child to a waiting clergyman, whose green robe matched exactly the terra verde demon. The connection between the two figures was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. Although the cleric’s robe was green instead of the red of Provost Inghirami’s cassock, Fra Filippo was certain he’d painted an image that would stab at the man’s heart.
Inghirami will burn with shame when he looks at this scene, the painter thought, and for just a moment his misery was eased by something approaching satisfaction.
He used a rag to wipe the splatters of paint from his hands, leaving the brushes and buckets for his assistants to clean. It was still early, and he didn’t want them to know he was leaving for the day; perhaps for many days. He had to be alone to devote himself to the altarpiece of the Holy Belt in penitence and humility. For him, praying was painting, and he intended to pray with all his might.
With a pack on his shoulder the painter hurried away from the church, carefully pulling the small cart with his work behind him. Only Fra Piero knew where to find him.
Prior General Saviano’s carriage rolled into Prato and stopped at the Pieve di Santo Stefano. Brushing past women scrubbing the steps, he marched through the front door and demanded olive soap to wash his hands, peppermint oil for his feet, and silk sheets for his bed.
“Right away,” he said. “Send them to the guest room in the rectory, along with your finest wine.”
The prior general had postponed his arrival for the festa as long as he could. He had no desire to publicly associate himself with the painter’s escapades, and when he’d learned Lucrezia was still lying in at the convent infirmary, he’d made up his mind to forgo the comfortable room at Santa Margherita and stay instead in the tiny guest chamber at Santo Stefano.
The prior general drank the wine as soon as it was brought to him, then went to Inghirami’s private kitchen and ordered a full meal, sending the kitchen maid back twice for more bread and gravy. He nodded coolly to Father Carlo, who came looking for Inghirami, and refused to let himself become worked up when the provost appeared and brought up the drama unfolding in Rome, where Pope Callistus III lay gravely ill.
“Never mind what’s happening in Rome,” Prior General Saviano snapped as he wiped gravy off his lips. “I want to see the Sacra Cintola straightaway. I’ve got my own prayers for the Virgin.”
“Of course,” Inghirami said as agreeably as he could manage. “Of course, if you wish, we can go immediately.”
The church was filled with workers polishing the woodwork with lemon oil, sweeping the floors, brushing cobwebs and hornets’ nests from the hidden spaces under stairwells. Stopping in front of the altar, Saviano strained to see what progress had been made on the frescoes, and barely missed tripping over a bucket of soapy water.
“Should we have a closer look at the fresco cycle?” the provost asked.
Prior General Saviano glanced around, noticed the white robes of the painter were nowhere to be seen, and consented. Fra Diamante and Tomaso stepped out of their path as the two clerics entered the cappella maggiore to survey the work.
“The scene of King Herod is quite fine,” Prior General Saviano acknowledged with a begrudging nod. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes,” the provost answered as he squinted into the shadows under the scaffolding. He was hoping to see Young Marco and signal for the boy to meet him in the stairway of the bell tower later. Otherwise he’d have to hang his rope belt by the campanile door, and then wait in the meeting place for the boy to see the sign.
“What is the meaning of this?” Saviano demanded.
Provost Inghirami turned to see the red-faced cleric waving a hand toward the wall under the northern lunette.
“Is something wrong?” Inghirami asked.
“Look for yourself,” Saviano snarled as he made an angry gesture.
It took a moment for Inghirami’s eyes to find the green demon, and to discern the message Fra Filippo had inserted into his painting. His eyes moved from the green cleric’s robes, to the green wings of the demon, to the trim of green around the bottom of Prior General Saviano’s rich cassock. Although legend said the infant Saint Stephen was nursed by a doe and then brought back from the wilderness and put into the arms of a benevolent bishop, it seemed clear that Fra Filippo, in painting the cleric and the demon the same color, wished to imply a connection between the two, an evil thread that linked them in their intent to do harm.
“It’s nothing, Your Grace,” the provost whispered. He gave a meaningful glance in the direction of Fra Diamante and Tomaso, who’d stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the two men. “Just the reckless imagination of a crazed artist.”
Inghirami was loath to take the prior general’s arm and lead him away, and was greatly relieved when the prelate took his cue, turning his back on the fresco and leaving the cappella maggiore with a great flourish of his robes.
“Who does he think he is?” the prior general growled.
“He’s got the devil in him,” Inghirami whispered. “He’ll be sorry.”
As the two hurried to the Chapel of the Holy Belt, Provost Inghirami fumbled among the keys on his belt for the one that would open the bronze gates. The two men were silent as the chapel opened with a slow creaking.
