Читать книгу The Shadow Of The Bell Tower - Stefano Vignaroli, Stefano Vignaroli - Страница 7

Magic is not witchcraft

(Paracelsus)

Bernardino knew well that he lived in times when it was really dangerous to give the press a text without having obtained the ecclesiastical imprimatur. If, moreover, the text was blasphemous and offensive to the official Church, spreading doctrines contrary to it, one risked the burning, not only of the printed books, but also of the author and the publisher. His printshop, in Via delle Botteghe¹ , was fine. The century tenth sixth had just begun and Bernardino had made himself known as a printer throughout Italy, for having replaced mobile wooden printing fonts with lead ones, which were much more resistant and durable. With the same "clichet" he was able to print a thousand copies, against the three hundred that his predecessors of the German school printed with the wooden "stereotypes", even if manipulating that metal caused him a few health problems. He had taken, over thirty years earlier, the printshop of Federico Conti, from Verona, who had made his fortune in Jesi, creating the first all-Italian printed edition of the Divine Comedy by the great poet Dante Alighieri. Conti had in short reached the peak of his fortune, just as he had fallen into disgrace. Bernardino had taken advantage of this and had bought the wonderful printshop for a pittance. With the calm and patience of those who came from the Jesi countryside - Bernardino was originally from Staffolo - he had made his business growing to the highest levels, without ever coming into conflict with the authorities, always honoured and revered. Until then, the most important work to which he had dedicated himself was “History of Jesi, from the origins to the birth of Frederick II”, based on oral tradition and on historical documents, ancient manuscripts, contracts, maps and anything else that was kept in the palaces of the noble families of Jesi, Franciolini, Santoni and Ghislieri. He worked with Pietro Grizio on the writing of the work; even though he was not a real writer, by dint of preparing drafts for printing, he had in fact become very familiar with the Italian language. A work that he had not yet completed and which would be printed by his successors in 1578, after considerable work of revisiting and finishing. A work that would have been for a long time the most important historical source on the city of Jesi, and from which would have taken inspiration, after about two centuries and more, the Baldassini for his “Historical Memoirs of the ancient and royal city of Jesi” and the Annibaldi for his “Guide of Jesi”, appeared even in the early years of the twentieth century. A great and important work, still in progress, left in abeyance to publish a booklet commissioned by a little more than twenty-year-old girl. What went through Bernardino’s mind to print a pamphlet dedicated to the pagan cult of the Mother Goddess and to treatments with medicinal herbs? The chief Inquisitor of the city, Cardinal Artemio Baldeschi, could have broken into his shop at any moment, perhaps instigated by some other printer jealous of his successes. And all this to do the Cardinal’s niece, Lucia Baldeschi, a favour. At fifty years old, had he lost his head for that damsel?

No, unlikely. I certainly couldn’t manage to sustain a night of love with a young filly, even if... Even if the mere idea of being able to touch her hands excited him a bit, but he drove those urges back into the innermost corners of his mind.

In return for printing the manual, the young “witch” had promised Bernardino an effective cure for the sciatica that had been afflicting him for years and an ointment that would protect him from absorbing the lead dust through the cracked skin of his hands.

«The blame for your anaemia and bone pains lies with the lead you handle every day. It is absorbed through the skin, and inhaling its dust while you breathe. If you want to live much longer, follow my advice.»

Lucia was a young woman, at the time she was twenty years old, tall, brunette, with hazel eyes always attentive, curiously looking for every single detail. Nothing escaped her from what was happening around, she had a very fine hearing, and also the ability of foresight; moreover she was able to cure a great variety of diseases with herbs and natural remedies. This was what officially knew everyone in her hometown. In fact, Lucia had powers unknown to most ordinary people, but she tried not to reveal these, especially since she lived under the same roof as her uncle. She was a nine-year-old girl when, witnessing the burning of Lodomilla Ruggieri in the public square, was shocked by the gruesome spectacle of the execution. Her grandmother held her hand, in the crowd waiting for the condemned girl to come out of the fortress at the top of the Ascent of Death. The woman, riding a mule, her hands tied to her reins, her clothes torn and her nudity left uncovered, showed the signs of the tortures that inquisitors had inflicted in order to confess her guilt. She had a crushed eye, a dislocated shoulder, and when she was brought down from the mule, she was almost unable to stand upright. She was tied to the post, with her arms up, so that she would not fall to her knees. Then the wood was placed under her feet and around her legs. A priest approached her with the cross: «Do you deny Satan?» In response, Lodomilla had spat at the cross and the priest and the flames were set on the pile. The screams of the burning woman were inhuman, Lucia could not bear them, and she had thought intensely that, if at that moment it started to rain heavily, the water would put out the fire and the poor girl would be saved, in some way. She looked up at the sky and imagined it briefly filled with black clouds threatening of rain. Lucia understood that it was enough for her to order the clouds to rain and the flood would break out. Her grandmother, who knew the potential of the child, in order she had begun to teach her the first rudiments of magic, stopped the granddaughter just in time.

