To Giuseppe Luconi and Mario Pasquinelli,

illustrious citizens who are

part of the History of Jesi

Tektime Editions

Stefano Vignaroli

THE PRINTER

The shadow of the bell tower

©2015 Amici di Jesi

©2020 Tektime

All rights of reproduction, distribution and translation are reserved.

The pieces about Jesi’s story have been taken and freely adapted from Giuseppe Luconi’s texts

Illustrations by Prof. Mario Pasquinelli, kindly granted by his legitimate heirs

Translated by Fatima Immacolata Pretta

Cover: Jesi - Portal of Palazzo Franciolini - Photo by Franco Marinelli

Website http://stedevigna.wix.com/stefano-vignaroli

E-mail for contacts stedevigna@gmail.com

Stefano Vignaroli

The Printer

The shadow of the bell tower

Translation by Fatima Immacolata Pretta

NOVEL

Preface

Jesi won’t look the same when you will read “The Printer”. The first episode of the trilogy, “The Shadow of the Bell Tower”, is the last novel written by Stefano Vignaroli: it tells the parallel events of the young and fascinating archivist Lucia Baldeschi and her homonymous ancestor, who lived 500 years before. To tie everything there is a mystery, and traces who hidden in the stones, architecture and historical texts of the city.

A fascinating and hypnotic novel. Without realizing it, the reader ends up assuming the scholar’s point of view, in whose eyes streets and buildings lose their austere and detached beauty, to become solemn witnesses of a gloomy past. Secret passages, woods infested with brigands, brave warriors and ruthless mercenaries, presumed witches and defenceless damsels, high prelates and friars, nobles and plebeians. They are those who populate and animate the action, in a constant crescendo of tension, in which the places are not the background, but become an integral and evocative part of a compelling narrative. A historical novel in every sense, above all for the author’s ability to bring back to life the customs and traditions of an entire society, that of Jesi. Yesterday, as today, it is rich in virtues but not without defects and cowardice. To which no one, not even the protagonist, so authentic and true, will be immune.

Marco Torcoletti

Introduction

After publishing three thriller/police genre novels, I found it almost impossible to approach to the historical novel. But my passion for the history of my city has triggered the right spring in me to tackle this new work. It’s obvious that characters and facts, while taking inspiration from truly documented historical events, are largely pure fantasy. I have deliberately left the names of places and important Jesi families unchanged, just to make the narrative as plausible as possible. If I have succeeded in my intention, which is that of every writer, to interest the reader and keep him glued to the pages of the book until the last word, the public will judge it. I have done my best, and to the readers the task of judging.

The story takes place in Jesi during the Renaissance, rich in art and culture, where new and sumptuous palaces are rising on the ruins of the ancient Roman city.

The young Lucia Baldeschi is the granddaughter of an evil Cardinal, weaver of obscure plots aimed at centralizing both temporal and ecclesiastical power in his own hands. Lucia, a girl with a strong intelligence, becomes a friend of a printer, Bernardino, with whom she shared a passion for the revival of the arts, sciences and culture, which are characterizing the period throughout Italy. She will find herself caught between the duty to obey her uncle, who made her grow up and educate in the palace in the absence of her parents, the passionate love for Andrea Franciolini, son of the People’s Capitan and designated victim of the Cardinal’s tyranny.

The story is also told through the eyes of Lucia Balleani, a young scholar descendent of the noble family. In 2017, exactly 500 years after the events, she discovered ancient documents in the family palace, and reconstructed the complex history of which traces had been lost.

Chapter 1

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.

Chapter 2

Guglielmo dei Franciolini, People’s Capitan of Jesi, was a wise administrator, and he knew well that it was not the case to authorize a sumptuous party just in the days when the enemy was at the gates of the city. But he could not go against the Cardinal, reviving once again the disagreements between civil and ecclesial authorities. Just a few years earlier, the Government Palace had been completed and inaugurated with the blessing of Pope Alexander VI himself, who had granted the citizens of Jesi to continue to adorn the lion with the royal crown, provided that ecclesiastical authority was observed in the city and the countryside. So much so that on the facade of the palace one could read, above the symbol of the city, the inscription “Res Publica Aesina - Libertas ecclesiastica – MD”. And so the infamous Pope Rodrigo Borgia had granted a certain freedom to the Republic of Jesi, provided that it was nevertheless subjected to the power of the Church. With this agreement, the Jesi’s people were also spared the horrors perpetrated in the rest of the Marches by the Pope’s son, Cesare Borgia, who had proposed to become absolute lord of Romagna, Umbria and the Marches with ferocity and betrayal. It was past history, almost twenty years earlier, but in any case Guglielmo had to respect the pacts. Moreover, it was the engagement of his son Andrea with the Cardinal’s niece that further sealed the agreement between the Guelphs9 and Ghibellines of his city. After all, the enemy had been camped a few days ago on the banks of the river, much further downriver, and did not mention moving. On those curfew nights, the lookouts and the Scolte had not noticed any movement; the camp’s bivouac fires were clearly visible, almost kept burning all night long by the people of Ancona. The fear, not unfounded, of Guglielmo and his son Andrea, was that all this was a trick. Perhaps the enemies were waiting for reinforcements to attack, or perhaps they drew the attention of the Jesi’s inhabitants on that small camp, while the bulk of the army would appear elsewhere. The afternoon of Thursday, June 3 had been particularly hot. While Guglielmo was preparing for the ceremony, helped by some servants to wear elegant and colourful brocade dresses, which helped to increase his sweat production, he finished giving orders to the commanders of his guards.

«From vespers onward all the gates of the city must be closed. Also set up chains in the main streets, so that if the enemy breaks in, his progress will be hindered.»

The lieutenant interrupted him.

«The cardinal has made opposing arrangements, my lord. He wants all the gates of the city to be left open, so that the nobles living in the countryside have easy access to his palace and party. We cannot contradict him.»

«Strengthen the guard on the walls!» cried the Captain, tapping a fist on the table to underline his order.

«Even here, I have my doubts as to whether I can do that. The Cardinal, for security purposes, wants most of the armed guards deployed around his palace.»

«The Cardinal, the Cardinal!» Guglielmo was going mad with rage and heat. «So we risk handing the city over to the enemy! So be it, but we will close all the gates of the city at dusk. We’ll leave only Porta St. Florian open, from where the noble laggards can easily reach Palazzo Baldeschi. We’ve never suffered assaults from the western part of the city. The enemy always assaults from the valley, coming from the Esino plain. It would be difficult for an army to come from the hills. Moreover, the western walls are very high and immediately inside Porta St. Florian we have a small fort with a bombard, to further defence. Prepare my steed, and call my son. It’s time to go: we’ll parade with the barded horses through the streets of the centre before we reach the Cardinal’s Palace.»

Roasts of the most varied variety of game, soups, salads and pastas, already in the late afternoon had been arranged on the large table where the guests would take their seats. The Cardinal held Lucia by the hand, while the servants sprayed the roasts, especially the cranes, peacocks and swans, with orange juice and rosewater, in order to make them more appetizing. The beef fillets, once boiled, were completely sprinkled with spices and sugar. Particular attention was paid to the side dishes, vegetables of all types and colours, which more than to be eaten, were used to cheer the eyes of diners and stimulate the appetite. In the soup tureens they showed off soups of various colours. The soups, which were usually served as desserts, had a sweet taste and were seasoned with sugar, saffron, pomegranate seeds and aromatic herbs. The real broth, prepared by boiling a mixture of meat, vegetables and spices in water, was used as a first course, especially in the countryside and in the castles of the peasant nobility. The broth was drunk while the meat, removed from the broth, was eaten separately and served with aromatic herbs. The Cardinal had ordered the cooks not to serve it, while he had instead cooked a novelty, originally from the court of Charles VIII, macaroni, obtained from wheat semolina shaped into vermicelli and seasoned in sauces made with olive oil, butter and cream. The desserts, apple and sponge cake, and fruit, apples, quinces, chestnuts, nuts and berries were placed on two separate tables. The wines in the jugs were those typical of the county, Verdicchio and Malvasìa. Only two jugs contained a red wine, a precious gift given to the Cardinal by the Grand Duke of Portonovo a few years before. On the dessert table, instead, the wine was that of sour cherry, from the countryside of Morro d’Alba.

«The guests will begin to arrive in a moment», said the Cardinal, addressing Lucia, finally freeing her from the grip of his icy hand. The young woman had never been able to understand why her uncle’s hands were always so cold, almost as if blood did not flow under his skin. Not even prolonged contact with her much warmer hand had been able to increase the temperature of Artemio’s. «Let’s go get ready.»

