The Prince(22)
So it was that he drove like a demon across the Arno and over to Santa Maria Novella.
He was clad all in black, including a black helmet with an opaque shield, a pair of heavy, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket that had been made in the 1950s. A piece of cloth, newly doused with a vintage from his cellar, was pinned inside his shirt.
Parking his roadster next to the church, he walked to the side entrance, still wearing his helmet. He was wary of being seen by one of his citizens and for more than one reason.
The second he stepped on holy ground, he developed a strong headache and his limbs began to feel weak. It was a harsh reminder he was no longer a servant of the Church.
His blood boiled with ancient anger.
Upon entering the church he removed his helmet, fighting the nausea that threatened from his stomach. He strode to the center, stopping below Giotto’s famous crucifix.
It was a thing of artistic beauty, to be sure. He took his time examining the Franciscan-inspired artwork, noting its colors. But he would not look at the face of the figure hanging on the cross.
He spat on the floor, blaspheming in Latin.
He turned on the heel of his boot and exited the church, moving across the grassy courtyard to the old chapter house. In the sixteenth century, it had been transformed into what became known as the Spanish Chapel. Andrea di Bonaiuto had painted the incredible frescoes that decorated the walls.
Now the Prince faced the person he’d come to see—a figure seated below the personifications of the seven virtues, wearing an expression of peace.
He made eye contact with the image, which appeared to stare back at him, and bowed very low, his body unaccustomed to the movement.
“Hail, Brother.” The Prince greeted him in Latin.
The figure remained silent.
“It’s been some time since I’ve visited. More than a century, if memory serves.” The Prince’s gaze flickered to the other less welcome images that flanked the favored one, before fixing on the personification of justice.
“Do you still believe in justice, now that you’ve seen behind the veil?”
He moved a step closer, regarding the crown and scepter that she carried, noting that the scepter was extended toward the figure he was addressing.
He turned away, shaking his head.
“Of course not. What am I saying? To question God in Paradise is to ensure expulsion.”
The Prince chuckled to himself and lifted his helmet. “Know that you have a home with me in hell, should you ever choose to fall.”
One more look at the image’s grave face and the Prince grew quiet, all amusement gone.
“Florence is under siege, or will be shortly. The Venetians are planning to attack. But that isn’t why I’m here.”
He began to pace, taking his eyes from the familiar figure and focusing on the movement of his boots.
“Would you believe I came here to make my confession? No? Would that you were still alive and I could speak to you in person. I think you would grant me an audience, no matter what the brothers say.”
He turned, avoiding the image as if he could feel its painted eyes burning on his body.
“Tonight, I am the agent of vengeance. Someone stole from me some time ago. I told you of this as you may recall. After many years my treasures have returned to the city and soon they will hang in my home once again. But tonight I will punish the man who stole them and in so doing, I will also exact revenge on his wife, who was complicit in the theft. But I won’t kill her.”
His eyes lifted to the impassive face of the man featured in the fresco.
“You knew little of women in life. I’m sure you’re better acquainted with them now, even if only in Paradise.
“You’d have liked this one. She’s sweet, too sweet for my taste, and virtuous. You would have appreciated her goodness.”
His gaze moved once again to the virtues that floated in the air at the top of the fresco.
He waited, as if for a response. A response that would never come.
“What, no reproach? No censure? I’ve just told you I’m going to injure a virtuous woman by killing her husband right in front of her. Surely that would motivate you to speak, after all these years.”
At the silence the Prince cursed, his eyes moving from one fresco to another.
“Still no answer? I stand before you confessing my sin before the fact, like Guido da Montefeltro. Unlike him, I know the folly of trying to receive absolution while still intending to sin.”
The Prince rumbled in his chest. “He sided with Pisa against Florence, you know. I would have killed him for sport except he fled to Assisi. At least he had Francis as a companion in his death. Even if his companion was worthless against the demons.”
The Prince lifted his eyes to the image.