«If you don’t want to end up like Lodomilla, restrain your instincts. It is the Goddess who has turned our friend to herself, otherwise she would have escaped the flames with her magic arts. Soon she will end her suffering and her spirit will be welcomed by the Good Goddess.»

They heard the roar of some thunder, but not a single gut of water fell. Soon the clouds vanished and the sky cleared. Only the column of black smoke, rising from the pyre, crossed the blue sky in that end of May. Lodomilla was now a lifeless body, a burning ember. Someone kept throwing faggots and feeding the fire until the witch became only ashes.

From that day on, Lucia had sensed that, with her powers, she could dominate the various elements of nature, putting them at her service, for better or for worse. Her grandmother had tried to guide her on the path to control her magical arts, had taught her to recognize medicinal herbs, healing and toxic ones, those with narcotic effects and those with supposed magical powers. She taught her how to cast spells and make talismans and, at the age of fourteen, she told her: «Only the most powerful witches can control all four elements, air, water, earth and fire. The union of them is represented by the quintessence, the spirit, which can soar high, make you fly, and the sky allow you to see things that you would not otherwise see. You can see the past, foresee the future, converse with the spirits of our ancestors, or listen to what I, or another person dear to you, would like to tell you even without being close to you. You can penetrate the minds of others, and read their innermost thoughts. I believe that you may be able to use all these faculties, but remember, always use them for good. Black magic, the kind you use for evil purposes, will sooner or later turn on the person who practiced it.»

So she had opened an ancient chest and brought her niece an ancient manuscript, covered with a black leather case on which was engraved a pentacle, a five-pointed star inscribed in a circle. It was the family diary, which was passed from mother to daughter, in this case from grandmother to granddaughter, because Lucia’s mother had passed away when she was still in her infancy. The diary where each witch reported her experiences, the spells she had invented, the healings she had obtained, the magical experiences she had improved, so that knowledge and wisdom increased with time. Lucia had understood that she was now able to control all four elements when, by concentrating, she had managed to materialize a semi-fluid sphere, floating between her hands joined together like a cup, detaching itself from the palms of very little space. The sphere was nothing more than its spirit, a mixture of colours which, rotating, at certain moments mixed together to give infinite tones, at others they outlined themselves as if each element wanted to resume its nature and detach itself from the others. She recognized the air with its yellow colour, the earth with its green colour, water with its blue colour and fire with its red colour. She could order each of those elements to do what her mind desired, for better or for worse. If, for example, she wanted to use fire, her mind selected that element and from the sphere she could start a ball of fire, more or less large according to her needs. Lighting the fire in the brazier was the simplest thing in the world: it was enough that the wood was arranged to be lit, Lucia directed a small igneous ball towards it and immediately there was a nice crackling bonfire. But those powers could also be dangerous. One day a young girl of the same age, a certain Elisabeth, had apostrophized her in the street, mocking her because she had now turned fifteen and no young man had turned his attention to her.

«They say you’re a witch, no man will want you, because the girls like you only make love with the devil. The fact is that the one you mate with is not the devil, but Tonio’s goat, the farmer who has the land down to the river.»