So saying, he retired to his rooms to get dressed in pomp and circumstance, while two young servants approached his niece. They would take her to the toilet, to devote themselves to her, first giving her a perfumed bath, then dressing her, and finally making her wear a sumptuous green silk gown. While she let herself be cared for, Lucia thought back to Andrea Franciolini’s eyes. And already! In those days she had inquired, and the handsome horseman whose eyes she had met only for a moment was her betrothed. And she had fallen in love with his eyes, his face, his poise, it was as if there had always been an alchemical affinity with him. She already felt him part of herself, part of her own soul, her whole body vibrated with the thought that soon she could talk to him, get to know him better, stare into his eyes, that they would certainly hide nothing from her. She looked out the window of the room, but felt a strange sensation: the sky of that long day that was turning into sunset was leaden. A hood of sultriness, of humidity, was gripping the city, instilling in her heart the feeling that something bad was going to happen in the short term, and that this something would also affect her in the long term. But what? She couldn’t understand it, even with her powers of vision. Her uncle’s mind, as usual, had also been hermetically sealed that day, but when she looked into his eyes only one word kept ringing in her head: “Betrayal”. Why? She wanted to make her sphere materialize, to throw it high into the sky so that she could see for her, but she couldn’t do that right now, in front of witnesses. While the tall blonde servant girl finished lacing her dress behind her back, the one with the smallest build and darkest hair made her wear the jewels, necklaces and bracelets of gold and precious stones, of exquisite workmanship, made by the Cardinal especially for her by goldsmiths of the school of Lucagnolo. At that moment, Lucia felt a lack, she felt a twinge in her heart as if someone was piercing it with a dagger, or with a sword. She collapsed in her chair and lost consciousness for a few moments.

«My lady, my lady, how do you feel?» The black maid’s voice came muffled to her ears.

«It’s nothing, it’s just the heat, this cursed heat, and the emotion. I feel better now.»

Lucia hadn’t associated her feeling with what would happen soon afterwards to her beloved Andrea.

Executor of the barbaric aggression of that day was the soldier of Francesco Maria Della Rovere, Duke of Montefeltro and already banner holder of the Church. Since the new Pope, Leo X, had stripped him of his state, he had hired Spanish and Gascon soldiers as mercenaries and, after having plundered many castles devoted to the Pope, he headed towards Jesi, in order to conquer this papal stronghold, with the help of the Ancona’s people led by the Duke of Montacuto and thanks to the secret support of the highest ecclesiastical office of the city, Cardinal Baldeschi. As promised by the Cardinal, the soldier coming from the hills west of Jesi, found Porta St. Florian open, had easy reason of the guards of the Fortino, attacked by surprise, and was soon in Piazza del Mercato, just when the procession of the nobleman Franciolini, coming from Via delle Botteghe, arrived in the same square.

Franciolini and his men were not ready for battle, they were not wearing armour, they were going to a party and only had light weapons with them.

«Betrayal!» said Guglielmo, getting off his horse and facing a Spaniard armed with a short dagger. «Chain the streets, don’t let them go down into the valley, or they’ll open the gates to the army of Ancona, and we’ll be caught between two clamps.»

Only with the strength of his arms and his short dagger, he had already landed two Spaniards, leaving them in a pool of blood. Guglielmo was a skilful fighter, and he was quick to catch the enemy. As soon as he saw his opponent hesitant, he would stick the knife in his heart, then pull it out, clean the blade on his clothes and start fighting again. The enemy vanguards didn’t wear armour and it was easy to be right with them. But the enemies came out of Via del Fortino by the dozens, by the hundreds, like a flooded river whose banks could not hold back the water. A Spanish crossbowman took aim and pointed his weapon at Andrea, who was still proud on his horse. The young man had found himself in the middle of the battle at other times and had not given importance to the fact that at the moment he was not wearing armour, but a colourful brocade suit. He had his steed soaring to the fray when he was hit in the right thigh. Other arrows reached both horse and rider. Andrea fell to the ground, with at least four darts piercing him. His horse, hit in the chest, ruined his heavy body on top of him. He tried, without succeeding, to slip away from the mass of the heavy animal, but the forces were abandoning him. Guglielmo, aware of his son who had landed, turned towards him, distracting himself from the fight and turning his back dangerously on the enemy to come to his aid. He saw Andrea’s eyelids drooping, called out to him, but had no answer. He realized that his cadet was now unconscious, perhaps dying. Just at that moment a long blade pierced him, penetrating from behind his back, making its way between his ribs, cutting through his heart and coming out of his chest, accompanied by a powerful stream of blood. Guglielmo barred the eyes that, at the moment of the passage, were still staring at the brave and agonizing son.

Easily right of that small handful of men, Spaniards and Gascon spread through the streets of the city. Some went up Via delle Botteghe up to the Porta della Rocca, surprising the soldiers on guard, killing them and opening the door. Others went down to the valley to open Porta Valle and Porta Cicerchia and thus facilitate the entrance into the city of the Ancona army, which had been waiting for days for nothing more than that moment. Although taken by surprise, the inhabitants tried to organize a defence inside the town, spurred on by some nobles, in particular by Fiorano Santoni, who immediately gathered a squadron of people who, chained the streets as arranged by the People’s Capitan, prepared to fight the enemy in the streets, alleys and squares. But the latter, strengthened by the contribution of the Ancona’s people, was too numerous and the Jesi’s inhabitants, humbled by the cries and tears of women and children, abandoned the defence.

Above all, the mercenaries in the pay of Francesco Maria Della Rovere were thirsty for pillage and the inhabitants, considering that they had not been able to save their homeland, tried at least to save their property, but even in this they had no success: the rich gentlemen were taken prisoners and their women, who had tried to escape, with their jewels, in the churches, saw themselves reached by the Spaniards even inside the sacred places, where they did not disdain to strip them of what was precious on them and rape them. At a certain point, a woman, Eleonora Carotti, with a haughty and male bearing, managed to slap a Gascon who was placing his hands in her breast to take away the jewels he had hidden there and at the same time take advantage to grope her. She found herself between him and another group of Spanish soldiers. If the slapped Gascon had been astonished, without reacting, the others had not lost heart, they landed the damsel, stripped her of her clothes and, making sure she was a woman to all intents and purposes, had raped her one after the other, holding a knife to her throat. The last soldier, having reached his unhealthy pleasure, sank the knife, cutting her throat mercilessly.

The sacking of Jesi lasted eight days, many palaces were set on fire, some with the inhabitants inside, bound so that they would burn alive inside their homes, guilty that the looters hadn’t found enough money or valuables to take away.

There was no respect even for sacred things, nor for religious people, and many priests were tortured and tortured to confess where they had hidden the church ornaments. The plundering spread to the whole countryside and no place, city or country, was spared.

Baldeschi Palace, which had been barred the whole time, on the eighth day opened its doors to Grand Duke Francesco Maria della Rovere and Duke Berengario of Montacuto, who were welcomed in conversation by the Cardinal. The latter had in fact arrogated to himself the right to negotiate the surrender with his adversaries, being no longer present in the city a higher civil or ecclesial authority than he was.

After the servants had offered wine of cherries and sweets made with sultanas, at the Cardinal’s nod, they withdrew and closed the three men alone in the study.

«You have gone too far. The agreements were that you would find no obstacles and you would have to kill Franciolini and his son, taking over the city. An easy conquest, instead for days and days you sowed terror, destruction and death», thundered the Cardinal addressed to the two Dukes.

«No self-respecting army, especially if made up of mercenaries, renounces the spoils of war», replied Della Rovere in a calm tone, almost bored, concentrating his gaze on the nail of the little finger of his right hand, perhaps regretting the fact that during the fighting this had broken. «We kept our word. Now you keep yours, and we will retire in good order, leaving you the undisputed Lord of this city.»

«So be it!», continued the Baldeschi, swallowing the toad, and still satisfied in his heart of how the operation had gone. If several of our fellow citizens had left us, worse for them, it was no big deal. «As promised, I will intercede with the Holy Father so that you, Grand Duke Della Rovere, may have your lands and title returned. You may retire to Urbino and be respected forever by your subjects. As for Ancona, dear Duke, within a month I shall have ten thousand gold florins poured into the coffers of your city, which will serve to enlarge and fortify the port, but the merchants of the city of Jesi must be guaranteed a commercial port of call. And now, withdraw your armies.»

