Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I), Page 2

  Chapter 2 : 1467-1492

  Luca di Stefano stood back from his easel, linked his hands over his head, and stretched. It was five on a hot July afternoon and he had been bent over his work in meticulous concentration for the past three hours. He wiped a thin film of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and returned his attention to his work. The board, or tavola, in front of him was well-seasoned poplar wood and on it he was producing a portrait in a tempera and oil mixture. His subject was Elisabetta Costanza Alberti, the supercilious wife of Rodolfo Giovanni Tommasini, a minor nobleman and local councillor. Tommasini had ordered the portrait to be in the traditional style, with no attention to be paid to perspective or realism. He had declared that he wanted none of the modern nonsense that was being produced in increasing amounts by various local artists caught up in what would later be called The Renaissance.

  Luca poured himself a mug of water from an earthenware pitcher standing on a corner table, water he collected from a spring on his wife’s family’s farm three miles outside the walls of Borgo San Sepolcro in Tuscany where he lived and worked. He was convinced that fresh spring water was a source of health. Certainly he couldn’t complain. He led what his wife, Maria, called a charmed existence as far as illness was concerned, never once in his life having fallen prey to even the mildest cold.

  He cast an expert eye over his work and decided he’d had enough of looking at that face for one day. He was covering the painting loosely with a cloth when his fifteen-year-old son, Niccolò, ran into the studio clutching a small parchment scroll sealed with wax.

  “Babbo, I met a messenger on my way home who gave me this,” he said eagerly. “It has your name on it and I think I recognise the hand.”

  Luca glanced at the handwriting and smiled. “Maybe he’s paying us a visit, Nicchi,” he said, opening the scroll. As he read it, his eyes lit up with delight.

  “He is indeed coming, Nicchi,” he said, tossing the scroll to his son. “It looks as if he might be with us tomorrow. You have obviously studied his documents well if you recognised his hand. It’s been four years since we’ve seen him.”

  The documents he was referring to were a number of early drafts on the subject of perspective that had been left with him by the man who, in his opinion, was one of the most talented artists of his time, a man who had become a close friend and who always sought him out on the rare occasions he returned to his native Borgo San Sepolcro: Piero della Francesca.

  They had last seen Piero when he had returned from the conservative Tuscan town of Arezzo where he had been continuing work on what would turn out to be one of his most famous frescos: The Legend of the True Cross. Adorning the walls of the choir in the basilica of San Francesco in the centre of the town, the ambitious series of paintings depicted the mythical tale of how the wood from the cross on which Christ was crucified had originated from an acorn deposited in the mouth of the dying Adam. Piero had taken over from the painter Bicci di Lorenzo in 1452 when Bicci had become too ill to continue, and he was in the process of producing a controversial but brilliant work. However, he was a notoriously slow worker and, distracted by many other commissions, he had still not completed it by 1467.

  A little before noon the next day, Luca heard a horse’s hoofs enter the courtyard. As he rushed outside, he almost bumped into Piero who was running towards the studio door calling out Luca’s name. They embraced in delight. A big man with a big personality, Piero held Luca out at arm’s length. “My God, my friend, the years are being good to you, I don’t think you’ve changed one jot since we last met.”

  He screwed up his eyes in concentration and laughed. “You must be dyeing your hair, Luca, there’s not a speck of grey in it. Look at mine, greying and tired like the old man who’s growing it. You must teach me your tricks. Now, how’s my beautiful Maria?”

  Ignoring the remarks about his hair, Luca returned Piero’s firm grip. “She is in the best of possible health, my dear Piero, and longing to see you. As for Niccolò, he was beside himself in anticipation of your arrival when he left for Lepri’s this morning. He would have stayed home if I’d given him the chance.”

  “You’re too hard on the boy, Luca!” They were both laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders.

  “Zio! Zio Piero!” Niccolò charged through the doors to the courtyard and nearly knocked Piero off his feet as he greeted him. Piero held him out and looked him up and down. “Niccolò, my boy! No, my young man, my God how you’ve grown! Look at you! When I last saw you, you were a mere lad. Heavens! You’ll soon be taller than I am!”

  “What are you doing back here so early, young artigiano?” said Luca to Niccolò, with a mock serious frown.

