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When Ginevra was fully recovered from the malocchio, she went back to where the girl with the flawed face had been, hoping to make amends. But she was nowhere to be found. She had missed her chance to be kind.

SIX

THE WISDOM OF THE PEAR TREE

July 6th of 1348, Outside of Florence

Ginevra pondered these early days—the terror of her encounter with the Eye, the ecstasy of Vermilia’s precious gift of coral—as she wandered through the disease-ravaged countryside with the orphan Piero. The more she thought about it, the more disappointed she became in herself. Vermilia had invested so much in her potential. So had many others. And what had Ginevra made of their gifts? Nothing but to become a mediocre and lonely woman. She looked over at Piero, who trudged beside her. He caught her glance and smiled, picking up his step. Never mind the past, never mind these black thoughts, she told herself. You are going to make it all right now.

Motivated by the unexpected lack of provisions, the pair had made good time and were close to their destination of Florence. Now, an acute anxiety invaded Ginevra’s mind: she was about to see a man who had made love to her and then left her to rot in prison, and there were a few things she needed to say to him. She began to invent entire conversations in her head in which Ludovico, astounded by her wit, begged forgiveness for his transgressions. She wondered (for the hundredth time) if his wife had died, and if that was what all this was about. She wondered again why a powerful man like Bishop Acciaiuoli was begging for an audience with her. Especially after he’d so carefully orchestrated her exile. So when they reached the river Arno before the city proper, she told Piero to make camp, even though the Porta San Gallo into Florence was just another hour’s walk. She needed one more night to think.

“Please, Ginevra, can’t we go on? I’m sick of sleeping on the ground and eating only old prunes.”

“Be grateful for those prunes, Piero,” replied Ginevra, who was just as sick of them. “It’s best to wait for morning. The gate might be closed for the day already, and we’d have to walk all the way back to avoid sleeping next to the rubbish piles outside the wall.”

Piero harrumphed off into the surrounding brush to find sticks for a fire in the gathering dusk.

Ginevra sat against a tree and watched the brown waters of the Arno swirl past them. A body bobbed by and she shut her eyes against it. She opened them again and saw a beautiful pear tree growing out of the rocky riverbank that she had not noticed before. It was covered with white buds tipped in pink. She breathed deeply and a light perfume filled her with calm. Pear trees were wise; they knew the answers to women’s troubles. She walked to the tree and the buds opened into fragrant blossoms. She touched a branch and the delicate petals closed, swelling into golden pears. The tree was speaking to her, of love that ripened over time: Ludo had asked her back to Florence and she came. They were bound to each other, still, by the golden strings. What joy! What relief! The sound of water drip-dripping on rocks pulled her attention. The corpse she had seen earlier crawled out of the river and stared at her pear tree. She yelled at it to go back in the water, but her voice came out as only a faintest whisper and the corpse did not listen. Instead, it reached into the branches and plucked a golden pear and swallowed it whole. It did this again and again until every single fruit was gone, and then it took the branches in its mouth and sucked the leaves off them until they were barren sticks. With a bloated belly, the corpse slid back into the river and floated against the current, toward Florence.

She awoke to Piero shaking her. The sun rose red. There was no pear tree on the riverbank and no corpse had crawled from the water. But the dream’s message was real enough: however he may have felt about her, Ludo was long dead and Ginevra was a fool for thinking otherwise.

She grabbed Piero close and wept bitterly into his shoulder.

SEVEN

THE BELOVED RELICS OF FLORENCE

May of 1348, City of Florence

Several months earlier, at first news of plague, the Florentines did what they had always done in moments of great peril: they organized an emergency procession of the Virgin of Requisiti—the holy statue that served as protectress of the city.

Time and again, in exchange for gifts and prayers, the Requisiti statue had saved the people of Florence from famine, floods, and invaders. But this time she did nothing. Unmoved by the procession of the faithful, she allowed disease to enter her city, potent and unhindered. The Florentines began to die in heaps, the same as everywhere else. They put the Virgin back in her cupboard. They must have asked too much of her, over the years. It was only fair to give her a rest and cast their hopes toward the next holy object.

