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Lucia ran to the window. “Cats are good at falling, I’m sure she’s—oh. Oh, no.”

Maybe if it were a normal fright, the cat would have remembered her tricks and landed on her feet, but it was the stare of a jettatore, so she landed instead on her back, and when Lucia looked down, she lay still, four little paws straight in the air.

“Tell me she is alright!” wailed the thief.

“She is dead, Giancarlo,” Lucia said, wringing her hands.

The jettatore pulled at his hair and began to weep anew. Never had animals trusted him, and now he killed the first one that ever came near him.

Lucia ran out to the street to pick up the dear little body, but as soon as she touched it, the cat gave a funny twitch and rolled over. Then she did a sort of shiver that began at her nose and ended at the tip of her tail. She arched her back, rubbed up against Lucia’s leg, and walked back into the house. Lucia stood still a moment and then she laughed and bounded back up the stairs—“Giancarlo! Our cat! She has used but one of her nine lives! She is well, she is well, give her some cheese.”

Still weeping, Giancarlo felt around and picked up the last remaining cheese end from the table, breaking it into crumbs and admonishing himself for his carelessness. The cat jumped on the table, eating the cheese crumbs and purring, butting her head against him. Tears streamed from under his blindfold. “What—h-have—I—done to deserve such kindness from this creature?”

“Giancarlo, stop crying,” commanded Lucia. “Our kitten’s fall has given me an idea. We must make you a hood.”

“A hood?” he choked.

“Yes. A hood so you can see neither right nor left but only what is right in front of you. And you will wear it to the trial tomorrow.”

FORTY-SIX

THE PLAGUE SAINTS

July 14th of 1348, City of Florence

Our Lady of Requisiti was a wooden statue, slightly larger than a real woman, carved by the Apostle Luke. She was passed to San Romolo (for whom Giancarlo’s town was named) in ancient times, and the saint hid her in a cave in the woods outside of Florence so she would not be destroyed by pagans. She remained hidden for centuries, until a farmer and his wife became lost in a storm. The wife was about to give birth, but it was all rain and lightning and there was nowhere for them to go. The farmer prayed to the Virgin and suddenly his oxen knelt down in adoration before the entrance of the Virgin’s hidden cave. The little party entered and were dazzled by the beauty of the statue. The farmer’s wife gave birth to a healthy boy who lived to be one hundred years old.

The Madonna was carved as one piece with her throne, and the Christ child upon her knee. She was painted in polychrome with a veil of blue and gold stars. Inside her was a large cavity—just big enough to fit twelve of the most revered relics of Florence.

On July 14 of the year 1348, the bishop ordered her placed on her palanquin of red silk brocade and paraded through the streets on the shoulders of his Swiss mercenaries. A curious crowd of citizens came out of their houses to follow and pray. They had not seen her since her initial refusal to stop the plague. Perhaps she was ready, now, to reconsider her stance. Their bishop seemed to think so, anyhow.

They stopped as one in front of the stinche, where with hands bound behind their backs, and leather straps tied across their mouths, Ginevra di Gasparo and Fra Michele di Lapo Arnolfi were dragged onto the street by the soldiers. The procession of the Virgin continued now to its destination, the ringhiera platform. The Madonna was placed reverently atop a cloth-covered altar to oversee the trial. Tiered wooden benches, dusty with disuse, were also placed upon the platform. The mercenaries then dragged out a smaller separate platform with a hole in the middle to steady a tall gallows tree. Bundles of kindling to burn the bodies after they were hanged were politely kept out of sight around the corner. The Swiss soldiers picked their teeth, satisfied with the work they had done.

Ginevra and Fra Michele were not given seats on the bleachers, but would stand on view for the growing crowd. Ginevra was still weak from her illness. The filthy, steaming jail cell and an inquisitor for a nurse had not made for an easy recovery, and it was painful to stand in the hot sun.

She looked out at the piazza. Dust devils, trash. Scared faces. Those damn daytime rats. And here was the Madonna of Requisiti, staring at her, lovely and judgmental. She regretted curing herself of plague now. She had been motivated by the immediate physical pain, but hanging to death would be worse. Without her coral, she was unprotected. She felt the malocchio, feeding on the emotions of the gathering crowd. The bishop had let her live, once. He would not again. Still, she did not wish to make it easy for him, and bit hard into the leather strap that kept her from speaking.

She looked at Fra Michele, who caught her eye and nodded.

A tug at her dress, and there at last was dear Piero.

“Ehmmphphhm,” she said to him.

“Do not worry,” he said. “Monna Tornaparte will save you, I think.”

“Hommphummeth?” she asked.

Bishop Acciaiuoli arrived and took his place, in crimson robes and a pointy white hat. He sat at the highest part of the bleachers, and scowled at the soldiers when he noticed all the dust and cobwebs still upon the boards that stuck to his clothes. He saw Piero with the prisoners and scowled again.

“Come, boy. You should not stand so close to nasty people.”

Fra Michele tried to yell at the bishop through his gag.

“Michele, for once, be quiet—I’m sorry it’s come to this, really. I told you not to concern yourself further, but you did, and now here you are, with only yourself to blame.”

Michele continued, anyway, but even if he could speak properly, the din of the piazza was loud now and drowned him out. Word of the procession and trial had spread, and people came, standing far apart from each other in little groups, to pray to the Lady of Requisiti and view the treacherous criminals who had... Well, nobody was really sure what they had done, but whatever it was must be terrible for the bishop to call a trial like this in the middle of a plague.

For many, it was the first time they’d ventured from their own home in weeks, months. There was giddy anger from some, trepidation from others. The revelers and looters of peoples’ houses stood in their own knot, in brightly colored clothing too festive for the occasion. Others were swaddled up from head to toe, only their eyes visible. Many carried large bunches of leaves and flowers and stuck their faces in them, filtering the air. In this strange crowd, Lucia and Giancarlo positioned themselves, she with a veil over her face and he in a deep dark hood, eyes still bandaged, their unusual garb blending in with the unique plague fashion of their fellow citizens. The conversation was getting louder and the Swiss soldiers were making a game of guessing which ladies were beautiful under their silly outfits when the bishop walked to the center of the platform and raised his hands before the statue of the Virgin. The crowd became silent.