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SAN PAOLINO

Afternoon, July 8th of 1348,

City of Florence

Beetles. The humming came from masses of tiny iridescent beetles that crawled like shimmering waves atop the yard of San Paolino. Ginevra’s amulet grew hot. All the people missing from the streets seemed to be crammed into this very plot of earth. Plants had been ripped up, gravestones pulled out and moved to the edges of the yard, and even the street-pavers along the boundaries had been chiseled out to make room. Nobody had received a proper burial here in weeks, though the burying beetles were busy at work, reducing flesh to tidy bone. Adding to this macabre and industrious scene were people, even more wretched than Becchino, picking through the bodies searching for treasures. Ginevra saw one person cut the finger from a hand.

“What is he doing?” she asked, speaking loudly over the sound of the insects. “Do you think he found a ring?”

“Nah, it’s the finger he’s after.”

“The finger? What will he do with it?”

“He’ll sell it to a charlatan apothecary, who will sell it to somebody who thinks it can protect them. Of course, the thumb’ll be from San Sebastiano or the like by the time it reaches its final customer.”

“Of course,” replied Ginevra. Maybe this thing was not so mysterious as the inquisitor believed. In times like these, there must be a class of wealthy clientele willing to pay for relics with guaranteed provenance. Perhaps if she followed these false relics taken from San Paolino, they might lead to the genuine articles. She turned to Becchino and asked, “Do you know where I could find such a business as that?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know when you could take your pick of any number of fine fingers right now?”

“Oh, um. Not for me. I am fine with my own ten fingers, thank you. I have a friend who believes in these things and needs to be cured of her illusions.”

“So long as you don’t mix me up in it. Wouldn’t want to ruin someone else’s business.”

Ginevra crossed herself solemnly.

“Right. There is one I know, who was scamming pilgrims long before the plague times. He is old as Methuselah; if something could kill him, he’d have been dead fifty years ago. You can find his shop on the street of the apothecaries, under the sign of the twin Janus head in the old sestiere of San Pancrazio.”

“San Pancrazio—I think I remember...” Ginevra trailed off, looking past Becchino and noticing for the first time that the entrance to San Paolino was wide open. But not in the welcoming way; the entrance was black and gaping, a place abandoned. She moved toward it.

“Hey, you!” said Becchino, waving his hands in front of her face. “Where should I put her?” He gestured toward Antonella.

“Huh? Oh. I’m not sure—will you put her aside for a moment? I want to go inside the church quickly to say a prayer.”

“As you wish. Say one for me, too, while you’re at it.”

Ginevra entered into the dark sanctuary and paused as her eyes adjusted. No candles were lit, no incense burned. And no Franciscan brothers, who were meant to be the keepers of this place, came forward to entreat her for coins or offer a candle. Instead, garbage and leaves, the refuse of a beggar’s bed, and the smell of stale urine. An easy target for a thief.

Ginevra walked up to the apse and paused before the main altar. Grime covered the windows, so it was barely visible in the gloom; a slab of stone over a diamond-patterned iron grate. She knelt down, as if to pray, but instead peered through the grate to view the relics below the altar stone. No carved crystal goblet or gilded effigy. Just a simple glass box, the panes held together with uneven lead solder. There was something inside, something lumpy and bulbous, but it was so dark that no matter how she strained her eyes she could not see. She walked around to the back of the altar, entering the sacred space normally off-limits. “Hello?” she called out cautiously. “Is anyone here?”

But no disapproving priest came out of the shadows to ask her business. The back of the altar was closed with a grate the same as the front. She knelt down again and saw the corner was eaten by rust, and that a hole had been broken through. There were flaky bits of metal all on the floor. Somebody had poked at the hole recently! She looked around again, and seeing no one, crouched down more and stuck her arm through the hole, but the box was too far for her to reach. She strained farther, the rough broken edges of the grate pressing into her shoulder.

“Hey! What are you doing??”

Ginevra’s heart lurched into her throat and she jerked her arm back.

“You know you’re supposed to pray to the front of the altar, not the back of it, eh?”

It was only Becchino.

“I told you to wait outside! To bury your others first.”

“Well, I already did that. Doesn’t take so long when you just dump ’em in a pile. What are you doing, anyway, reaching into there?” he said, crouching down beside her.

“I can’t see in the dark but it looks like there is something strange about the reliquary...”

“Uh-huh,” said Becchino skeptically. “It’s supposed to be San Francesco’s shoe.”

“My arm is not long enough to reach it; it’s very far back. We need a stick or something.”