Francesco Maria Della Rovere finally gave the order to his troops to leave the city. The invaders left with a caravan of a thousand beasts loaded with all God’s goods, as well as a large lot of money, valuables and artillery pieces. For his part, the Montacuto, not fully trusting the word of the Cardinal, withdrew the bulk of the army, but left a garrison in Jesi, which would leave only after the defeated city had paid what was agreed.

In those days, Artemio Baldeschi had been too focused on the course of events, to look after what his sister and niece were doing, and he had not even noticed that the girl had disappeared since that famous Thursday evening. The two maids, the blonde and the brunette, Mira and Pinuccia, who were waiting for the Cardinal’s sure rant the moment he finally noticed her, were well aware of her absence. The two maids knew very well that, from that evening, Lucia was locked up in the Franciolini’s house, intent on curing Andrea, who had been seriously wounded in the clash with the enemy, and they knew very well that if the girl’s uncle found out, he would be even more furious.

On the evening of the party, Lucia, having finished dressing, had gone out onto the balcony of the palace overlooking the square below to watch the procession of the nobleman Franciolini arriving on the opposite side, from Via delle Botteghe. It was dusk and it seemed that everything was going well, that everything was quiet, and the bad feeling she had felt just before had already vanished. But suddenly, from Via del Fortino, more and more armed men had begun to appear, more and more numerous, who had immediately engaged in battle with the men in the procession following the People’s Capitan. He had seen his beloved Andrea struck by arrows, and had seen Guglielmo shot dead from behind. That coward with a huge sword had taken advantage of his moment of distraction, for having seen his wounded son, to hit him from behind. Lucia could not watch helplessly that horror, she had to run to Andrea’s aid, who beyond the arrows, was oppressed by the weight of his horse that was ruined on him, perhaps lifeless. She rushed down the stairs and gained the entrance hall; she was about to open the front door when she realized that the fighting was raging throughout the square and that it was not appropriate to go out of there. She entered the stables and spotted the side service door, the one used by the stable-keepers, which overlooked the alley. The wooden door was bolted with a bolt from the inside, it was easy to open it and find herself in a dark and smelly alley a few meters away from the ancient Roman cistern. A few steps and she would have been in the Piazza, on the side of the church of St. Florian. To avoid being noticed by the crowd of fighters, and cross the square unscathed, he had to use a stratagem. Just a few days earlier, her grandmother had taught her a sort of invisibility spell. Not that it made her invisible in the true sense of the word, but it made her go unnoticed by others. She hoped that it would work, recited the formula and began to cross the square, always keeping close to the walls, first of the convent, then of St. Florian Church, then those of a recently built building, the Ghislieri Palace, arriving at the corner where both Via del Fortino and Via delle Botteghe appeared in the square. If she had arrived there thanks to the spell of invisibility or because no one had taken care of her, so busy in the battle, she was not allowed to know. The fact is that she had come to the square with her agonizing love. As many as four arrows had hit him, two in his right leg, one in his left shoulder, the last one passing through his right arm at the biceps muscle. He had lost a lot of blood, and was in a state of semi-unconsciousness, his left leg crushed against the pavement by the weight of the horse’s torso. Lucia focused on the dead beast, ordering with her mind her partial levitation. The change of position of the animal was almost imperceptible, but it was enough that, starting to pull Andrea by grabbing him under the armpits, the girl managed to free him from that unfortunate position. The young man’s eyes, as if by magic, regained light, staring at the girl’s eyes for a moment that she thought sublime, then turned backwards, while Andrea lost consciousness completely. Lucia did not despair, she placed two fingers on her beloved’s jugular shower and could feel a faint pulse.

All is not lost, she thought. Life hasn’t abandoned him yet! But I must act quickly if I’m to get him to safety.

Trusting in her powers, but also and above all in the power of despair and in the deep love that Andrea’s inspired to her, she began to drag his inert body, realizing that she was not even making a superhuman effort. She extended the spell of invisibility to her young love and headed down the Longobard Coast to reach Franciolini’s Palace. None of the men who were fighting in the street gave them a glance, continuing to cross their weapons and fight as if Lucia, with her heavy burden, did not even exist. When she stood in front of the door of Andrea’s house, she laid her lifeless body on the ground and dwelt once again on the decorated tile that had intrigued her so much, the one representing a seven-pointed pentacle. But it was not the time to let herself be taken by distractions. She grabbed the clapper attached to the door and began to knock with how much strength she still had. One of the servants at Franciolini’s house, a muscular dark-skinned man with a turban on his head, whom the People’s Captain had bought as a slave on one of his trips to Barcelona, opened the door just a crack to make sure that no enemies were knocking at the door. When he realized the situation, in the blink of an eye, he let the girl in and dragged the young master inside.

«By Allah and Muhammad, blessed be their name, may I be forgiven for naming them. What about the Captain?»

«The Captain is dead, and if, instead of wasting time invoking your gods, you don’t do as I say, the same end will be reserved for your young master!»

«There doesn’t seem to be much for him to do. In a few moments his soul will leave him to be reunited with that of his ancestors, and that of his father, may Allah have him in glory.»

«He’s not a Muslim, so Allah will not have him in glory. We can still do something for him. Take him into his room and lay him on his bed, then follow my instructions and leave us alone.»

Chapter 3

Alì did exactly what Lucia ordered him to do. In the pantry he had found all the herbs the girl needed, including willow bark, whose function he was unclear about. It would never be used in the kitchen, yet her owners kept a good supply of it in carefully sealed jars. Only then the Moorish servant had realised that the pantry was more of a herbalist’s shop than a storehouse of edible things. There were those too, yes, but many of the herbs in the jars he knew well were used by Jews and sorcerers for purposes contrary to the teachings of both his religion and Catholicism. After all, the Christian God and the Muslim God were very much alike, and if a man was destined to die, his own God would take him in glory and be happy alongside him. One could not claim to save the life of one who was already destined to join his Almighty Father in the kingdom of heaven. This was what Alì thought, as he crossed the Piazza del Palio and went up the Shepherds’ Coast in great stride, taking care not to run into the scuffles that had spread so far. He stopped in front of the door indicated to him, the one on whose headboard was written “Hic est Gallus Chirurgus”10 .

Another sorcerer!, brooded Alì between himself. He calls himself a surgeon, but I know he is the brother of Lodomilla Ruggieri, the witch who burned alive in Piazza della Morte a few years ago. If I don’t pay attention and try to get away from these people, I too will end my days on a burning pile. And even my masters are in it up to their necks, I can only understand now what kind of heretics I have served for years!

Then he realized in his mind that, belonging to another religion, the Inquisition could not prosecute him, and he decided to knock. A tall, sturdy man with mighty biceps, long hair gathered at the back of his neck in a ponytail, and a beard that had not been shaved for a few days, he looked him from top to bottom. Alì was also strong: in his native country, in the upper Nile valley, he was a wrestling champion, there was no one who could beat him, and the man in front of him was unarmed, so he looked at him and told him what he had to tell.

«I see, I’ll get my tools and I’ll follow you. Wait for me here, Franciolini’s palace is a short distance away, but I prefer to make the journey in your company. The two of us could better deal with any troublemakers.»

Gallo disappeared for a few moments inside his house and reappeared with a heavy calfskin bag, which contained the tools of the trade and which, judging by their appearance, must have been very heavy. They crossed the square passing by people who were fighting bitterly. The surgeon recognized a friend of his from Jesi who was shot down with a sword and rushed to help him. But Alì was quick to pull him by the arm and make him give up his intention. It was not really the case to get noticed and engage in a battle that had taken a bad turn for the inhabitants of the city. It was more urgent to rescue his young master... Alì and Gallo quickly slipped into the door of Franciolini’s palace, which the Moor provided to bolt from the inside. He would no longer want to stick his nose out of there even for all the gold in the world, until the fighting had subsided, not knowing that he would soon be forced to leave for an even more dangerous commission than the one he had just completed.

Alì watched Gallo gently extract three arrows from Andrea’s body, while Lucia, at his side, was ready to dab the blood that was spilling as soon as the sharp weapon was extracted, using freshly laundered cloths and applying the herbal poultice that she herself had prepared in the kitchen. The last arrow, the one that went through the young man’s arm from side to side, didn’t want to get out, no matter how hard Gallo pulled.

«Bastards, they used arrows with rostrums, they only go forward, you can’t pull them back. I will have to break the rocker tail and take out the arrow from the front, cutting with the scalpel the skin of the arm at the exit hole, but I will risk to cause a fatal haemorrhage. Are you ready to swab?»

«Yes,» replied Lucia, «I’m ready!»

