I smiled at her conclusion, doing my best to look as if I had no vested interest. Now was not the time to tell Eva Maria that I did not believe in weapons, and that, in my experience, the so-called good men were no better than the bad ones.
‘Pretty, is it not?’ Eva Maria continued, nodding at the fresco. ‘A city at peace with itself?’
‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘although I have to say people don’t look particularly happy. Look.’ I pointed at a young woman who appeared to be trapped in a cluster of dancing girls. ‘This one seems—I don’t know. Lost in thought.’
‘Perhaps she saw the wedding procession passing by?’ suggested Eva Maria, nodding at a train of people following what looked like a bride on a horse. ‘And perhaps it made her think of a lost love?’
‘She is looking at the drum,’ I said, pointing again, ‘or, the tambourine. And the other dancers look…evil. Look at the way they have her trapped in the dance. And one of them is staring at her stomach.’ I cast a glance at Eva Maria, but it was hard to interpret her expression. ‘Or maybe I’m just imagining things.’
‘No,’ she said, quietly, ‘Maestro Ambrogio clearly wants us to notice her. He made this group of dancing women bigger than anybody else in the picture. And if you take another look, she is the only one with a tiara in her hair.’
I squinted and saw that she was right. ‘So, who was she? Do we know?’
Eva Maria shrugged. ‘Officially, we don’t know. But between you and me’—she leaned towards me and lowered her voice—‘I think she is your ancestor. Her name was Giulietta Tolomei.’
I was so shocked to hear her speak the name—my name—and articulate the exact same thought I had put to Umberto over the telephone that it took me a moment to come up with the only natural question: ‘How on earth do you know?…That she is my ancestor, I mean?’
Eva Maria almost laughed. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Why else would your mother name you after her? In fact, she told me so herself—your bloodline comes straight from Giulietta and Giannozza Tolomei.’
Although I was thrilled to hear this, spoken with such certainty, it was almost more information than I could handle at once. ‘I didn’t realize you knew my mother,’ I said, wondering why she had not told me this before.
‘She came to visit once. With your father. It was before they were married.’ Eva Maria paused. ‘She was very young. Younger than you. It was a party with a hundred guests, but we spent the whole evening talking about Maestro Ambrogio. They were the ones who told me everything I am telling you now. They were very knowledgeable, very interested in our families. It was sad the way things went.’
We stood for a moment in silence. Eva Maria was looking at me with a wry smile, as if she knew there was a question that was burning a hole in my tongue, but which I could not bring myself to ask, namely: What was her relationship – if any – with the evil Luciano Salimbeni, and how much did she know about my parents’ deaths?
‘Your father believed,’ Eva Maria went on, not leaving me room for further inquiry, ‘that Maestro Ambrogio was hiding a story in this picture. A tragedy that happened in his own time, and which could not be discussed openly. Look’ – she pointed at the fresco – ‘do you see that little birdcage in the window up there? What if I told you that the building is Palazzo Salimbeni, and that the man you see inside is Salimbeni himself, enthroned like a king, while people crouch at his feet to borrow money?’
Sensing that the story somehow gave her pain, I smiled at Eva Maria, determined not to let the past come between us. ‘You don’t sound very proud of him.’
She grimaced. ‘Oh, he was a great man. But Maestro Ambrogio didn’t like him. Don’t you see? Look…there was a marriage…a sad girl dancing…and now, a bird in a cage. What do you make of that?’ When I did not reply right away, Eva Maria looked out the window. ‘I was twenty-two, you know. When I married him. Salimbeni. He was sixty-four. Do you think that is old?’ She looked straight at me, trying to read my thoughts.
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘As you know, my mother—’
‘Well, I did,’ Eva Maria cut me off. ‘I thought he was very old and that he would die soon. But he was rich. I have a beautiful house. You must come and visit me.’
I was so baffled by her straightforward confession, and subsequent invitation, that I just said, ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good!’ She put a possessive hand on my shoulder. ‘And now you must find the hero in the fresco!’
I nearly laughed. Eva Maria Salimbeni was a true virtuoso in the art of changing subjects.
‘Come now,’ she said, like a teacher to a class full of lazy kids, ‘where is the hero? There is always a hero. Look at the fresco.’
I looked up dutifully. ‘That could be anyone.’
‘The heroine is inside the city,’ she said, pointing, ‘looking very sad. So, the hero must be…? Look! On the left you have life within the city walls. Then you have Porta Romana, the city gate to the south, which cuts the fresco in half. And on the right-hand side…’
‘Okay, I see him now,’ I said, being a good sport. ‘It’s the guy on the horse, leaving town.’
Eva Maria smiled, not at me, but at the fresco. ‘He is handsome, is he not?’
‘Drop dead. What’s with the elf hat?’
‘He is a hunter. Look at him. He has a hunting bird and is just about to release it, but something holds him back. That other man, the darker man walking on foot, carrying the painter’s box, is trying to tell him something, and our young hero is leaning back in the saddle to hear it.’
‘Perhaps the walking man wants him to stay in town?’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps. But what might happen to him if he does? Look at what Maestro Ambrogio has put above his head. The gallows. Not a pleasant alternative, is it?’ Eva Maria smiled. ‘Who do you think he is?’
I did not answer right away. If the Maestro Ambrogio who had painted this fresco was, in fact, the same Maestro Ambrogio whose journal I was in the process of reading, and if the unhappily dancing woman with the tiara was indeed my ancestor, Giulietta Tolomei, then the man on the horse could only be Romeo Marescotti. But I was not comfortable with Eva Maria knowing the extent of my recent discoveries, nor the source of my knowledge. She was, after all, a Salimbeni. So, I merely shrugged and said, ‘I have no idea.’
‘Suppose I told you,’ said Eva Maria, ‘that it is Romeo from Romeo and Juliet?…And that your ancestor, Giulietta, is Shakespeare’s Juliet?’
I managed to laugh. ‘Wasn’t that set in Verona? And didn’t Shakespeare invent them? In Shakespeare in Love—’
‘Shakespeare in Love!’ Eva Maria looked at me as if she had rarely heard anything so revolting. ‘Giulietta’ – she put a hand on my cheek – ‘trust me when I say that it happened right here in Siena. Long, long before Shakespeare. And here they are, up there, on this wall. Romeo going into exile and Juliet preparing for marriage to a man she cannot love.’ She smiled at my expression and finally let go of me. ‘Don’t worry. When you visit me, we will have more talk of these sad things. What are you doing tonight?’
I took a step back, hoping to conceal my shock at her intimacy with my family history. ‘Cleaning my balcony.’