A stream of light fell through the circular window in the rear of the chapel, and dust rose, swirling and shimmering as it caught the sunlight. Incense was burning nearby, and the air smelled of myrrh as the two approached the coffer that held the sacred relic.
As he did whenever he was about to open the reliquary box, Provost Inghirami genuflected and made the sign of the cross.
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.”
“Amen.” The prior general’s voice was loud in the hushed chamber. He nearly snatched up the coffer himself; only Inghirami’s quick movements prevented it. The provost bent, laid his hands on the reliquary lid with its gilded volutes, and used his thumbs to release the clasps that held it shut. He took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.
The box was empty.
The provost gasped, and drew himself up in horror.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Prior General Saviano demanded for the second time in an hour.
“My God, I have no idea.” There was a tremor in Inghirami’s voice. He stared into the coffer, and quickly snapped it shut.
“Do I have to remind you that your most important duty here is to keep watch over the Virgin’s relic? If the Sacra Cintola isn’t here, where is it?”
“I don’t know.” The provost ran a thin finger inside the neck of his robe.
“You have the only key, and it falls to you to explain what the devil is going on,” snapped the prior general.
“I don’t have it, I can assure you of that.” Inghirami dropped to his knees.
“Dear Virgin Mother,” he prayed. “Please tell me what has happened.”
The prior general glared at the provost.
“Get off your knees,” Saviano hissed. “This isn’t a time for prayer, it’s a time for action. Stealing the belt is a crime punishable by death. If there’s no other culprit, the blame falls to you.”
The provost closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d never intended to tell a soul that he’d surrendered the Sacra Cintola to Cantansanti last year. But surely, if pushed, Prioress Bartolommea would confess to having had the belt in her possession, and she would implicate him in its disappearance. Better to tell all that he knew now, while he had the prior general’s attention. And it was possible, he thought, just possible, that the prioress and the Medici had conspired to take the belt a second time.
Steeling himself for Saviano’s ire, Inghirami quickly recounted the day Cantansanti had come to Santo Stefano and requested—no, demanded—the temporary surrender of the belt.
“Cantansanti carried a sealed directive from Rome, instructing me to surrender the cintola,” he said. “I have good reason to believe the Medici took the relic to the convent, to the secret keep of Prioress Bartolommea.”
“What?” asked the prior general. “How could such a thing happen without my knowledge?”
“It was for the painter, I’m quite certain,” the provost said in a low voice. “The same day the belt left the chapel, Sister Lucrezia left the convent. The next month, the painting they call the Miraculous Madonna appeared at the Valenti home.”
Prioress Bartolommea heard the bell at the convent gate, and gave a startled glance in Sister Camilla’s direction at the sound of steeds on the road.
“Who’s that?”
Sister Camilla ran to the window.
“It’s the prior general,” she reported.
The prioress removed her spectacles and hid them in the pocket of her robe.
“Prior General Saviano? Is he expected?”
“I’m here now,” the prior general said, sweeping into the room with the provost close behind. “What does it matter if I’m expected?”
The prioress stood and stepped out from behind her desk.
“Sister Camilla, you will leave us alone,” Saviano commanded. His temples pounded as he waited for the secretary and provost to leave. Then he shut the door behind them. He and the prioress were alone.
“How dare you take the Holy Belt?” He enunciated each word carefully.
The prioress forced herself to meet the man’s angry glare.
“I assure you, Prior General, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me.” He pulled himself up to his most imperious height. “The belt was here in the convent; now it’s missing again. You must return it at once.”
Prioress Bartolommea felt overheated. The prior general seemed to be taking up all of the light and air in her study. But her discomfort didn’t change the fact that she didn’t have the Sacred Belt of the Holy Virgin, nor had she seen it in nearly a year. She explained as much to Saviano.
“Only the Medici’s emissary could arrange for such a transfer, and Ser Cantansanti hasn’t been in Prato for more than a month,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts straight and appeal to the prior general’s sense of reason. “If the sacred relic isn’t in the locked case, then only the provost can know where it is.”
“Is that your final word, Mother?”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” she said, her chin quivering.
“Very well.” Prior General Saviano flung open the door, and nearly knocked over the provost. He hissed into Inghirami’s pale face.
“For your own sake, Gemignano, if you know where the belt is, tell me now.”
“I swear on my soul,” the provost stammered as he retreated. “I saw it safely returned behind the locked gates of the chapel nearly a year ago.” Inghirami remembered the terrible fate of the two men who’d been hanged in the square for the attempted theft of the belt in the prior century. “It must be here,” he insisted. “Search the convent, I beg of you.”
The prior general turned to the prioress.
“If we find it on the convent grounds, Prioress Bartolommea, you will answer to Rome.”