  Niccolò turned, slightly unsure of his father’s tone until he saw his face. “I told Signor Lepri that Zio Piero was arriving and he sent me home early for my lunch, Babbo. He said I needn’t come back today, but I’ll probably go later. There is some glueing I must attend to.”

  Both men laughed at Niccolò’s enthusiasm for his work. “Spoken like a true craftsman, young Niccolò.” Piero hugged him again. “Now go and fetch your beautiful mother for me. I can’t wait to see her.”

  Niccolò raced off to find Maria, who was at her dressmaker’s inspecting a new delivery of cloth from Florence.

  Luca turned to Piero, “What news of your work in Arezzo, the famous Legend? Is it completed yet?”

  “Almost, my friend, almost. I have possibly two or three more weeks of work ahead of me before the last of the scenes is completed. It’s been a long task. I was summoned to see the Franciscan friars immediately I returned to the city two months ago and I was told in no uncertain terms that they were impatient to see it completed. I can’t really blame them – it’s been fifteen years since I took over the work. They have even withheld a substantial part of my fee until the last brushstroke is in place. But I had to have a break from it. To appease them, my best assistant, Giovanni, is still there, devoted student that he is. Truth be told, he’s been responsible for more of the work than I’d care to admit to my masters.”

  “Good to see you’re as independent as ever,” laughed Luca. “What do you have planned here in the Borgo?”

  “Apart from a number of long-overdue matters with the council, I have a small commission in Monterchi, a village close to my heart, as you well know.”

  “Yes, your dear mother, Romana, God rest her soul, was born there.”

  “Exactly. It’s an interesting commission; I’ll show you the sketches. The work is well into the planning — I’ve already drafted most of the cartoons. It’s to be in the old church of Santa Maria di Momentana. Fortunately, although it’s a sizeable work, there is only one large central figure with two accompanying angels.”

  “Why fortunately?”

  “Simply, my friend, because I don’t have very much time.”

  He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “The subject is again rather controversial, for a painting at least. It’s Our Lady heavy with child.”

  Luca smiled to himself, not surprised that Piero had yet again moved into potentially difficult waters. Then, puzzled, he said, “But Monterchi is about one-third of the way back to Arezzo. Surely you are not thinking of travelling to and from the Borgo to undertake this work?”

  “Not at all. I intend to stop at Monterchi on my journey back to Arezzo in two months’ time and complete it then. I have assistants visiting in advance to carry out all the preparatory work.”

  He paused, spread his arms out wide and shrugged. “I am too busy, Luca, thanks be to God, while you, my friend, one of the most talented artists I have ever met, have chosen a life of peace and serenity with your family.”

  “It’s true, Piero, that I prefer to stay here in the Borgo, even though I’m not normally the first choice when it comes to official commissions with the confraternities and the clergy. I keep my opinions of them to myself, but the fact that I don’t play much of a part in their lives I suppose speaks f
or itself.”

  “Your views are safe with me, Luca. However, I do regret that your talent is not more widely available.”

  Luca looked at him quizzically. “You have a twinkle in your eye, Piero. What are you plotting?”

  “Ah, my friend, you know me too well. I have another commission while I am here. There is a certain nobleman with a fine villa not far from Anghiari who wishes to have a large fresco adorn his family’s chapel. He wants it to have a contemporary setting but a biblical theme.”

  “He must have offered you a fine purse, Piero, for you to undertake what will essentially be a private work.”

  Piero smiled conspiratorially. “A fine purse indeed, and one I want to share with you, my friend! I propose that we undertake this work together. But we shall have to work fast – as I have explained, time is short. Tell me you’ll work with me!”

  “Piero, it would be an honour. What’s the theme?”

  “The theme is to be Christ explaining himself and heaven to some of the disciples, opening their eyes from the sleep of normal life to the Glory of God. It’s a particular obsession of this nobleman and he has quite fixed ideas about how it should look, which, fortunately for him, I am prepared to accommodate. It’s to be called ‘The Awakening’. I’ve already made a number of sketches, but I can only undertake it with your help. As you know, I can be somewhat slow in the execution of my work and I don’t think that I can do it alone in the time I have available.”

  “Will the nobleman agree to your having help?”

  “From you, yes, since he is familiar with your work. Indeed, I believe you are in the process of completing a portrait of his wife.”

