Friar Lorenzo blinked once, maybe twice, as he began to realize that his saviour had spoken the truth; he was indeed no saint. And judging by the way the young man had spoken of the Virgin Mary with impertinent familiarity he was certainly no pious soul either.
There was no mistaking the faint creaking of the coffin lid as its occupant tried to steal a glance at her bold saviour, and Friar Lorenzo quickly sat down on top of it to hold it closed, his gut telling him that here were two young people who had better never know each other. ‘Ahem,’ he said, determined to be polite, ‘whereabouts is your battle, noble knight? Or are you off to defend the Holy Land?’
The other looked incredulous. ‘Where are you from, funny friar? Surely a man so connected to God knows that the time of crusades has passed.’ He threw out his arm in the direction of Siena. ‘These hills, those towers…this is my Holy Land.’
‘Then I am truly glad,’ said Friar Lorenzo hastily, ‘that I have not come hither with evil intent!’
The knight was not convinced. ‘May I ask,’ he said, squinting, ‘what errand you have in Siena, Friar? And what do you have in that coffin?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Nothing?’ The other glanced at the dead body on the ground. ‘It is very unlike the Salimbenis to bleed for nothing. Surely you have something desirable with you?’
‘Not at all!’ insisted Friar Lorenzo, still too shaken to put faith in yet another stranger with manifest killing skills. ‘In this coffin lies one of my poor brothers, grotesquely disfigured by a fall from our windy bell tower three days ago. I must deliver him to Messere—um…to his family in Siena this very evening.’
Much to Friar Lorenzo’s relief, the expression on the other’s face now changed from rising hostility into compassion, and he asked no more about the coffin. Instead, he turned his head to look impatiently down the road. Following his gaze, Friar Lorenzo saw nothing except the setting sun, but the sight reminded him that it was thanks to this young man, heathen or no, that he was able to enjoy the rest of this evening and, God willing, many more like it.
‘Cousins!’ bellowed his saviour. ‘Our trial run has been delayed by this unfortunate friar!’
Only now did Friar Lorenzo see five other horsemen coming right out of the sun, and as they approached, he began to recognize that the handful of young men were involved in some manner of sport. None of the others wore armour, but one of them—a mere boy—held a large hourglass. When the child caught sight of the dead body in the ditch, the device slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground, breaking the glass in half.
‘Now here is an evil omen for our race, little cousin,’ said the knight to the boy, ‘but maybe our holy friend here can undo it with a prayer or two. What do you say, Friar, do you have a benediction for my horse?’
Friar Lorenzo glared at his saviour, thinking he was the victim of a jest. But the young knight seemed perfectly sincere as he sat there on the mount as comfortably as other men would sit on a chair in their own home. Seeing the monk’s frown, however, the young man smiled and said, ‘Ah, never mind. No benediction will help this jade anyway. But tell me, before we part, whether I have saved a friend or a foe?’
‘Noblest master!’ Shocked that he had for a moment been tempted to think ill of the man whom God had dispatched to save his life, Friar Lorenzo sprang to his feet and clasped his heart in submission. ‘I owe you my life! How could I be anything but your devoted subject forever?’
‘Fine words! But where lies your allegiance?’
‘My allegiance?’ Friar Lorenzo looked from one horseman to another, begging for a clue.
‘Yes,’ urged the boy who had dropped the hourglass, ‘who do you cheer for in the Palio?’
Six pairs of eyes narrowed as Friar Lorenzo scrambled to compose an answer, his gaze jumping from the golden beak on the knight’s plumed helmet to the black wings on the banner tied to his lance and further on to the giant eagle spread over his breastplate.
‘But of course,’ said Friar Lorenzo hastily, ‘I cheer for…the Eagle? Yes! The great Eagle…the king of the sky!’
To his relief, the answer was received with cheers.
‘Then you are truly a friend,’ concluded the knight, ‘and I am happy that I killed him and not you. Come, we will take you into town. The Camollia Gate does not allow carts after sunset, so we must hurry.’
‘Your kindness humbles me,’ said Friar Lorenzo. ‘I beg you to tell me your name that I may bless you in all my prayers from now and forever?’
The beaked helmet dipped briefly in a cordial nod.
‘I am the Eagle. Men call me Romeo Marescotti.’
‘Marescotti is your mortal name?’
‘What’s in a name? The Eagle lives forever.’
‘Only heaven,’ said Friar Lorenzo, his natural stinginess briefly eclipsing his gratitude, ‘can grant eternal life.’
The knight beamed. ‘Then obviously,’ he retorted, mostly for the amusement of his companions, ‘the Eagle must be the Virgin’s favourite bird!’
By the time Romeo and his cousins finally delivered monk and cart to their destination inside the gates of Siena, dusk had turned darkness, and a wary silence had come over the city. Doors and shutters were now closed and barred to the demons that came out at night, and had it not been for the moon and the occasional passer-by carrying a torch, Friar Lorenzo would have long since lost his bearings in the sloping labyrinth of streets.
When Romeo had asked him whom he had come to visit, the monk had lied. He knew all about the bloody feud between the Tolomeis and the Salimbenis, and that it could, in the wrong company, be fatal to admit that he had come to Siena to see the great Messer Tolomei. For all their willingness to help, you never knew how Romeo and his cousins would react—nor what lewd stories they would tell their friends and family—if they knew the truth. And so instead, Friar Lorenzo had told them that his destination was Maestro Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s workshop, since it was the only other person he could think of in Siena.
Ambrogio Lorenzetti was a painter, a true maestro, who was known far and wide for his frescoes and portraits. Friar Lorenzo had never met him in person, but he remembered someone telling him that this great man lived in Siena. It was with some trepidation he had first spoken the name to Romeo, but when the young man did not contradict him, he dared to assume that he had chosen wisely.
‘Well, then,’ said Romeo, stopping his horse in the middle of a narrow street, ‘here we are. It is the blue door.’
Friar Lorenzo looked around, surprised that the famous painter did not live in a more attractive neighbourhood. Rubbish and filth littered the street all around them, and scrawny cats were eyeing him from doorways and dark corners. ‘I thank you,’ he said, descending from the cart, ‘for your great help, gentlemen. Heaven will reward you all in due course.’
‘Stand aside, monk,’ replied Romeo, dismounting, ‘and let us carry that coffin inside for you.’
‘No! Do not touch it!’ Friar Lorenzo tried to position himself between Romeo and the coffin. ‘You have helped me enough already.’
‘Nonsense!’ Romeo all but pushed the monk aside. ‘How do you intend to get it into the house without our help?’
‘I don’t…God will procure a way! The Maestro will help me.’
‘Painters have brains, not muscles. Here.’ This time, Romeo did move the other aside, but he did it gently, aware that he was engaging a weaker opponent.
‘No!’ the monk exclaimed, struggling to assert