Stunned, the prioress felt her bladder release, and a warm trickle slid down her leg as the prior general marched into the courtyard.
“Prior General, we’re humble servants of the Lord,” she called as she hobbled after him. “There is not a thief among us.”
The prior general looked around, and she followed his gaze. The nuns had gathered at the windows and doorways of the chapter house, and under the arches of the cloister garden. Sister Isotta was swaying like a tall cedar, and plump Sister Maria was wringing her hands in a kitchen rag.
“You know we have taken the vow of poverty, and humility,” she said weakly.
“Where are the novitiates?” Saviano asked.
“We have three novitiates,” the prioress said. “I presume they are all in the infirmary, where Sister Lucrezia is resting.”
The prior general’s eyes narrowed.
“Bring them to me,” he said.
“I’m afraid Sister Lucrezia still hasn’t recovered from her ordeal,” the prioress said.
The prior general leaned closer.
“Last time the belt left Santo Stefano, it was brought here on her account,” he said. “If you won’t tell me where the belt is, maybe she will.”
“Sister Maria,” the prioress called. “Go to the infirmary and fetch Sister Lucrezia.”
The plump nun nodded solemnly, and began to turn. But from behind the cloister archway, Sister Pureza appeared. All eyes watched as she walked directly to the prior general and stood on his shadow.
“Sister Lucrezia has suffered a great trauma. She cannot be disturbed,” Sister Pureza said.
The prior general clenched his jaw.
“Who are you, to speak to me in such a way?” he demanded in a hard voice.
Sister Pureza didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.
“The novitiate was a pawn for the belt once, but she won’t be a pawn again,” she said.
The cleric stared down at her. She stepped closer, and lowered her voice.
“You won’t find the Holy Belt here,” she went on. “Only the provost has the key, and as you can see, the key never leaves him.”
Prior General Saviano followed the old nun’s sharp gaze, and looked at the ornate iron key that hung from the belt on Inghirami’s waist.
“If the belt wasn’t removed by the use of that key, then there’s no earthly explanation for its disappearance.”
She watched a cloud pass over the provost’s face, and took two steps toward him.
“Provost Inghirami, no one but you can be held responsible for the belt, and the Curia knows this. But there is another possibility, perhaps one you haven’t considered.”
“And what is that, Sister?”
Although he kept the disdain in his voice, Sister Pureza could see the provost was shaken.
“For hundreds of years the Virgin of the Belt has interceded on behalf of women and mothers,” she said. “She appeared to the Bishop of Medina and frightened him nearly to death when he offended one of her faithful.”
Sister Pureza turned, to be sure both the provost and the prior general could hear her. She knew by their expressions that her words had them riveted.
“The Madonna of the Holy Belt is the patron saint and protector of mothers and children. If the belt is not in the coffer then perhaps the Virgin Mother has removed it as an earthly expression of her righteous anger. And for good reason.”
No one moved. Even the prioress, who very much wanted to step closer so she could hear what the old nun was saying, stayed where she was.
“The Virgin speaks through the Sacra Cintola,” Sister Pureza said. “Her miracles are conducted through the belt. Her desires are communicated through the belt, Provost Inghirami.”
“You’re an old, foolish woman,” the prior general said, finding his voice at last.
Sister Pureza turned to him. Although she was small and stooped, the difference in their size seemed suddenly insignificant.
“What else can it be, but that the Virgin Mary of the Sacra Cintola, protector of mothers and children, is unhappy with what has come to pass here in Prato?”
She leveled her gray eyes at the prior general, then at the provost.
“The belt isn’t here. I suggest you look inward, and prayerfully consider what’s been done to offend Our Holy Mother.”
Having spoken her piece, Sister Pureza stepped back, her eyes not leaving the provost’s. The horses stamped the earth, the pigs routed in the mud, and overhead, falcons circled.
The prior general turned to the prioress. He thought he smelled urine as he approached her.
“We’ll be back, Prioress,” he said. “You had best take care of how you, and your charges, speak to me.”
As their horses trotted along Via Santa Margherita, Provost Inghirami felt faint with anxiety. He slowed alongside the prior general’s black steed.
“What if the old woman is right?”
“Don’t be a fool.” Prior General Saviano didn’t even look at him as he shook his head.
“In the name of God, I can’t dismiss what she’s said. I’ve witnessed the belt’s power many times. I’ve seen the Sacra Cintola cure a child of leprosy, and stop the bleeding of a mother who’d lost three sons before she was delivered of twins two months after she touched the cintola. I can’t ignore what Sister Pureza said.”