Alì realized that only the force of despair prevented Lucia from fainting, even though her eyesight and the ferrous smell of blood were probably dulling her senses. Realizing that the girl would not be able to attend Gallo again, Alì took a deep breath and, as soon as the surgeon finished pulling out the arrow, he rushed to stop the copious bleeding. In less than an instant, the rag he was holding in his hand was completely dyed red, and made him feel a very unpleasant slimy sensation to the touch. Alì had never felt anything like it in his life, but he had to be strong. Gallo tore a strip of sheet, tying it tightly around Andrea’s arm, upstream of the wound. The flow of blood slowed.

«We can’t leave the arm so tight for long, or we will lose it and then I will be forced to amputate it because of the gangrene that will surely form. I need a powerful coagulant and healing agent, and the most powerful is human placenta extract. Alì, you have to go to the midwife, she always has dried placenta and...»

«But, the midwife lives outside Porta Valle, it’s too dangerous to go there!»

«Then I guess there will be little we can do for the boy.»

Luckily, Alì knew a passage that, through the cellars of the palace, led outside the walls, near the valley, where a guild of county workers, led by the Giombini family, were building a new mill for milling grain. As he emerged from the little door that opened in the eastern walls, well hidden by a thick bush, he regretted the sight of the mill being built, which had been partially razed to the ground by the fury of the enemy. But he could not dwell on that detail. The semi-destroyed structure offered him shelter from the sight of the a soldier from Ancona, who was continuing to enter the city through Porta Valle. Alì went decisively towards the small church of Saint Eligio, near which Annuccia, the midwife, lived. The midwife, when she saw the Moor, was frightened at the time, thinking that the invaders included the Saracens, then she recognized Alì and let him into the house.

«Are you crazy walking around here? I was about to kill you with this», Annuccia told him, showing the chimney wing she was holding in her hand. «I’m not about to give up and get raped by this rabble!»

«I need help for my Lord, Annuccia. The Captain has been killed by the enemy and the young Lord is wounded and needs urgent care.»

After a few minutes, Alì left the midwife’s house, jealously guarding what the midwife had entrusted to him and for which he had had to pay out as much as three denarii of silver. He returned to the little hidden door , coming back to Franciolini’s Palace, handing over the precious casing to Gallo. The surgeon took the dry placenta, put it into a cauldron of boiling water, added a few herbs, including the rare Devil’s Claw, and within half an hour he obtained a thick, unpleasant smelling poultice, which he placed in a clay pot. Alì took the pot in his hand and followed Gallo to Andrea’s room, where Lucia was cleaning the blood on the young man’s half-naked body. The surgeon trained the rudimentary tourniquet, while the girl applied an abundant layer of poultice to the wound, then wrapping a fairly narrow band, but not too much, around the injured limb. Andrea, in his semi-unconsciousness, made a grimace of grief, which cheered up all those present: he was still alive, and alert, even if very weak.

«I can’t do more than this. The next few days he will need constant assistance, his fever will rise, you will have to cool his forehead with wet patches and let him ingest infusions of willow bark, hoping that he will be able to overcome not only the abundant blood loss, but also the infection that will form. If green pus starts to come out of this wound, you can start to say goodbye to him. If, on the other hand, you see yellow pus, what we surgeons call “bonum et laudabile”, it will mean that he is healing. But you, Lucia, don’t stay here for long: your uncle will soon notice your absence, and then I think you will be in trouble. Train the Moor to assist his young master and return home.»

«May it never be so», replied the young lady. «I will be by his side until he is healed. He is my betrothed and I want to be beside him now.»

«Betrothed, you say? Well, I think it was your uncle’s intention not to let him walk down the aisle. I’m no fortune teller, but I think today’s party was all a farce to get the enemy and death for the People’s Captain and his cadet. Do you realize that now your uncle is the highest religious and political authority in Jesi? Do as you wish, but I don’t think the Cardinal is happy to see you here looking after the cadet of the Franciolini house.»

Gallo picked up his instruments, cleaned them carefully, put them back in his purse, greeted the girl with a smile, and the Moor proclaiming: «Salam Aleikum, peace be with you, brother, and thank you for your precious help.»

«Aleikum as salam, thank you for the precious care you gave my master, I’m sure he’ll be all right.»

«Perhaps out of his wounds», said Gallo, closing the heavy door behind him. «But certainly not from the clutches of Cardinal Artemio Baldeschi.»

Over the next four days, Andrea fell prey to a fever, accompanied by his chills and delusions. Lucia had been close to him the whole time, doing exactly what Gallo had advised her to do and everything she knew about having learned from her grandmother Elena. In his delirium, Andrea often mentioned the witch Lodomilla, talked about the strange symbols drawn in the portal tile together with the seven-pointed pentacle, talked about a Jew who had initiated him to a particular kind of knowledge, sometimes appointed the biblical king Solomon, sometimes one of the wives of Emperor Frederick II, Jolanda of Brienne. She often pronounced, among other confused words, the name of a place, also known to her: Colle del Giogo. That place, which was located in the nearby Apennines a couple of days walk from Jesi, reminded her of the ritual with which, a few months earlier, she had officially joined the sect of witches worshippers of the “Good Goddess”. A few days before the spring equinox, her grandmother had told Lucia to be ready, as on the night of March 21st they would join the other followers of the coven up at Colle del Giogo, in the mountains of Apiro.

«Uncle says they are pagan rites, that most of the followers are heretics and sorcerers to be burned at the stake.» Lucia was a bit afraid, but curiosity outweighed fear. «Don’t you think it’s dangerous to attend this meeting, this Sabbah, as you call it?»

Her grandmother had tightened her shoulders, as if to say that she didn’t give a damn about what her brother thought, and answered her very naturally.

«When we speak of divinities, we speak of supernatural entities, which with their infinite goodness can show us paths to follow, paths that only with our eyes we would never be able to see. Now, if the true God is the Almighty Father proclaimed by your uncle, the Yahweh invoked by the Jew who lives in the little house down by the river, the Allah in which the Muslims believe, the Zeus of the Greeks or the Jupiter of the ancient Romans, where is the difference? Everyone can call God in his own way and receive the same favours, no matter what is the name he use. And if we are men and women here on earth, even in heaven, or in Olympus, or in the garden of Allah, there will be female gods. The one we worship as the “Good Goddess” was known to the Romans as Diana. Look, look at the facade of our palace. Look up: What do you see in a niche between the windows on the top floor?»

«The sacred image of Our Lady, of Mary, of the mother of Jesus, accompanied by the inscription “Posuerunt me custodem”, they placed me in the custody of this dwelling.»

«And so here we venerate Our Lady, the Holy Virgin. But remember that all the places sacred to us who call ourselves Christians, Catholics, were erected over ancient pagan temples, and the ancient divinities were replaced with the new ones. The same cathedral next door was built above the ancient Roman baths, and the location of the crypt corresponds to the location of the temple that the Romans had dedicated to the Goddess Bona, another name for Diana. As you can see, there is much in common between the different religions. In the same place where we will go in a few days, the ancient image of the Good Goddess has been replaced by a statuette of the Madonna, inside a tabernacle. The place is still sacred, and magical, and there is always someone who adorns the image with fresh and colourful lilies. It is our way of continuing to adore the Goddess, even if under the image of Mary, mother of Jesus.»

Lucia believed that her grandmother had a not indifferent culture, perhaps because she had access to the reading of forbidden books, kept in the family library. Perhaps she had been able to draw on the knowledge kept under lock and key by her uncle the Cardinal, perhaps without his knowledge, or perhaps because decades ago, when Elena was still a child, the books could be freely consulted. Then Artemio had arrogated himself the title of Inquisitor and had put under lock and key everything that was contrary to the official Faith. And it had gone well that he had not made a great bonfire of those precious texts, as other illustrious prelates in other cities of Italy and Europe had done.

«I understand, Grandma, the important thing is to believe in the good entity, which loves us and helps us, whatever its name.»

Contrary to what Lucia expected and what she had heard from those who feared the so-called witches, the ritual took place in complete tranquillity. No goat came forward to claim her virginity, nor did any of the participants try to torture her or make her sign oaths with her blood. The path to Colle del Giogo had not been easy. After the Moje lock, the path along the bank of the river Esino was often lost in the bush. Lucia could not understand how her grandmother could not get lost and find the trace of the ancient path even after having groped for several leagues in the woods, without apparent landmarks. At a certain point they had to ford the river and continue uphill along a dirt road that climbed up the hollow dug by a rushing torrent that descended from the mountain. They arrived in Apiro at lunchtime and were hosted by a young married couple, Alberto and Ornella, who offered them black bread and dried venison. The two had a little girl of about three years of age, two big blue eyes and flowing brown curly hair; she played with a rag doll near the fireplace, having fun dressing her in tiny coloured clothes, made of simple pieces of cloth. She seemed don’t care about what her parents were preparing to do, together with the new arrivals, for the evening.

