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Zenobia began to cry. She ran to Ginevra and whispered, “Please don’t leave us.”
Lady Girolami wrenched her daughter out of Ginevra’s arms. “I said GET OUT.”
Overcome by rage and anguish, she shoved Ginevra out of the room and slammed the heavy door.
No amount of pounding or pleading could convince Lady Girolami to readmit Ginevra into the locked chamber. And so, with heavy heart and leaden legs, she began the long descent back to the street.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SANTA MARIA NOVELLA
Afternoon, July 8th of 1348,
City of Florence
After Ginevra and the becchino rattled away, Lucia walked toward the complex of Santa Reparata and the Baptistry of San Giovanni. There she would fulfill her promise to Ginevra by (briefly) examining the altars of San Zenobio and San Filippo. Afterward, she would go to her own favorite saint, San Tommaso D’Aquino, whose blessed finger was kept in the church of Santa Maria Novella.
Picking the correct personal saint said much about a person, and Lucia was very proud that she had developed a special relationship with the exotic, foreign Tommaso before any of her acquaintances even heard of him (he had only just been canonized a few decades ago). When the wealthy Strozzi family acquired his finger relic and built a chapel for it in Santa Maria Novella, Lucia thought smugly how it had been she that first mentioned San Tommaso to Jacobo Strozzi at a party. So, although the chapel had not been built with her funds, nor according to her design, she felt ownership of the completed structure and took pride in how it drew pilgrims to Florence. In fact, the finger was so popular it was made part of a new pilgrimage route, “The Divine Nine,” a compact walk featuring the most celebrated relics in the city center.
Free from the pain and terror of pestilence, Lucia couldn’t help but be in a good mood at the thought of visiting Tommaso, and the emptiness of the city did not scare her. It was not long before she arrived at the tangled scaffolding that enclosed Santa Reparata. The dead man Ginevra mentioned was still there, and she hurried quickly past him, hoping he would not drip on her.
Once through the scaffolding, she stepped carefully over torn-up earth, stone blocks, and abandoned masons’ tools to reach the intact facade of the church. Reparata had been enveloped in this confusing jumble of construction since before Lucia was born. No longer a grand enough symbol for the city, the Signoria had broken ground on a new cathedral so large that now, a half century after the project began, only the lower portions of this vast structure had been erected.
The exterior chaos spilled inside the poor old building, and instead of a space of sacred geometry, the interior of Reparata felt cluttered and sad. The scaffolds blocked the sunlight that once glowed through stained glass, and broken tiles made it treacherous to walk. Even the faces carved into marble tombstones set in the floor were worn beyond recognition from centuries of feet stepping all over them. Lucia walked down the dusty aisle toward the apse, where a gilded mosaic of Jesus and his flock, now nearly obscured with soot and evaporated beeswax, decorated the concave ceiling above the altar. This golden Christ was very old-fashioned now, a relic of Byzantine taste, and would be broken apart when it was time to lay the floors of the new cathedral. Even so, Lucia knelt before him to pray for guidance.
Lord Christ, is it correct for a woman to attempt to solve such a large problem as the missing relics of Florence? Ginevra had saved her life, and so she was indebted to her. This she had no problem comprehending. And if she had asked any other favor of her, she would not feel hesitant, but this—to become involved with thieves, with sorcery. It sounds exciting, but is it allowed?
Um, Amen, she said, standing up, not really sure if she had been praying or just talking to herself. Lucia walked into the columned alcove underneath the main altar, to where Zenobio’s shrine was located. She knelt down and peered through the iron grate on the front of it. There was the emptied head reliquary, staring back at her stern as ever. She thought of all the places a thief could hide a saint’s skull and grew overwhelmed.
Standing back up, Lucia noticed her dress was covered with a reddish dust that stained her garment when she tried to brush it off. She became frustrated with her task, with dirty old Reparata. Her whole life, people had removed whatever obstacle they could for her comfort, including the making of all but the most trivial of decisions. Now she was wandering by herself through the unknown and she did not like it.
She left Santa Reparata and crossed the piazza to the Baptistry. Gilt faces glared at her from the twenty-eight quatrefoil panels set into its massive bronze doors. She pushed, but they did not budge. Here is one building still properly tended, at least. If the Baptistry was kept locked up, how did the thief get inside to take San Filippo’s arm? For that matter, how did he get to Zenobio? The church was open, but the altar itself was kept locked. Lucia suddenly realized she was alone in a place that should be crowded. Just her and the faces on the doors and that dead man on the scaffold. She hurried away toward Santa Maria Novella.
What a fruitless afternoon! Lucia knew she wouldn’t be a helpful assistant. She would explain to Ginevra that evening—she would have to understand. Lucia just wasn’t as clever as her new friend, wasn’t cut out to investigate mysterious crimes.
At Santa Maria Novella, Lucia looked around for a Dominican brother so she could purchase a candle for her San Tommaso, but there was nobody. At least that she could see. The church was massive, and the far corners disappeared into darkness. Never mind. She was sure San Tommaso would understand. She would find a candle from her home to bring him later.
The chapel that housed his relic was in the western transept. Often a gilded iron gate kept all the public out, and the finger could only be admired from afar, but today Lucia saw it was open. She took this as a good sign, and went inside and knelt before the rock crystal goblet containing his relic. But as she directed her adoring gaze toward the object, her eyes focused not on the familiar, withered bit of flesh but a small bottle filled with lavender liquid—it could not be! San Tommaso would not have left Florence—left her—in her time of need! Somebody took him. Lucia felt violated, as if she personally had been robbed. Never mind her misgivings—she could not let whoever did this get away with it. She knelt again. Blessed Tommaso. Don’t even worry. I will help Ginevra find your finger. And then I will bring you a candle. Amen. She removed the glass bottle from the reliquary and put it in the purse (embroidered with a scene of Tommaso levitating in prayer) that hung from her belt. She left the Strozzi chapel, shutting the gate behind her, and walked quickly toward the exit, across the empty narthex at the heart of the great sanctuary. A ghostly figure crossed in front of her, out from the shadows of the ambulatory. She stifled a gasp and crouched down, though there was nothing to hide behind. But the ghost paid her no mind and went on gliding through the gloom in its long crimson gown until—Lucia recognized the figure. It was not a ghost, but a friend, the same friend who many weeks ago had invited her to come away to the country.
“Pampinea?” called Lucia. The figure let out its own small cry of fright.
“Pampinea,” Lucia called again, “it’s me!”
“Oh! Oh, my goodness, Lucia Tornaparte, is that you?? Alive? I heard you were dead.”
“Ha! I thought you a ghost as well.” She crossed toward her friend, but as she did, Pampinea took steps backward and the space between them did not grow smaller.
“Praise be to the saints,” said Pampinea. “And how is your lord and husband?”
“I know not. He thought it best to go to the country. I remain alone.”
“I don’t know why you should choose to stay. Isn’t it true that your parish is all dead? That your Santa Trinita is robbed of its relic?” As she spoke, Pampinea took a few more steps back.
Lucia halted her advance. “How did you know it was missing?”
“Somebody shouted it from the ringhiera days ago. Is it not true?”
“It...is true the shoulder of San Giovanni is missing.” Lucia was stunned. How could it be common knowledge when she and Ginevra had just discovered the theft hours ago?