Lucia threw her a ball of fire, as big as she had never made one before, and her clothes and hair caught fire. Then she invoked the air, raised her arms above her head and, with circular movements of the same, gave rise to a vortex, which broke away from her in the direction of the other girl. The wind fed the flames, Elisabetta felt the excruciating pain on her skin and began to scream. Then Lucia remembered her grandmother’s recommendations and took pity on the impertinent one. She called for water and caused a sudden downpour, then asked the earth to provide her with herbs for a soothing compress to apply to the girl’s burns. All in all, nothing serious had happened, the girl only had a half-burnt tunic and reddened skin, but no bubbles had formed either. She was supposed to cut her hair, and the remaining hair had rippled so that she looked like a porcupine, but then it would grow back.

«Don’t get in my way again, next time I might not be able to stop.»

«Witch, I’ll report you to the authorities. You’ll be the one who’ll be burned alive. At the stake. In the public square. And I’ll watch as the flames consume you. Witch! Witch!»

Those words brought to mind the execution of the witch Lodomilla, whom she witnessed as a child. Without uttering any more words and without appealing to her powers again, Lucia left the place, hoping that Elisabetta’s story had not been taken seriously, and returned home to Palazzo Baldeschi, a huge building overlooking the Piazza del Mercato² . The palace had been finished enlarging a few years ago, on the basis of a building dating back more than three centuries, at the behest of her uncle, Cardinal Artemio Baldeschi, who was her grandmother’s brother. The sumptuous residence was located between the new church of St. Florian and the Cathedral. The last one was a wonderful church in Gothic style, enriched by beautiful spires on the facade, with a large interior with three naves, able to accommodate over two thousand faithful. Unfortunately, it was built on the basis of the temple of Jupiter and the ancient Roman baths, without those who had built it at the time had bothered too much to fortify the foundations. So the construction was unsafe and would have had to be torn down to make way for a new church dedicated to the city’s patron saint, St. Septimius, whose relics were kept in the crypt of the ancient cathedral. For the time being, the Cardinal celebrated Holy Mass every Sunday in the church of St. Florian, and had also obtained that the adjoining convent, destined to the friars of the Dominican Order, should instead become the seat of the Tribunal of the Holy Inquisition, as he was the Chief Inquisitor. The Dominicans had therefore been relegated to a convent further down the valley, in an old 12th century building near the church of St. Bernard and the convent of Poor Clare nuns of the Valley.

Lucia was heartbroken when, after a few days, Uncle Artemio summoned she to his office, in the other wing of the palace compared to the one inhabited by her and her grandmother. The uncle’s office was a huge room, lavishly furnished, the walls enriched with tapestries, the floor partly covered with a huge carpet. A bookcase occupied an entire wall, containing sacred and profane texts, valuable manuscripts and some printed texts, including a copy of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, made years earlier by Federico Conti in his printing house in Jesi. Lucia would have wanted very much to consult those texts, but she had always been strictly forbidden.

The smell of the velvets that covered chairs and armchairs contributed to make the air in the room heavy and unbeatable, almost to the limit of suffocation. The windows that overlooked the square allowed the Cardinal to gaze into the nerve centre of his city, keeping his illustrious fellow citizens under control, but they were always hermetically sealed to prevent the noise of the square and the streets from disturbing the concentration of the highest prelate of the place. The cardinal’s office allowed him to be above any other political office, also being able to challenge any decision of the People’s Capitan, who resided in the not far away Government Palace. The power conferred on him by Pope Alexander VI, and confirmed by his successors, Pius III, Julius II and Leo X, was in fact respected and, at the time, feared by all the other local authorities.

The Cardinal offered his ringed hand to his niece to kiss her, then invited her to sit in one of the imposing chairs in front of his desk.

«Lucia, my dear niece, you are no longer a child, and the time has come for you to find a man who is a worthy husband. If there is no other young man in your thoughts, I’d like to propose the son of the People’s Captain, Andrea. He is twenty years old, he is a handsome young man and is good at both riding and handling weapons», he turned to her, while cleaning the lenses of his glasses, of exquisite Venetian workmanship, with a small cloth. Waiting for the young woman to answer, he breathed again on the lenses, rubbed them carefully with the cloth and then twisted his glasses, staring his penetrating gaze into Lucia’s eyes.