«What are you going to do with the baby?» Elena asked the young couple.

«Oh, that’s all right, at seven o’clock the little girl is already in her strawberry tree. Anyway, we asked our neighbour Isa to come and take a look at her. She’ll do it gladly.»

Lucia, who had always slept in a comfortable bed, couldn’t understand how these people slept in those piles of woven straw.

They’ll be full of fleas! she thought, shuddering at the very idea that the next night she would have to sleep there too. Better dead than lying in one of those things.

The initiation ceremony of the new adept took place according to an ancient ritual. It was late at night when Lucia and her grandmother, in the company of their guests, immersed themselves in the stinging cold of the mountain. The fields were still covered with a light layer of snow and the path was illuminated by the bright disc of the full moon shining huge in the sky, as the girl had never seen before. Going up towards Colle del Giogo, at certain points one could sink into the snow up to the knee and it was tiring to go on, but when they reached the clearing to which they were heading, Lucia was amazed at how the place was almost completely cleared of the white blanket and the lawn was dotted with small and numerous colourful flowers, white, lilac, fuchsia, purple, yellow ...

«They are called snowdrops because they are the first flowers to appear as soon as the snow begins to melt, but their real name is “Crocus” and their dried stigmas can be used both as a condiment in the kitchen and for their medicinal properties.»

«Grandma, why does the temperature in this place seem more pleasant?» asked the curious girl.

«They say this is a magical place, but in reality the temperature is tempered by a hot spring. Here the subsoil is rich in sulphurous springs, which is why the temperature is a little higher. From now on, you will learn that most of the phenomena that ordinary people indicate as “magical” actually have a logical, rational explanation: just know how to look for it. They point us out as witches, but all we do is exploit ancient knowledge and natural phenomena for our own purposes. You see, a legend tells that about three hundred years ago one of the wives of Frederick II, the Emperor of Swabia, came to this remote place to hide something that her husband had told her to jealously guard, because she came from the Holy Land, from Jerusalem. Legends and traditions say that this object was a magic stone, a stone that the archangel Michael would give to Abraham or, perhaps, even the so-called philosopher’s stone that the ancient alchemists were looking for. This is a fairy tale, you’ll know the truth in a moment. And now, let us enter the cave. Let’s not be kept waiting!»

The oldest of the participants was a woman with long grey hair, her face skin wrinkled with wrinkles. She wore a long blue tunic with a golden talisman on top of it at chest height, secured to her neck by a chain also made of gold. He had lit a bonfire inside the cave, occasionally throwing dust into the flames, which from time to time caused a blaze of a different colour, sometimes yellow, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes deep red. For each blaze that illuminated her face, she pronounced strange words, which the others present interpreted by arranging themselves around the bonfire, now holding hands and rotating in circles, now moving away and bowing to the will of the Wise Old Woman, now taking bunches of herbs and throwing them in turn into the fire, now sitting on the ground in complete silence. At one point, the only person left standing was the old teacher. She was holding a large book in her hand, on the cover of which stood out the drawing of a pentacle, just like the one in the family diary that her grandmother had given her some time ago, and the gothic inscription “Clavicula Salomonis”.

«By virtue of the powers conferred on me by this coven, I, Sara of the Bisenzi, welcome novice Lucia Baldeschi into our community. She is the chosen one, the one who will replace me one day and will be destined to lead all of you. Therefore, Lucia, come closer and swear obedience and fidelity to this book, written by the ancient King Solomon in his own hand, and brought here among immense perils by Jolanda, who lost her life once she reached her final goal. It is only thanks to his daughter Anna that the book and its teachings have been handed down to us and, from time to time, one of us has the task of preserving and protecting it.»

So saying, the old woman took off her medallion and gently passed the chain around Lucia’s neck. The golden talisman represented a five-pointed star, the seal of Solomon. The same design was drawn on the ground by the old woman using a pointed rod and the girl was made to stretch out so that her head, her hands at the end of her arms outstretched and her feet at the bottom of her legs apart corresponded exactly to the points of the star. Sara took some olive oil, marking with it in sequence Lucia’s left hand, left foot, right foot, right hand and forehead.

«Water, air, earth, fire: you know how to govern the four elements. They can be invoked and used separately by each one of us, but only your spirit is able to unite them and strengthen their powers and qualities to the maximum. Remember, Lucia! You will use your powers only for good and you will fight, even sacrificing your own life, against anyone who wants to abuse you and your abilities for evil purposes.» Then he poured water on the girl’s left hand, still lying down, blew on her left foot, threw a handful of earth on her right foot and brought a burning stick to her right hand. Finally he kissed her forehead. «And now stand up. Your long journey has begun.»

The initiation ceremony was therefore very simple, not as traumatizing as the girl had feared. The rite had taken place in the manner handed down from ancient times, without constraints, without violence, without the intervention of strange figures resembling goats or other beasts. The Devil was certainly not hidden among the participants in the rite. Lucia was disorientated, but she was beginning to understand many things, which her grandmother would help her to define in the following months. Magic, witchcraft, as she had conceived it up to that moment, did not exist. Her grandmother would explain to her what the frontiers of human thought were, how each individual was endowed with enormous potential linked to the use of the same, but that only someone was able to perform certain functions, both by innate ability and through exercise. But then, Lucia asked herself, was the floating sphere that materialized in her hands pure fruit of her imagination, of her suggestion? Yet she was able to visualize it! Yes, but only she, the others couldn’t see it. Anyway, he had experienced its devastating effects by throwing a fireball at that little girl, Elisabetta, who had found herself surrounded by flames. And she could read the thoughts of those in front of her, and she could hear the voices of the spirits, and she could predict the future somehow. How did she explain all this?

«There’s a rational explanation for everything», Grandma told her one night in front of the burning fireplace. «Some of our followers, in the light of what had already been done in the past by ancient scholars, some of whose texts escaped the fires of the ecclesiastical authorities, opened the skulls of corpses of men and women to study their contents, their brains. The surface of our brain is not smooth, but it has many folds, which are called “circumvolutions” by anatomy scholars and which are able to increase by many times the useful surface of this important organ of ours. It is not the heart, as everyone says, the seat of our feelings, but the brain is their repository. As well as all our memories, near and far, are set aside here. It is the brain that allows us to recognize sounds, colours, smells, makes us associate objects with a name, makes us learn the symbols of writing so that the most intelligent people, or the luckiest if you like, are able to read, write and count. It is also the brain that sends dreams to our eyes while we rest. And if all this already seems like a lot to you, know that a very small part of the brain surface is used for all this. The rest is enormous potential, but unknown to most people. Thus, those who manage to train the unused areas of their brain can perform activities that ordinary mortals don’t even dream about. And here you can hear speech spoken in one place even in ancient times. Every word spoken leaves its trace in the air, nothing is lost. If you can pick up these speeches, these words, it’s not that you’re talking to spirits, you can’t talk to people who have been missing for months, or years, or centuries, but you can listen to what they said even a long time ago.»

«What about foreknowledge?»

«That’s a little more complicated, but even here some scholars have speculated that those who predict the future will pick up the brain waves of someone who is already planning to act. That’s why prescience is limited to the short term, and it’s not possible to predict the future in the long term. Whoever claims to be able to do that is a charlatan!»

«What about being able to move objects, levitate them, or turn on a lamp with the power of thought?»

«Well, even these are potentials of the human brain unknown to most individuals. By exercising and training the areas of the brain that are able to use the elements around us to our advantage, we are able to do anything. We are accustomed to using the five senses that we know, sight, touch, hearing, taste and smell, without even imagining what the actual power of our brain is. The ancients knew very well how to use certain powers, so that they could build enormous works without the slightest effort. You see, the Romans, when they came to conquer Egypt, couldn’t explain how the Egyptians, long before their arrival, had built colossal works, such as the pyramids and the sphinx. The enormous blocks of stone with which they had been built could not be moved even by hundreds of slaves working together.»

«You mean to say that...»

«I don’t want to say anything. You draw your own conclusions.»