The prior general’s mind raced. He felt sure the old woman had somehow hatched a plot to put the fear of God into Inghirami. But what if she hadn’t? What if the Virgin Mary herself had actually removed the belt? In Florence, he’d seen the miraculous Holy Mother bring a child back from the brink of death, and cure an old man who had the rage of Satan in him. The power of the Sacra Cintola was legendary throughout the land, and was widely known to have cured the noble donna Josefina da Liccio di Verona of a weak womb when she’d traveled to Prato for the festa some years ago.
“The feast is in three days,” Inghirami said as the bell tower of Santo Stefano came into view over the rooftops. “If the Sacra Cintola isn’t here on the morning of the festa, we can be certain the Curia’s guards will be here by evening.”
Prior General Saviano reared his steed to a stop in the Piazza della Pieve. The falcons that had been circling the field beyond the convent seemed to have followed them. Now a swarm of gnats hung in the air around them in a humming brown cloud, and merchants and messengers in the plaza made a large circle around them. The prior general waved his hands to cut through the swell of insects.
“A pox on the old nun,” he cried, and his horse snorted and stamped. “She can’t command what we do.”
“With all respect, Prior General, the Virgin’s strength is greater than any man’s, and her power extends from earth into heaven.” The provost swatted a gnat from his cheek. “Imagine reaching the gates of eternity only to find the Blessed Mother was angry at you.”
The two men shuddered. They nodded to each other in wordless agreement.
Lucrezia sat up when Sister Pureza entered the infermeria. The old woman’s cheeks were red, her eyes alert.
“Rosina told me the prior general is here,” the young woman said, a catch in her throat. “Is it true?”
“He’s gone. Don’t worry, my dear, he won’t come near you.” Sister Pureza squared her stooped shoulders. “He came because the Sacra Cintola is missing.”
“Stolen?” Lucrezia gasped. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Not stolen.” Sister Pureza took Lucrezia’s hand. “I think this may be the miracle we’ve hoped for,” she whispered. “The Virgin has indeed seen your plight, and heard your prayers. And I believe she’s speaking now.”
Lucrezia’s eyes stung. She gently removed her hand from Sister Pureza’s, and pushed the covers off her legs. She slid out of bed, barely feeling the ache in her groin, and knelt on the hard floor. She made the sign of the cross, and began to pray.
Outside, near the well in the chapter house garden, Sister Bernadetta and Sister Maria heard Lucrezia through the open door of the infirmary.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.” Her voice was loud and clear. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
“She’s praying,” Sister Maria said, feeling a flood of joy at the strong sound of Lucrezia’s voice. She made the sign of the cross and fell to her knees beside the well.
Moved by Sister Maria’s compassion, Sister Bernadetta also fell to her knees and began praising the Virgin Mary.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Virgin of the Holy Belt.” Their voices joined together and rose on the wind that wafted through the doorway of the infirmary, over the high walls of the convent, into the streets of Prato.
Lucrezia prayed all day, and on through Vespers. Rumors of the missing belt passed from the mouth of the convent’s stable boy, and spread like fire through the humblest homes of Prato. The stars came out, and the moon witnessed Lucrezia’s devotion. Her plea was felt in the fingers of the solitary weavers in Prato who worked beside the last embers in their hearths; it stirred the housemaids in the Valenti palazzo, who’d eavesdropped at the door of their mistress’s room and learned of the young woman’s misfortune. Lucrezia’s vigil, and news of the missing belt, moved the hearts of expectant mothers, and even Rosina’s mother, who was eating the last of her thin gruel before bed, found herself praying more fiercely than usual for the benevolence of the Mother of the Holy Belt.
When Teresa de’ Valenti kissed the forehead of her son, Ascanio, that night, remembering his birth nearly one year ago, she said a special prayer of thanks to the Virgin of the Belt and asked her to bless Lucrezia and her child.
“The babe is gone, and now they say the belt is missing,” Signora Teresa whispered on her knees, fingering her fine prayer beads. “Dear Mother, make the world right, I beg of you. Ave Maria, gratia plena.”
Not one of the women who prayed that night knew for certain that the missing child and the stolen relic were linked. Not one saw Fra Filippo sketching by candlelight in the old stone waterhouse beside Fra Piero’s small dwelling. Not one visited Provost Inghirami or heard his desperate prayers to the Virgin.
But if any one of the women had pulled on her cloak, walked to the edge of the Bisenzo River, and looked up into the branches of the tallest cypress, she might have seen the dark cloth that was hidden among the thick leaves of the tree. And if she’d reached up, as far as the height of two men, and tugged a loose thread that hung from the black silk, the Sacra Cintola, glowing in the moonlight, might have fallen out of the wrapping and dropped into her waiting arms.