The Cardinal, almost sixty years old, apart from his grey hair, was still strong, with a tall, slender figure; the sharp brown eyes stood out against the pale skin of his face, which despite his age was not yet furrowed by obvious wrinkles. Only in those rare moments when he smiled did crow’s feet form on the sides of his eyes. Lucia knew that this was certainly not the reason she had been summoned, and she tried to penetrate her uncle’s mind to know what he actually wanted, but his thoughts were sealed behind invisible and very strong barriers. Grandmother had warned her, Uncle Artemio was part of the family and, like all its members, was endowed with powers, perhaps stronger than all of them. Yet, in appearance and in the eyes of the people, he had dedicated his life to fighting witchcraft and heresy.

«If he’s a sorcerer too, why does he fight his fellow men?», Lucia asked her grandmother one day.

«Because it is since their defeat that he has been able to increase his powers. Never turn your back on him, never trust him, if he found out that you are a creature with strong powers, even if you are his granddaughter, he would not hesitate to condemn you to the stake, and watch you burning, while your powers also transfer to him. When you are in his presence, do not think, he reads your thoughts, even the most hidden ones, and in addition prevents you from reading his thoughts.»

And it was true! At that moment Lucia was experiencing that she couldn’t penetrate his mind in any way. It seemed he had no thoughts, and yet he had to have them.

«I should know if I like him, know him and see if I can fall in love with him.»

«Falling in love, what a big word! In noble families like ours, one marries by contract. The family finds a good match for the girl and she will honour her chosen husband. But I want to come to you. The People’s Captain, Guglielmo dei Franciolini, and I will organize a party where you and Andrea will get to know each other. And now go, I’ll let you know when the party takes place.»

Lucia had already got up from her chair and was about to take her leave, when the Cardinal spoke to her again.

«Ah, I forgot», he said, as if it was something he didn’t care about at all. «I was told that a few days ago you rescued a companion of yours whose clothes had burned. Good, the Baldeschi family must distinguish out in this town and show that we help others in all circumstances.»

At that moment, Lucia had a perception of her uncle’s mind as he was searching the far corners of her brain. She still couldn’t force herself not to think, but she tried to remember the scene in her mind in a different way from what had happened in reality. Elisabetta had approached the bonfire that the Dyer Master had lit in front of his workshop, at the beginning of the descent of the Fortress, to boil the pot of water in which he would immerse the fabrics to be dyed with his bright colours. A strip of the girl’s habit had been touched by the flames, which had gone up in a flash and had burnt her hair. Luckily, it had suddenly started to rain, and Lucia, who was walking there, observed her reddened skin and pulled out of her saddlebag a jar of aloe and linseed ointment, a natural remedy for burns that her grandmother had prepared.

«Very good, I’m proud of you!» repeated the Cardinal.

Lucia walked out of the room, hoping in her heart that she had bugged her uncle, even though she couldn’t be sure.

If he really knows I’m a witch and I have powers he might envy me, what will he do? Keep me under control until he’s sure of my abilities and then mercilessly throw me over a bonfire and watch me die in the flames? But then, why offer me a husband? Well, maybe this is a political game. Marrying his niece to the son of the People’s Captain will further increase his temporal power over this city, where too many people still proclaim themselves Ghibellines³ . I wouldn’t be surprised if my uncle wants to concentrate both religious and political power on himself. Be on your guard, Lucia, and don’t let your uncle or this young Andrea fool you.

She would have liked to know more about Andrea, even before meeting him at the official party. Who knows when this event would have taken place? If the uncle had exposed himself, he wouldn’t have taken so long to organize it.

Immersed in her thoughts, she crossed the long corridor that led her back to the wing of the building where she lived. At the end of the corridor she went down the stairs, finding herself on the ground floor, in the hallway at the entrance door. She would have had to climb up the stairs in front of her to reach her apartments. To her right, through a wooden door, there was the access to the stables. Morocco, her favourite stallion, sensed her presence and whimpered to greet the girl, who was tempted to push the door just enough to sneak in and give a caress to the black steed. But her attention was drawn to another small wooden door, which led to the basement of the palace. Usually that door was barred, but that day it was strangely ajar. Grandmother had warned her more than once not to venture into the basement. Down there was a labyrinth, in which it was easy to get lost, represented by the streets and rooms of the ancient Roman buildings. In fact, all the more recent buildings laid their foundations on the ancient Roman constructions. Lucia’s curiosity was too strong. She thought that if those ravines, that were now tunnels, galleries and cellars, had once been inhabited, the spirits of the ancient inhabitants could talk to her, tell her stories, confide their fears and feelings. Basically, Palazzo Baldeschi stood at what was the acropolis, the forum, the commercial and political centre of the city in Roman times. There were the temples, Baths, a little further away, where now stood the brand new Government Palace, there was a huge amphitheatre; closer, near the western walls of the city, the large cistern for water supply.