Lucia was more fascinated by her grandmother’s speeches every day, but she was even more interested in curing illnesses with herbs. During the spring, she went several times with her grandmother Elena to Colle del Giogo, but also to the countryside and woods around Jesi to collect medicinal herbs. Each time her grandmother explained to her the properties and use of a certain herb: Henbane, Turpentine, Licorice, and the dangerous Belladonna. Elena had promised Lucia that, starting from late summer and for all the following autumn, she would teach her how to recognize mushrooms, how to distinguish between edible and poisonous ones, how to prevent and treat intoxications due to the latter, and how to use the spores of certain mushrooms on infected wounds. But in those last days of spring, the course of history had taken her to assist the young Franciolini, wounded by the enemies of the city.

It had been more than ten days since Lucia was busy around Andrea’s bedside when the boy regained consciousness. He opened his eyes and Lucia felt immediately observed in a strange way. She read in those eyes the bewilderment of the young man, who perhaps believed he was already dead, that he had reached heaven and that he had an angel at his disposal to take care of him. Certainly, he was a nobleman and, as he had servants on Earth, his head certainly led him to think that he would have servants there in Paradise too. But then, little by little, Lucia realized that Andrea was beginning to recognize the walls, furniture and ornaments of his room.

«Who are you, taking care of me, without even knowing you? And what happened to the rest of my family? And my servants? Where’s Ali? Damn that miserable Turk! When he’s needed, he’s always able to disappear, maybe you’ll find him with his ass in the air praying to his God...», Andrea began to say, with his cheeks inflamed with fever, shaking so much that a convulsive coughing fit managed to interrupt his speech in half. Lucia took the hand of the young man among her own, trying to calm him and, at the same time, enjoying that physical contact.

«You must be quiet, or you will plunge back into unconsciousness and feverish delirium. And you must not rage against Alì. Only thank to him, you’d already be in the ground! As for me... Well, I would be Lucia Baldeschi, your betrothed.» In uttering these words, a slight redness took hold of the girl’s cheeks, which could then sink her hazel eyes into the young man’s blue, magnetic eyes, which attracted her face, her lips all over her body to him.

«I did not imagine that the Cardinal would want to reserve such a gift for me. But you are not lying to me? The enemy overwhelmed us just before we reached the Cardinal’s palace, and I believe he is no stranger to ambush!» With the force of anger, he pulled himself up a little, and Lucia hastened to place the pillows behind his back to help him sustain himself. «I should have guessed it was a trick, nothing but a political marriage! Your uncle made arrangements with his enemies, to kill my father, me, disperse my family and centralize civil and religious powers, once the invaders had been liquidated with money. But what invaders? The Duke of Montacuto and the Archduke of Urbino certainly agreed with him! I bet even not anyone knows where is my mother, perhaps kidnapped, or perhaps killed by the enemy. And you?» After having passed to the “you” of respect, he went back to speak to Lucia calling her as one did with the servants. «You’re not Cardinal Baldeschi’s niece. You can’t be. He’d never allow his niece to be here beside me. You’re a servant, a tramp sent by the Cardinal because I’m not dead yet and you must take the opportunity to finish me off. Come on, then! Where do you hide the dagger? Put it in my chest and let’s get it over with, because these wounds will kill me in a few days. Then I might as well cut the suffering short.»

So he grabbed Lucia’s arm and pulled her towards him. They found each other’s faces very close, each felt the other’s panting breath touching their cheeks. Lucia read in young Franciolini’s eyes the fear of dying, not the wickedness. Her instinct would have been to withdraw, and instead she did the opposite, she gently placed her lips on those of him. She didn’t even have time to feel the roughness of the beard that hadn’t been shaved for a few days, which was swept away in a vortex of tongues tangled together, hands looking for naked skin under her clothes, caresses that would isolate her from reality to reach heavenly heights, and then sensations never felt before, until she reached an intense pleasure, accompanied however by a deep pain. Now the blood was hers, and it came from her intimate parts violated by that sweet encounter; she had never felt anything like it in her life, but she felt satisfied.

«How could you think I’m here to kill you? I love you, I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, a few days ago, riding out of this palace on your steed. I saved your life, I cured you, and now you have made me a woman, and I am grateful.»

She finished getting rid of her clothes and, completely naked, slipped into bed next to her love. She opened her nightgown, began to caress his chest, to kiss him, then guided his hand to touch her swollen nipples. And it was kisses and caresses and sighs, for endless magical minutes. Then she sat astride him on his belly and, guided by the instinct that told her to do so, began to swing up and down, at first slowly, and then increasing the rhythm progressively, until she reached intercourse again.

The orgasm plunged Andrea once again into unconsciousness. The girl would have liked to talk to him gently, but with the clear objective in mind to bring the speech about the symbols linked to the strange seven-pointed pentacle, seen in the basement of the cathedral, brought back to the portal of Franciolini’s palace and recalled by Andrea in his delirium. There were many topics he would have liked to talk about with him, now that he had recovered, but at that moment it was again impossible.

While Lucia retrieved her clothes from the floor and settled down, still feeling in her lap sensations that stimulated the pulse of her intimate areas, excited voices came to her ears from the entrance of the palace.

«You can’t enter in this house, you’re not allowed!», Ali was shouting. Then his voice faded to the point of extinction.

«Arrest the Moor, kill him if he resists. And search the house. The Cardinal wants Countess Lucia back in the palace immediately. As for young Franciolini, if he is still alive, arrest him without harming him. He must be tried for high treason and heresy. It’s not us who will kill him, but justice, divine justice and that of men. And the punishment will be exemplary, to make the people understand who they must be subject to: God and His Holiness the Pope!»

Lucia had just recognized the voice of the person who had uttered these last words, the Dominican Father Ignazio Amici, who together with his uncle presided over the local court of the Inquisition, when the door of the room opened wide and the satisfied grinning of two armed guards was drawn on his bow.

Chapter 4

Culture is the only thing that makes us happy

(Arnoldo Foà)

The insistent sound of the alarm clock managed to catapult Lucia back into everyday reality. With the same hand with which she had silenced the ringer, she found the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. It had become her custom to light the first cigarette as soon as she woke up, but in recent times she had even done so before leaving the bed. Then she would reach the bathroom with the smoking stick in her mouth, devote herself to the toilet and make-up, occasionally taking a big puff of smoke, throw her cigarette butt in the toilet and earn her way into the kitchen to prepare her coffee, after which she would light another cigarette, concentrating on the new working day that awaited her. In the workplace she was absolutely not allowed to smoke, so even if she sometimes thought that this vice would be very harmful in the long run, she would throw behind her shoulders any hesitation while watching the red tip light up every time she sucked.

My body needs its dose of nicotine, so much for that puritanical dean of the foundation!, Lucia often thought lighting her third cigarette of the day, the one that allowed her to get a decent hour without having to leave her place of work before the breakfast break. In the year 2017 the spring was very rainy and, although it was the end of May, the temperature had not yet reached the summer average; so, especially in the morning at the time of going out, it was still cool, and it was difficult to decide which was the most suitable dress to wear. A quick glance at the wardrobe, while wearing a light, flesh-coloured, almost invisible pantyhose, made the choice for that day fall on a red, long-sleeved, but not wintery, dress of a length suitable to leave the legs bare just above the knee. A thread of lipstick, two strokes of brush to her naturally wavy brown hair, a line of pencil to emphasize the hazelnut of her eyes, a last pull from the cigarette, whose cigarette butt remained punctually smoking in the ashtray, and Lucia Balleani, twenty-eight years old, one meter seventy-five centimetres of austere beauty, almost unattainable by the common man, graduated in ancient literature, specializing in medieval history, was ready to face the impact with the external environment. She was one of the last descendants of a noble Jesi family, the Baldeschi-Balleani and, ironically, despite the fact that from birth she had never been able to live and dwell in the sumptuous family residence in Piazza Federico II - let alone in the beautiful villa outside Jesi - she now found herself working just in that palace. She had willingly accepted the job offered her by the Hohenstaufen Foundation, which had found its natural home there, in the very square where tradition says that in 1194 Frederick II of Swabia, prince and later emperor of the Hohenstaufen family, was born. Like all noble families, from the 1950s onwards, when sharecropping with the income from immense agricultural estates inherited from time immemorial ended, the Baldeschi-Balleani were not immune from gambling away most of the family’s possessions, selling them or selling them off to the highest bidder, in order to maintain the standard of living to which they were accustomed. The Baldeschi branch, a little wiser, had moved in part to Milan, where it had set up a small but profitable design and architecture company, and in part to Umbria, where it ran a charming farm holiday in the green hills of Paciano. The Balleani branch was left with the crumbs and Lucia’s father continued with tenacity and little profit to run the farm, which consisted of plots of land scattered throughout the countryside of Jesi and Osimo. Lucia was a girl, besides being very beautiful, very intelligent. Thanks to her father’s sacrifices she was able to attend the University of Bologna and graduate with excellent grades. Her point of view was history, in particular the medieval one, perhaps because she felt in a strong way, inside herself, on the one hand the belonging to the city that had given birth to one of the most enlightened Emperors of history, and on the other hand to the family that first gave a Lord to Jesi. In fact, it was the Ghibelline Baligani family - the surname had become Balleani with time - that in 1271 had established the first Lordship in Jesi. With ups and downs, Tano Baligani, sometimes siding with the Guelphs, sometimes with the Ghibellines, depending on how the wind was blowing, had tried to maintain the dominion of the city, against other noble families, in particular against the Simonetti, who also took the reins of command of the city at certain times. In the two centuries that followed, the Balleani would become related to the Baldeschi family, who had given the city several Bishops and Cardinals, in order to seal a tacit agreement between the Guelphs and Ghibellines, especially to oppose the external enemy and counter the expansionist aims of the neighbouring municipalities, in particular Ancona, but also Senigallia and Urbino. Precisely because of this passion of her, the dean of the Hohenstaufen foundation had wanted to hire Lucia for the reorganization of the library of the palace that belonged to the noble family. The library boasted extremely rare pieces, such as an original copy of Tacitus’ Germanic Codex, but which had never been properly classified. Besides the classification of the books present, Lucia had other interests, of which she had tried to talk to the Dean, such as that of collecting all the historical sources about the city of Jesi present both in this and in the other libraries in the area, in order to give the prints an interesting publication. Or that of mapping the subsoil of the historical centre, rich of vestiges belonging to the Roman age, in order to have a reconstruction of the ancient city of Aesis11 as close as possible to the one that had been in reality.

