On the other side of the blue door, inside Maestro Ambrogio’s workshop, the painter was busy doing what he always did this time of day: mixing and testing colours. The night belonged to the bold, to the crazed and to the artist—often one and the same—and it was a blessed time to work, for all his customers were now at home, eating and sleeping as humans do, and would not come knocking until after sunrise.
Joyfully engrossed in his work, Maestro Ambrogio did not notice the noise in the street until his dog, Dante, started growling. Without putting down his mortar, the painter stepped closer to the door and tried to gauge the severity of the argument that was, by the sound of it, taking place on his very doorstep. It put him in mind of the grand death of Julius Caesar, stabbed by a throng of Roman senators and dying very decoratively, scarlet on marble, harmoniously framed by columns. Would that some great Sienese could bring himself to die in a like manner, allowing the Maestro to indulge in the scene on a local wall.
Just then, someone banged on the door, and Dante began barking.
‘Shush!’ said Ambrogio to the dog. ‘I advise you to hide, in case it is the horned one trying to get in. I know him a great deal better than you.’
As soon as he opened the door, a whirlwind of agitated voices burst inside and wrapped the Maestro in a heated argument—something to do with a certain object that needed to be carried inside.
‘Tell them, my good brother in Christ!’ urged a breathless monk. ‘Tell them we shall deal with this thing alone!’
‘What thing?’ Maestro Ambrogio wanted to know.
‘The coffin,’ replied someone else, ‘with the dead bell-ringer! Look!’
‘I think you have the wrong house,’ said Maestro Ambrogio. ‘I did not order that.’
‘I beg you to let us inside,’ pleaded the monk. ‘I will explain everything.’
There was nothing else to do but step aside, and so Maestro Ambrogio opened the door wide to allow the young men to carry the coffin into his workshop and put it down in the middle of the floor. It did not surprise him at all to see that young Romeo Marescotti and his cousins were once again up to no good; what puzzled the Maestro was the presence of the hand-wringing monk.
‘That is the lightest coffin I have ever carried,’ observed one of Romeo’s companions. ‘Your ringer must have been a very slender man, Friar Lorenzo. Make sure to choose a fat one next time that he may stand more firmly in that windy bell tower.’
‘We shall!’ exclaimed Friar Lorenzo with rude impatience. ‘And now I thank you, Gentlemen, for all your services. Thank you, Messer Romeo, for saving our lives—my life! Here’—he extracted a small, bent coin from somewhere underneath his cowl—‘a centesimo for your trouble!’
The coin hung in the air for a while, unclaimed. Eventually, Friar Lorenzo stuffed it back underneath his cowl, his ears glowing like coals in a sudden draft.
‘All I ask,’ said Romeo, mostly to tease, ‘is that you show us what is in that coffin. For it is no monk, fat or slender, of that I am sure.’
‘No!’ Friar Lorenzo’s anxious aspect lapsed into panic. ‘I cannot allow that! With the Virgin Mary as my witness, I swear to you, every one of you, the coffin must remain closed, or a great disaster will undo us all!’
It struck Maestro Ambrogio that he had never before attempted to capture the features of a bird. A small sparrow that had fallen out of the nest, its feathers ruffled and its eyes little frightened beads…that was precisely what this young friar looked like as he stood there, cornered by Siena’s most notorious cats.
‘Come now, monk,’ said Romeo, ‘I saved your life tonight. Have I not by now earned your confidence?’
‘I fear,’ said Maestro Ambrogio to Friar Lorenzo, ‘that you will have to deliver on your threat and let us all be undone by disaster. Honour demands it.’
Friar Lorenzo shook his head heavily. ‘Very well, then! I shall open the coffin. But allow me first to explain.’ For a moment, his eyes darted to and fro in search of inspiration, then he nodded and said, ‘You are right, there is no monk in this coffin. But there is someone just as holy. She is the only daughter of my generous patron, and’—he cleared his throat to speak more forcefully—‘she died, very tragically, two days ago. He sent me here with her body, to beg you, Maestro, to capture her features in a painting before they are lost forever.’
‘Two days?’ Maestro Ambrogio was appalled, all business now. ‘She has been dead two days? My dear friend!’ Without waiting for the monk’s approval, he opened the lid of the coffin to assess the damage. But fortunately, the girl inside had not yet been ravished by death. ‘It seems,’ he said, happily surprised, ‘we still have time. Even so, I must begin right away. Did your patron specify a motif? Usually I do a standard Virgin Mary from the waist up, and in this case I will throw in Babe Jesus for free, since you have come all this way.’
‘I…believe I will go with the standard Virgin Mary, then,’ said Friar Lorenzo, looking nervously at Romeo, who had knelt down next to the coffin to admire the dead girl, ‘and our Heavenly Saviour, since it is free.’
‘Ahimè!’ exclaimed Romeo, ignoring the monk’s warning stance. ‘How can God be so cruel?’
‘Stop!’ cried Friar Lorenzo, but it was too late; the young man had already touched a hand to the girl’s cheek.
‘Such beauty,’ he said, his voice tender, ‘should never die. Even death hates his trade tonight. Look, he has not yet brushed her lips with his purple stain.’
‘Careful!’ warned Friar Lorenzo, trying to close the lid. ‘You know not what infection those lips carry!’
‘If she were mine,’ Romeo went on, blocking the monk’s efforts and paying no heed to security, ‘I should follow her to Paradise and bring her back. Or stay there forever with her.’
‘Yes-yes-yes,’ said Friar Lorenzo, forcing the lid down and very nearly slamming it over the other’s wrist, ‘death turns all men into great lovers. Would that they were equally ardent while the lady was still alive!’
‘Very true, Friar,’ nodded Romeo, getting up at last. ‘Well, I have seen and heard enough misery for one night. The tavern calls. I shall leave you to your sad business and go drink a toast to this poor girl’s soul. In fact, I shall drink several, and perchance the wine will send me straight to Paradise that I may meet her in person and…’
Friar Lorenzo sprung forward and hissed, for no apparent reason, ‘Before it throws you from grace, Messere Romeo, bridle your tongue!’
The young man grinned, ‘…pay my respects.’
Not until the rogues had left the workshop for good and the sound of hoofbeats had waned, did Friar Lorenzo again lift the lid of the coffin. ‘It is safe now,’ he said, ‘you can come out.’
Now at last the girl opened her eyes and sat up, her cheeks hollow with exhaustion.
‘Almighty God!’ gasped Maestro Ambrogio, crossing himself with the mortar. ‘What manner of witchcraft is this?’
‘I beg you, Maestro,’ said Friar Lorenzo, gently helping the girl to stand up, ‘to escort us to Palazzo Tolomei. This young lady is Messer Tolomei’s niece, Giulietta. She has been the victim of much evil, and I must get her to safety as soon as may be. Can you help us?’
Maestro Ambrogio looked at the monk and the girl, still struggling to catch up with events. Despite her fatigue, the girl stood straight, her tousled hair alive in the candlelight, and her eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day. She was, without a doubt, the most perfect creation he had ever beheld. ‘May I ask,’ he said to the monk, ‘what compelled you to trust me?’
Friar Lorenzo made a sweeping gesture at the paintings surrounding them. ‘A man who can see the divine in earthly things, surely, is a brother in Christ.’