It’ll be dark soon down there, thought Lucia. I’ll need a light source.

She went into the barn and gave Morocco a little talk, and claimed the carrot the girl used to bring him as a gift. Lucia pulled it out of her pockets and the animal was quick to take it gently with his lips from her hands. She caressed the horse on the back of his nose, looking for a lantern. She saw it, unhooked it from the nail to which it was attached, checked that it was loaded with oil, then concentrated her gaze on the wick, which in a few moments caught fire. Lucia regulated the flame to the minimum, came out of the stable and ventured down the uneven stairs towards the bowels of the earth. Although Earth was one of the elements she had control over, she was a little afraid of it at the time. It almost seemed as if that ladder should never end, because it was so long. But maybe it was just Lucia’s impression. She finally left the last step with her foot. The humidity was strong down there, the girl was freezing the sweat on her, and her breath condensed into little clouds of steam. She raised the lantern flame. There were several corridors, bordered by ancient stone walls and rough bricks. One, very long, was lost in the darkness ahead. Grandmother had told her that there was a long passageway that could be used during sieges, to cross enemy lines and provide supplies for the besieged people and weapons for the city’s defenders. This passage even came out at the country residence of the Baldeschi family, at the beginning of the road to Monsano, a small town located a few leagues away from Jesi, and always a historical ally of our city. On its right, a tunnel would certainly have quickly reached the underground of the cathedral, perhaps even the crypt that housed the relics of St. Septimius. The tunnel on its left could have led to the base of the church of St. Florian, like the ancient Roman cistern. Who knows if the latter was still full of water, Lucia wondered. She decided to go to her right, towards the basement of the Cathedral and, in short, she found herself in a small square chapel. Four white marble statues, without the head, like columns, supported the cross vault of the chapel. Probably, they were statues that had once adorned the Roman baths. Without the heads, which lay piled up in a hidden dark corner, they were used by those who had once designed the cathedral as columns. In the centre of the chapel, under the vault supported by Gothic arches, a small stone altar framed a shrine containing the relics of the first Bishop of Jesi, Septimius. The Saint, like many Christians of the time, had been martyred at the behest of the Roman authorities. The Roman dean who governed the city of Jesi had ordered its beheading, after Septimius had converted to Christianity a large part of the population, including the governor’s daughter. Septimius had been considered a dangerous enemy of the Roman Empire and executed. The bones had been stolen by the first Christians to save them from the desecration of the pagans, and hidden so well that for centuries and centuries no one knew where they were. The Saint was beheaded in 304 and his mortal remains were found only after 1,165 years in Germany. Therefore they had been brought back to that place of worship only about fifty years earlier.

How strange humanity! Lucia said to herself. The same treatment that the Romans gave to the first Christians, who were persecuted, now the Catholic Church seems to give it to those people who do not think like her: who deviate from the official doctrine are accused of heresy and may end up killed in the public square. Witches, heretics, Jews... are tried and burned at the stake, just because they have the courage to express their ideas and knowledge. Well, now the Church takes it out on heretics, tomorrow, in the future, some other faction will take over and perhaps Christians will be persecuted again. Why should there not be justice in this world? What is this God who allows so much evil to exist in the world, but especially in the heart of man?