«You have many beautiful ideas, you’re young and full of enthusiasm, and I understand you, but most of the access to the basement is forbidden, as you have to pass through the cellars of private buildings, whose owners most often deny consent.»

The old dean was peering at the girl with his green eyes from behind the lenses of the glasses. The grey beard could not conceal the sense of disapproval he felt towards the electronic cigarette, from which Lucia occasionally sucked a cloud of thick, whitish vapour, which in a matter of moments vanished into the air of the room.

«There is no need for physical exploration of the basement. A helicopter could fly over the city to get radar readings. This is the technique now and it gives excellent results», Lucia tried to insist, to see one of her greatest dreams come true.

«I wonder how much money would be needed for such a project. We have funds, but they’re quite limited. Italy has not yet come out of the economic crisis that has been afflicting it for several years now, and you come to me to propose pharaonic projects? Culture is beautiful, I am the first to say so, but we must keep our feet on the ground. See what you can achieve by exploring the basement of this building. They communicate directly with the crypt of the Cathedral, you could come up with something interesting. But do it outside the hours you’re paid for. Your task here is well defined: reorganize the library!» The Dean was about to leave the girl to her work, and to her disappointment, when he turned around and said, «And, one last thing! Electronic or not, there’s no smoking in here. I would ask you not to use that thing while you’re working.»

With a dramatic gesture, Lucia pulled the electronic cigarette out of its neck with the cord, turned off the switch and put it in its case, which she slipped into the bag. From the same bag she took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and gained the entrance hall to go and smoke a real cigarette outside.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017, from the early hours of the morning, it was a clear, late spring day. The sky was blue and, although the sun was still low, Lucia was dazzled by the light as soon as she closed the front door behind her. She had found an excellent accommodation, renting a renovated apartment in Via Pergolesi, in the historic centre, a few hundred meters from her place of work. But the more interesting thing was the fact that she was right in the building that had housed, on the ground floor, in the 16th century, one of the first printing works in Jesi, that of Manuzi. The huge hall used as a printing house had been used for other purposes over time, even as a gym and as a meeting room for some political parties. But this did not take away the charm of the place. Leaving the main door and passing through a small courtyard, Lucia used to stand back and admire the arch from which one could go out onto the ancient paved road, Via Pergolesi, once the Cardo Massimo of Roman times, later called Via delle Botteghe or Via degli Orefici, for the pre-eminent activities that had taken place there during the various periods. Of the splendid shops of the past, in fact, very few remained. Many of them had shutters that had been lowered for several years, and the open ones showed off goods and services that had little to do with antiquity, with the pomp and splendour of the goldsmiths’ shops of the past. The tourist sign smeared with pigeon shit indicated that the arch of the Verroni’s Palace was not of Roman origin, as appearance might lead one to believe, but had been built in the fifteenth century by Giovanni di Gabriele da Como, an architect who had worked alongside the more famous Francesco di Giorgio Martini in the construction of the nearby Palazzo della Signoria. So much so that someone in the past had also attributed that arch to Di Giorgio Martini. According to Lucia, the Romans must not have been completely unrelated to that work, which overlooked the Cardo Massimo. Perhaps the Renaissance architects had limited themselves to restoring an ancient arch, whose remains had survived the centuries and the ruinous earthquake of the year 848.

A few steps between the austere buildings in the historic centre were enough to make Lucia pass from the shady Via Pergolesi to the bright Piazza Federico II. It was still a few minutes to 8:00 a.m., the time when she had to attack to work. She would have had time to smoke another cigarette before entering the Palace, but her attention was drawn to the four marble statues that supported the balcony on the first floor like caryatids. For a moment, she had the impression that the four “telamons” were animated with their own life, as if they wanted to come towards her to talk to her, to tell her centuries-old stories, whose memory had been lost. It was like a dizziness that made her imagine the balcony, no longer supported by the mighty statues, leaning dangerously towards the ground, and brought to mind the dream that had made her the protagonist of a story that had happened exactly five centuries earlier, in those same days of the year and in those places. The images of dreams flowed through her mind during her sleep like scenes from a serial novel. They were so clear that Lucia impersonated herself in her eponymous ancestor as if she was reliving her past life, both as an interpreter and as a spectator.

Suggestion, just suggestion!, she repeated for the umpteenth time the young woman to herself. All because of the books I’m working on and the missing parts of the History of Jesi. My unconscious makes me invent the missing part of the book!

She took two deep breaths, reached a bench, sat down and observed that the facade of the building was there, intact and unharmed. She decided to cross the square, reach the bar and take a strong espresso before going to work. That diversion would have cost her a few minutes’ delay, but the dean never arrived before nine o’clock. She quickly consumed her coffee and left the Bar Duomo, a few steps away she reached the side of the square where Via Pergolesi converged. On her left was the mouth of Via del Fortino, on his right the beginning of the Costa Lombarda, through which she could reach the lower part of the city. Right under his feet, on a large bronze tile was engraved the map of ancient Aesis. A little further on, the inscription in various languages, including Arabic, on the white tiles along the entire perimeter of the square: “On 26 December 1194 Emperor Frederick the Second of Swabia was born in this square”. Still a dizziness, still a vision. Now the square no longer had its present appearance. The lions’ fountain, with the obelisk, no longer stood in the centre, but the space was completely free. The Cathedral, on the opposite side, was a white building, smaller in size than the recent one, in Gothic style, with spires and pointed arches, a sort of small Cathedral of Milan. The bell tower was to the right of the facade, isolated and in an advanced position on the front of the church. The Baldeschi Palace, on the left of the Cathedral, was different, more massive, more sumptuous; the facade was surmounted, as embellishment, by three stone arches, perhaps taken from an ancient Roman construction and put up there in a false way, as a decorative element, but of no use. The statue of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms was already present in a niche between the windows on the top floor, while there was no trace of the four “telamons” supporting the balcony on the first floor. On the contrary, the balcony, although not completely absent, was very small compared to what it was used to seeing. The entire right side of the square was occupied, in place of the Bishop’s Palace and Palazzo Ripanti, by an enormous fortress, a sort of castle, decorated with typical arches and swallow-tailed Ghibelline merlons. On the left side there were the Church of St. Florian, with its dome and bell tower, and the Ghislieri Palace, not yet finished, surrounded by the bricklayers’ scaffoldings. Lucia looked towards the beginning of Via del Fortino, where there was a dyer’s shop, in front of which the craftsman had lit a fire to boil water in a pot encrusted with carbon black. A little girl had approached the fire dangerously and a strip of her dress had caught fire. In short, the girl found herself wrapped in flames. Lucia wanted to run towards to help her, but she couldn’t take a step. She was horrified, hearing the girl’s desperate cries ringing in her ears. Then one, two raindrops, one roar, the flames were extinguished. The feeling of no longer touching his feet on the ground. Lucia was lying on the pavement. When she opened her eyes again she saw the blue sky, a sky from which not a single drop of rain could have fallen. A distinguished man, elegantly dressed, with a briefcase in his hand, tried to help her get up.

