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“Aha!” he slurred to a silent room. “I see the lady has not been able to forget me! She followed me all the way across the river. Tell me, darling, have I been in your dreams?”

“Yes. I dreamed that you would shut up and leave me alone.”

The room erupted in laughter, but grew silent quickly to see Bertoldo’s response.

“The only thing I’ll leave you is begging for more.”

“Is that what you want? To please me in bed? Is that what this is all about, then? I’m a married woman. I don’t want to sleep with you. I’m just trying to eat cheese.”

Bertoldo was tripped up by the straightforward questions, but recovered quickly: “Er...yes, of course, I am a gentleman, and it is my privilege to please a lady.” He then made a rude gesture that removed any kindness that may have been accidentally taken from his statement.

With only the slightest bit of pink rising in her cheeks, Lucia played her hand. “Very well, then, what would please me most is for you to accept my challenge of a drinking contest.”

The crowd gasped appropriately.

“Drinking contest???” Bertoldo could barely get the words out, so eager was he to imbue them with derision. “What substance, Small Woman, do you think you can best me at?”

“The wine of the house, of course. Whoever drinks the most and keeps their wits is champion.” She took a deep swallow from the elegant Arabic glass goblet she adopted as her vessel, and stared him straight in the eye the whole time. The partygoers erupted in cheers and whistles.

Bertoldo hesitated a bit. “Er...come now, it wouldn’t be right...”

“If you are too scared to face a small woman, then so much be your shame.” She finished her goblet.

Such were the hisses and yells that Maria and Lorenzo came down, with red faces and mussed hair, from whatever private corner they had found to see what was going on. The musicians added their flutes to the jeers, and Bertoldo had no way to excuse himself from the challenge. “Alright, darling, if that’s your pleasure, then it is mine! And may our granting of each other’s mutual pleasures continue onto soft feather beds.”

“There is not enough wine in Italy. Come, who will pour us our first?”

The feast was pushed to one side of the table and Lucia and Bertoldo sat across from each other. Another of the fine Arabic goblets was conjured from somebody’s reluctant satchel so the rounds could be fairly judged. Maria and Lorenzo made their way to the front; the beautiful singer and Becchino elected themselves as judges, sitting close to the pair to ensure there was no trickery. Becchino gave Lucia what he must have meant as an encouraging smile, but ended up looking quite frightful on account of his brown and stunted teeth. Maybe he’s not so bad, after all, she thought, but there was no more time to ponder because the contest had begun.

Bertoldo finished his first drink fast, and leered at her. Lucia did her best to go hurriedly, but she was not used to large sips and also had to take care not to swallow the amethyst. Nevertheless, soon she, too, set down her empty cup to be refilled. Cheers were cheered. Coins were exchanged. Seven, eight, nine, a dozen (two dozen?) pours until Bertoldo’s crass taunts became mumbled nothings.

At last, after calling Lucia a “something, something” (nobody could quite hear), he leaned back too far, his bench flipped over, and he lay ruddy-faced on the floor while Lucia remained white and upright and every bit a lady. The whole room erupted in cheers and laughter, and she was hugged and kissed and slapped on the back, for never had anyone been able to outdrink Bertoldo (not that anyone was trying).

“Lucia!” exclaimed Maria, pushing her way to her side. “A woman of your size! How did you do that?”

“Like this!” she said, swept up in her triumph. She picked up a last ceremonial glass of wine, draining it for effect. Oh, fateful moment! In her confidence she forgot carefulness and swallowed the gem that kept her safe from the alcohol’s effects. Instantly, every single drop she’d imbibed rushed through her veins. The room reeled, she clutched her hand to her face, willing herself not to vomit.

“Alright, darling,” said Maria, watching her sway, “you’ve proved your point, let’s get you home.”

“Can’t we just put her in some corner?” said Lorenzo, eyeing the food.

“No. Bertoldo isn’t the only pervert in the room, and I don’t want to be standing guard all night. Here, love, drink up this wine, we’ll make our journey more merry.”

“But the feast—” objected Lorenzo.

“Will be here when we return,” said Maria. “Look at the pig—it’s still hours from cooked.”

Lorenzo filled his pockets with cheese just in case. Maria put her arm around one side of Lucia, and Lorenzo around the other, and they walked her out the front door, grabbing a lit torch from the entryway.

“Right. Which way to your bed, darling? Lucia? Hey! Focus. Which way?”

They shook her until she nodded vaguely toward a street that exited the little piazza in front of the grand home. Even sober, she wouldn’t know the way back. She hardly ever came to Oltre Arno, and hadn’t been paying attention when they left Alle Panche. To complicate things, the thunderstorms anticipated the day before were gathering, the already moonless night made blacker by clouds. But Maria and Lorenzo dutifully guided her in the direction of her nod, laughing and joking and recalling Bertoldo’s stupid face to cheer her up.

THIRTY-FOUR

MINIATO AL MONTE

Late at Night, July 10th of 1348,