And so, with stubborn optimism, the people of Florence turned their attention instead to the left arm of San Filippo Apostolo. A gift to the city from the Queen of Jerusalem, this exceptional relic was a forearm and perfect hand with two fingers pointed skyward. It was housed inside a precious reliquary casket of silver and enamel and stored in the main altar of the octagonal church known as the Baptistry of San Giovanni.

The Florentines adored their Filippo Arm because, once, a sick goldsmith touched it and instantly became well. Normally, pilgrims flocked into town on San Filippo’s feast day, bringing a cash influx much appreciated by local businesses. But in the desolate spring of 1348, those few who came from the countryside were stopped at the city walls.

By then, the gates of Florence were closed to all foreigners: a late and feeble attempt to halt the contagion. The poor pilgrims—who had traveled so far for nothing—could only place their hands on the wall’s exterior and hope the prayers of the Florentines would be sufficiently pleasing to Filippo.

The pilgrims were uneasy about this arrangement because Florentines were not exactly known as the most pious of peoples. For all their churches and priests, really they were a city of bankers and merchants who were not hesitant to indulge in luxury. They wore velvet robes embroidered with silver pomegranates, and pinned pearls into the hairdos of their brides. The sexes bathed together in public bathhouses, naked except for fancy hats. Men who could not govern three snails were admitted to the highest offices through bribes and nepotism. Women wore two colors at the same time. Worst of all, they lent money with terms of accrued interest. This was probably why their Virgin statue was ignoring them.

Still, on Filippo’s day of May the First, those Florentines who remained alive processed toward the Baptistry—and the Filippo Arm—for a communal confession of sin. They walked in small groups, standing far apart and casting angry glances at one another when a member of a different household stepped too close.

In normal times, this important mass was led by the bishop of Florence himself, a position now held by Angiolo Acciaiuoli, uncle of Ginevra’s former lover, Ludovico. But today, the bishop was preoccupied: the king of England had declined to repay his loans to the Acciaiuoli bank. The amount the king owed was, itself, ruinous. Worse still, word had spread of these royal defaults, and the other powerful (and often violent) account holders of the Acciaiuoli bank had demanded the immediate return of their funds. The bishop’s father and brother promptly died from the stress of it. Now, the heavy burden of saving family honor and fortune rested solely on the bishop’s holy shoulders.

In this way, the pestilence had been a gift to Angiolo Acciaiuoli. As Death rode through Europe, disrupting all rhythms of daily life, the bishop finally had time to think. His full focus was now trained on refilling his coffers before the disease ran its course—and before his creditors returned their attention to their bank accounts.

With the bishop on hiatus, the Mass of Filippo was led by a newly ordained priest who until recently made his living as an olive oil salesman. (The best substitute the Church could get, what with all the qualified clergy being dead.)

The whole thing was awkward from the start. The priest spilled the wine. He dropped the Host. And when he held San Filippo’s reliquary aloft, he couldn’t get it open. A cantor came forward and helped the anxious priest pull it apart. Something fell out and both men gave a little yelp.

Instead of the gilded forearm of a saint, a small glass bottle lay upon the altar.

It was the size and shape of a spring onion, the cork sealed shut with wax and filled with a violet liquid. The astounded cantor picked it up and held it out for all to see. For a moment, the sanctuary was silent. Then distressed shouts of “Where is the arm?” and “He has abandoned us, just like the Virgin!” echoed through the sacred space. Everyone rushed out of the church, and many citizens who meant to stay in Florence left that very night. As they fled through the gates, they told the wall-touching pilgrims what had happened, and they, too, ran away, telling everyone they met the terrible story of how a sorcerer had transformed San Filippo’s arm into a small bottle.

Those Florentines who did not—or could not—flee were left in even greater terror, and cast their desperate hopes toward the upcoming Feast of San Zenobio. If no miracle was delivered after that? Well, they whispered, then we are truly cursed above all other cities, and forsaken by God.

In life, San Zenobio was the very first bishop of Florence. Now his skull was enclosed in a gilt-silver case, fashioned in the shape of his head, hat, and shoulders. And surely, surely, he would intercede for Florence in her darkest hour. A sparse crowd of Florentines, faces wrapped in vinegared cloth, gathered at his altar inside the crumbling cathedral of Santa Reparata to ask Zenobio to make the plague go away and tell the Virgin they were sorry and get San Filippo to come back.