«Are you all right?»

«Yes, yes», and refusing any help, Lucia stood up. «It was just a failure, a pressure surge. Everything’s all right now, thank you!»

She crossed the square, which now had the usual appearance, at a good pace, to try to get to her place of work as soon as possible, before the dean could notice her delay, but with the images she had experienced for a few moments well printed in her mind.

Suggestion, only suggestion, nothing but suggestion. There is no other logical explanation for dreams and now for visions!

Yet, a voice from her subconscious seemed to want to tell her that they were memories, that they were episodes she had lived in another life, in a remote past, as a different person, but always bearing the same name: Lucia.

She entered the building, climbed the staircase leading to the first floor and started the computer at her workstation. The temptation to take a peek at her profiles in the various social networks was made vain by the knowledge that the bastard of the dean was punctually checking, through the server, the log file of her computer and reproached her if she allowed herself to surf the Internet for reasons not strictly related to work. So she opened the Excel worksheet where she went to classify the texts and the Access file where she recorded the data in order to have a complete database of the library. Each text was then scanned and stored in a PDF file, to be uploaded to the foundation’s website for later consultation. The texts she was working on in those days, and which had perhaps been the trigger for her dreams and recent visions, were a “History of Jesi” published by Manuzi, the very Bernardino Manuzi who in the sixteenth century had the printing house in the palace where she had taken up residence, and a booklet, whose author was Lucia Baldeschi, entitled “Principles of natural medicine and healing with herbs”.

Then she had on her table a manuscript of a few pages, according to her, also attributable to Lucia Baldeschi, who was trying to describe the meaning and symbolism of a particular seven-pointed pentacle. All three of them were real puzzles, and Lucia would not give up until she had unravelled the arcana that hid behind each of those texts. “The History of Jesi” was really interesting, a work started by Bernardino Manuzi, printer in Jesi, based on ancient documents and oral traditions, and completed thanks to the contribution of other authors. On his table he had an original copy of the book, printed by Manuzi himself, from which several pages had been torn out, who knows in what remote period, who knows by whom, who knows for what reason. Precisely the pages that referred to a painful period in the history of Jesi, from 1517 to 1521, a period marked by the “sack of Jesi” and the government of Cardinal Baldeschi who, thanks to the fact of being head of the Inquisition Tribunal, had persecuted and had executed many people just because they hindered his power. And Lucia Baldeschi was his niece. An inquisitor uncle and a niece who devoted herself to natural medicine and herbal medicine, considered at that time witchcraft practices. How could they live together and perhaps live in the same palace? The fact that Lucia Baldeschi’s writings were there made one lean towards the theory that she had lived there, and certainly that was also the Cardinal’s home. The Court of the Inquisition had its seat right next door. At the beginning of the 16th century, at the Cardinal’s request, it had been transferred from the convent of San Domenico to the more comfortable complex of St. Florian, while the Torrione di Mezzogiorno had remained the seat of the prisons where the condemned were held and tortured. Who knows what those removed pages of the book were about; perhaps there was a scabrous story in which the uncle accused his niece of witchcraft, had locked up her in the dungeons of the Torrione di Mezzogiorno, or in the more comfortable ones of the St. Florian complex, had tortured her and finally had burned her at the stake in the public square. Of course, this story would have tarnished the memory of Cardinal Baldeschi, and so someone in the family would tear out those pages to make them lose track.

It was starting to get hot, and Lucia opened the large window of the room, just the one giving on the balcony supported by the four strange statues, taking care to close the large mosquito net, so that air could enter, but not annoying insects. While the dean appeared, he reproached Lucia with his gaze, an inquisitive gaze, who seemed to want to interpret in the gesture of opening the window the young woman’s contemporary desire to light a cigarette.

I will certainly not give you satisfaction, old caryatid! I certainly don’t smoke here, if only because I can’t stand your mischief, but also out of respect for the precious objects, books, stuccoes, paintings, which are kept in here, Lucia brooded to herself, while she noticed the similarity between the dean, the almost seventy-year-old Guglielmo Tramonti, and Cardinal Artemio Baldeschi, as she saw him every day in a portrait hanging on the walls of the room and as he appeared to her in her recent dreams.

«Even though we don’t have air conditioning here, it’s best to keep the windows closed. Sweating has never hurt anyone, and the air could be harmful to the works we have in custody!» Lucia saw the dean heading towards the window, but instead of closing it as she intended, he opened the mosquito net and looked out through the metal railing on the balcony. In a moment, the dean disappeared. Lucia rushed to the balcony and looked down. Guglielmo Tramonti’s body laid lifeless on the pavement of the square, face down on the ground, dressed as a Cardinal and surrounded by a reddish patch of his own blood. How did it could happen? Where did all that blood come from? The height was not too high! Had he smashed his skull and his vital fluid was leaving him from an open wound on his forehead? And the clothes? Why was he wearing the purple suit? He wasn’t wearing it a few moments before! She looked up looking for the details of the Square and saw it again as it was in the vision she had had just before, when she had left the bar: the Square of a Renaissance city. The voice of the Dean, coming from behind, brought her back to reality. She found herself focusing with his eyes on the tombstone which, on the facade of the Church of St. Florian, remembered Giordano Bruno as a victim of priestly tyranny. Everything was again in its place, the fountain with the obelisk, the Complex of St. Florian, the Cathedral, the Bishop’s Palaces, Palazzo Ghislieri. A little further on, on the bell tower of the Government Palace waved normally the tricolour flag.

«Well? I asked you to close the window and what do you do, you go out on the balcony? But... are you sure you’re okay, girl? You look very pale. Do you want to go home for the day?»

«No, no, thanks, I’m fine. It’s all gone, just a dizzy spell. I instinctively needed to go out for some oxygen, to get some fresh air. But it’s all right now, I can get back to work.»

«Fine, but I’d be glad to know you’re getting a medical check-up. You’re not pregnant, are you?»

«The Holy Spirit hasn’t come to visit me yet», Lucia concluded ironically, accompanying these last words with an evasive gesture of her hand. She took the book on the History of Jesi and began to scan the first pages. On the tenth page, she opened the OCR program on the computer and started to manually correct errors, which allowed her to read some new parts, unknown to her.

THE LEGEND OF A KING

The story of Jesi began on a distant day three thousand years ago. A beginning without spectators. A small crowd of people climbed up the course of our river, stuck along the left bank. They advance slowly, opening the way between the thick brushwood and the tall poplar trees reflecting in the waters of the river.

They are strange people, with a strange name, “pelasgi” they are called, their faces are tanned, marked by the tiredness of a long and adventurous journey. They have worn-out clothes; someone wear skins of animals that smell wild. The faces of men are framed by thick hair and thick beards that endless days of sunshine have made them dry, wicked.

They are the survivors of a flotilla of small and fast boats that won the battle against the storms of the Adriatic sea. They landed a few days ago towards the mouth of that river that now crumbles into a thousand glistening rays of the sun. Emigrated from their land, which was the homeland of their elders, heroes sung by a blind poet for the villages of distant Greece, they are looking for a new land, a new homeland.

And here they are, after an exhausting march, at the foot of a hill that grew as if by magic in the heart of the valley that had welcomed them down, at the mouth of the river. All around, woods as far as the eye can see, climbed on the surrounding hills. And the silence of a nature asleep for millennia. Always.

A man, with a venerable and regal appearance, with the sign of command, points out that promontory that almost looks like a small island emerged at a beautiful position, in the middle of the valley, to collect some castaways. And he walks in that direction. The others follow him, keeping his pace, without speaking. On the highest part of the hill, the old king pushes his gaze away, discovering a marvellous landscape, drawn by the hundred shades of an immense green, barely cut by the sinuous trace of the river that sinks down, towards the sea.

The old king, then turned to his own, nods in agreement and everyone lays their poor things on the ground. So they finally found the promised land, they reached the goal of their long wanderings through seas and lands.

This, from now on, will be their new home.

And so it was that King Esius founded the city of Jesi.

And so the first Jesi’s inhabitants were Greeks, fleeing the destroyed city of Troy. Like Aeneas, who had gone up the coasts of the Tyrrhenian Sea to settle in Latium, King Esius had found the easiest way up the Adriatic Sea and reached the mouth of the Esino river.

Lucia had become enthusiastic about this history, and dreams and visions were now relegated to a remote corner of her mind. Her brain and imagination were already in gear.

This data and news could be used for a good publication or, why not, for the writing of a historical novel set in these areas, Lucia began to think, also meditating on possible gains.

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