As she followed the course of her thoughts, a blade of light generated by a setting sun managed to filter through a small mullioned window at the top, at the apse of the cathedral above, illuminating the area where the heads of the Roman statues were piled up. Lucia’s attention was focused on some details that she had not been able to notice before, there near those heads carved in stone so many centuries earlier. A kind of pentacle had been drawn on the beaten earth floor, different from the one she used to see drawn on the cover of the family diary given to her by her grandmother some time before. The design seemed asymmetrical, representing a seven-pointed star carved out by drawing a continuous line within a circle. Each point of the star intersected a point on the circumference, at each of which there were Hebrew inscriptions, whose meaning Lucia did not know. At each of the seven points, the trace of wax cast, left by a candle that had been lit there, was visible. In the centre of the figure were two rag dolls, made of straw around which miniature clothes had been wrapped. They represented an old woman and a girl: the old woman’s clothes were burnt, while the young woman had a brooch fixed to her chest. Lucia gasped, her heart started beating wildly, and in a flash she understood everything. Some black magic rituals had been performed there, and the dolls represented her and her grandmother. It was clear that someone wanted to see them suffer, if not even die. Who? Who could it have been? Only one person could have gone down there. The church above was now closed, forbidden to the faithful for more than a year, so the crypt could not be reached from the cathedral. The passage you had walked through was closed by a constantly barred door, and only her uncle, the Cardinal, the Chief Inquisitor Artemio Baldeschi, had the key. Certainly, it had been too long since there had been no executions in Jesi, the last fire had been lit six years earlier, the one in which Lodomilla had lost her life. Now the Cardinal had to quench his thirst, his desire for victims, his desire to witness suffering and death directly before his eyes, under his gaze. Yes, because unlike the majority of the inquisitors who, once the sentence had been pronounced, handed the victim over to the secular arm of the Law, avoiding witnessing the torment of those they had condemned, Artemio used to attend the execution, in the front row, sometimes holding the torch and setting fire to the stack. He seemed to have a sadistic taste in seeing his victim writhing in the flames, he kept staring at her with his eyes until the end, and for a precise reason: to capture the soul of the condemned man the very moment he left his mortal body.

Emaciated by these reflections, frightened by what she had seen, Lucia grabbed the lantern and rushed up the stairs, her mind occupied by a single fear. Would she find the door open again? What if Uncle had remembered not to lock it and returned to close it? Or what if he did it on purpose, to induce her to go down there and bury her alive? No, it wouldn’t have been enough for Artemio, he had to see his victim’s suffering in the face, it wouldn’t have been like him to let her die there. He just wanted to scare her, and he succeeded. The little wooden door was open, Lucia went out into the hall, rested the lantern where he had taken it, she didn’t even look at Morocco and rushed into the open air, into the Square, still with the heart in her throat.

It was almost the sunset of a warm day at the end of May and the reddish light of the sun gave spectacular colours to the beautiful square where, more than three centuries earlier, Emperor Frederick II of Swabia was born. She said to herself that she should research the meaning of the symbols found in the crypt in the family diary, in the precious manuscript that her grandmother had given her. But now she had to calm down, and decided to take a walk around the city. She crossed the square, reaching the opposite side, turned left and went down to the Longobards’ Coast, to reach the lower part of the town, where merchants and craftsmen lived. The palaces were less sumptuous than those in the upper part of the city, but they were nevertheless enriched with decorative elements, with finished portals and frames around the windows. The facades were almost all embellished with plaster, painted in pastel colours, such as light blue, yellow, ochre, soft orange; it was difficult to leave bricks face to face, as it was for the stately palaces up in the centre. As a reminder that those residences had been built thanks to the money earned by those who lived there, often on the lintels of the portals or windows of the first floor there were inscriptions such as “De sua pecunia” or “Suum lucro condita - Ingenio non sorte”. At the end of the Longobards’ Coast, turning right, you could quickly reach the church dedicated to the apostle Peter, built by the Longobard community living in Jesi in the second half of the tenth third century. “Principles Apostolorum – MCCLXXXXIIII”, could be read above the portal; those who had engraved the date no longer had much memory of how the numbers were written in Latin, or perhaps they had never known it being an architect of Byzantine origin, already used to dealing with Arabic numerals, much easier to memorize. Opposite the church, the Franciolini’s Palace, just completed, was the residence of the People’s Capitan, Guglielmo dei Franciolini. He too had made his fortune as a merchant since, after the discovery of the New World, new commercial channels were opened and many new merchandise had also arrived in Jesi. Those who had been able to take advantage, had succeeded in a short time to accumulate considerable wealth. Lucia dwelt on the rich portal of the palace, limited by two columns and some square sandstone tiles, decorated with depictions of gods and symbols of Roman times. In all probability, while excavating the foundations of the house, decorative elements of a house of some Roman patrician had been found, and these had been reused to embellish the portal. Lucia recognized the God Pan, Bacchus, the Goddess Diana, and then some three-pointed lilies, and... a six-pointed star formed by two crossed triangles - strange, wasn’t it the symbol of the Jews? - and again a five-pointed star, a pentacle, and... a seven-pointed design inscribed in a circle, similar in every way to what he had seen just before in the crypt. These last drawings could not date back to Roman times, and in fact, looking carefully at the tiles on which they were made, one could see that these were of different features, more recent than the others, perhaps made for the purpose of decorating the portal. But what was the meaning of all this? In that little square the sacred coexisted with the profane: on the one hand the church dedicated to the principal of the apostles, to Peter, the first Pope in the history of Christianity, on the other hand pagan figures and symbols that could accuse the landlord of being a heretic. And yet the uncle Cardinal was on good terms with Franciolini, he had even proposed his son to her as her future husband! The more she looked at those symbols, the more Lucia thought that the place had something magical. Perhaps that palace had been built over the ruins of a pagan temple, and had kept its peculiarities. She tried to focus, to open her third eye to the vision, she invoked her spirit, to make it hover high and peer at elements that she would not otherwise have seen. Already in his cup-shaped hands, the semi-fluid ball of colours was materializing, when the door of the palace suddenly opened wide, showing in the half-light a young man wearing light battle armour, riding a powerful steed in turn harnessed on his head to protect him from any blows that might be inflicted by swords and spears.