  Luca shook his head in surprise. “Tommasini? I’m amazed; he’s such a conservative man. He’d be the last person I should expect to commission a work that isn’t in the tedious style he has demanded for his wife’s portrait. I take it that he hasn’t insisted on your returning to the dark ages.”

  Piero laughed at his reaction. “Not at all. He knows that if he employs me he will gain all the benefit of my ideas on perspective and realism. I should not consider working otherwise. It would seem he has a public face and a private face.”

  They had moved into Luca’s studio and were sitting on a couple of stools while Piero was casually looking through a set of Luca’s sketches. On hearing a shout from the yard, they looked up to see Maria rushing in. Piero leapt to his feet, his arms outspread. “Maria, how wonderful! You are a joy to behold!” He picked her up, swirled her round and held her at arm’s length, smiling broadly at her.

  “My dear, you are as beautiful as the day I first saw you, and as radiant as you were on the day of your marriage to your scoundrel of a husband. Oh, Maria! If you knew how many times you have appeared in my work. Your face looks down from on high in many noble and holy locations.”

  He held his head to one side as he studied her features carefully. “You know, your radiant beauty will be perfect for a work I’m soon to be undertaking in Monterchi.”

  Maria blushed. “Really, Piero, it’s about time you chose a younger model, not an ageing mother like me.”

  “You may have aged in years, my dear Maria, but you remain as youthful as ever. What is it with both of you? In your presence, l feel far more than my fifty-five years.”

  He looked from Maria to Luca and back, realising with an inward gasp of surprise that while Luca, at forty years of age, had the youthful looks of a man ten years younger, Maria, at thirty-four, had fine lines starting to etch her eyes.

  Two weeks later, Luca and Piero were taking a break in the private Tommasini chapel, having already completed over one-third of the commission.

  Luca was delighted to have the opportunity to work with Piero again. He had become a part-time apprentice to him at the age of ten when Piero, who was still working under the guidance of his own mentor, Antonio d’Anghiari, had first seen a remarkable set of Luca’s drawings. Realising that the boy possessed a rare talent, Piero had persuaded Luca’s recently-widowed mother that he could help develop that talent. From then on, Luca spent all his free time with Piero, listening and watching in wonder as Piero introduced him to his skills and techniques.

  In 1439, Piero had left San Sepolcro to study the masters in Florence, but when he returned a year later, he insisted that Luca accompany him as his apprentice on his next trip there. That experience had a profound effect on them both, but at heart the young Luca missed his home. He felt a strong responsibility towards his mother, especially since she had no other relatives in the Borgo.

  Although Piero was disappointed that Luca would not develop at the rate he had hoped, he was sympathetic to the boy and decided to set up a workshop in San Sepolcro for a small group of talented youths, Luca included. To run this during his own long absences, he engaged Alighiero Ferrobraccia, a skilled if somewhat unimaginative artist who had also been an apprentice of Antonio d’Anghiari.

  Luca had been the star that shone among them and as he reached his late teens, he had again accompanied Piero on his commissions in other towns, helping him on a number of major works. But his concerns over his mother were ever-present. When on a trip back to the Borgo, Luca met and fell in love with Maria, he knew where his future lay.

  Piero stood back to review their progress.

  “Luca, you work with an impressive speed that I cannot begin to emulate – if you carry on at this rate, this work will be one quarter mine and three quarters yours.”

  He paused and stared closely at the part Luca had just completed.

  “Tell me, my friend, is your brushwork always this close to mine or are you deliberately copying my style?”

  Luca laughed. “My style is naturally very similar to yours, Piero. How could it be anything else? However, I confess, I am trying to adjust it to be even closer to yours than I would normally paint. After all, this work is ostensibly by you.”

  Piero shook his head in admiration. “I should be hard-pressed to tell which of us painted what. Your technique, Luca, has matured from the mere excellent to brilliant.”

  Luca laughed self-deprecatingly. “You are too kind with your compliments, Piero. Everything I know, I learned from you. Without a detailed understanding of your technique, I could not have begun to paint in this way. I regard myself as immensely privileged that I am one of the very few people who can number themselves among your apprentices.”

  “Pah! Apprentice! When I look at this work of yours, I regard myself as an apprentice. You could teach me much, Luca. It is a terrible waste that you are not in Rome or Florence gaining a name for yourself.”