The knight held with his right hand the banner of the Republic of Jesi, representing the rampant lion adorned with the royal crown. As soon as the door was completely open, he spurred the horse outside, almost overwhelming Lucia who was there in front. The girl, frightened, became distracted, and the sphere immediately disappeared. The horse, in front of the unexpected obstacle, soaring, kicking in the air with its front paws. Lucia felt a hoof at a very short distance from her face, but she did not panic and stuck her gaze into the sea-blue eyes of the rider, whose helmet visor was raised. For a moment he lost herself in those eyes, the horse calmed down and the knight looked back at the damsel, staring in turn at the girl’s hazel eyes. There was a moment of calm, of total silence, the crossing of the two glances seemed to have stopped time.

Who was that handsome knight, ready for a hypothetical battle to defend his city? Was it Andrea? If it had been, she should have been grateful to her evil uncle! But maybe Franciolini had other children. She didn’t have time to open her mouth, because after a few moments, the bells of St. Peter’s church began to ring, and gradually they were joined by those of St. Bernard’s church, then those of St. Benedict, and finally those of St. Florian. Throwing a last glance at Lucia, the knight spurred the horse again, reaching the nearby Piazza del Palio⁴ , the huge open space inside the walls, dominated by the Torre di Mezzogiorno⁵ . In short, other knights in arms squeezed around the one holding the banner, then came people on foot, armed with crossbows, daggers and any other weapon that could be used against the enemy.

«The Anconetans are attacking us!» cried the noble Franciolini. «Our lookouts sighted them from the Torrione del Montirozzo⁶ . Today, May 30, 1517, we prepare to defend the walls of our city.»

All the city gates were closed, the majority of the men on foot set out on the guard’s walkways, while the knights gathered in the square inside Porta Valle⁷ , ready to sortie against the enemy. But for that night, the Ancona army, led by Duke Berengario di Montacuto, did not approach to Jesi, but remained camped further downstream, a few leagues from the town of Monsano, half-hidden in the riparian bush near the Esino River.

For a few days the alert remained. At dusk, the Scolte⁸ reached the terraces, to strengthen the guard usually given to some lookouts, and from the walls resounded the call of a song that the population had not heard for several years:

«The trumpet sounded, and the day was over,

already by curfew the song went up!

Up, up, to the armed guard towers, there,

Be careful, quietly watch out!»

The People’s Captain had imposed a curfew on the citizens. At 9:00 p.m., those who did not go up to the stands of the walls had to strictly retire into their homes. But the guard was bound to drop early. For the evening of June 3, a party was planned at Palazzo Baldeschi, where the engagement of the Cardinal’s niece, Lucia, with the cadet of the Franciolini’s house would be announced. In those days, every time Lucia crossed her uncle’s eyes, even if she was unable to read his thoughts, she saw only one word drawn on her face: “betrayal”. But she could not understand what interpretation to give to that word, at the same time so simple and so complex.