  “Rome, Florence, the other important capitals; they are all appealing, Piero, but as I’ve explained to you before, I’ve never been prepared to become an itinerant artist, even if that limits my potential for success. Being with my family is the most important thing for me and I am content with my life in the Borgo. And Niccolò is such an excellent artigiano; he will go far as a carpenter. It gives me such pleasure watching him grow and mature.”

  “I salute you, Luca, I really do. Perhaps one day I will settle back here.”

  Piero picked up the sketches that were scattered across a large workbench. “Now, this afternoon, let’s have some fun. I’ve added my own face to a number of my works in the past as you know. It’s like a signature. But for a change, I can be the model while you will be the artist who paints me. Who shall I be?”

  He studied the figures in the sketches as Luca walked over to his side.

  “I think St. Paul’s pose would suit me. You may make St. Paul’s face mine.”

  Turning to Luca, he said, “I shall, of course, put your face on another figure once you have completed mine. It will be good to have you present for a change when I include you in a painting.”

  Luca looked up from the sketches. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as you are aware, I like to paint from life, or at least use the faces and figures of people I know. When they are not around, I paint them from
memory. Take your wonderful wife. Her divine face has been the focus of several of my paintings. You too, Luca. Your face is in several groups that the Duke of Urbino sees daily when he reviews his collection of art. And if you were to look closely at the Legend cycle in Arezzo…” He grinned mischievously. “I think in all your face appears in at least two dozen of my works. But for every one of them, I have had to rely on my memory. To have you here in front of me as a model will be very special. Now, who will you be? St. John? St. Matthew?”

  Luca shook his head in amazement at Piero. It amused him to think that his likeness would be present in so many works. He wondered if anyone would recognise him from them. He too, like all artists, had used people he knew as models for various figures appearing in the background in many of his works. He had even used Piero’s features on more than one occasion, but he didn’t want to spoil Piero’s fun by telling him that now.

  “I don’t think it would be right for me to aspire to being a saint, Piero.” Luca scanned the main sketch with his eyes. “Yes, that’s it. This figure.”

  Piero looked over his shoulder. “The shepherd?”

  “Yes, Piero, I’ll be the shepherd.”

  “I agree, my friend, it’s a good figure. But you realise that being a shepherd is a stressful occupation. I insist that even if in real life you manage to maintain your youthful looks, in this likeness I’ll give your hair a distinguished grey tone that more befits your years.”

  Piero laughed, but as Luca looked into his eyes, he saw his great friend was perplexed. He had seen what Luca himself had seen and worried about increasingly over the last few years. He had seen what Maria had seen and had questioned: he was simply not looking any older.

  Rodolfo Tommasini was delighted with Luca’s portrait of his wife and overjoyed with ‘The Awakening’. He proudly recommended Luca to his friends and in the years that followed, Luca reluctantly found himself away from home more than he preferred. Maria was pleased he was getting the recognition she knew he deserved, but now each time he returned home from a commission, she worried about his youthful appearance.

  “When you were here all the time, Luca, I didn’t really notice it or think about it, but now when you return after three months away, I realise how blessed I am to have such a young-looking husband. It’s most disconcerting, you know. In contrast to your wife, whose appearance displeases her more each time she sees it reflected in the glass, not only do you not have a single grey hair on your head, but your handsome features are not disturbed in any way by lines or wrinkles.”

  “You are as beautiful as the day I first met you, Maria,” he said, taking her in his arms. “As for me, people think I dye my hair out of vanity.”

  “I think you underestimate the problem, Luca. I’m concerned because one or two of my friends have been making unkind remarks about you. Antonia del Sarto has been particularly cruel, saying you must have made a pact with the saints, or worse, some evil spirits. She claims that in times past, witches would sacrifice various animals as part of a spell to ward off ageing.”

  “Pagan nonsense!” harrumphed Luca. “That woman should learn to hold her tongue. The confraternities do not take kindly to rumour-mongers.”

  “It’s not the confraternities that concern me,” replied Maria, “it’s the clergy. Many of them are old gossips themselves and it doesn’t take much for them to start thinking about witchcraft. They’d take even less kindly to thoughts like that. Do you think that perhaps we should try to make you look a little older to prevent them from gossiping?”

  “What do you have in mind? Should I go grey, or better, white overnight? Start painting lines on my face?”

  “Be serious, Luca! Changing your hair colour too quickly would only invite comment. However, I’ve been thinking, you could wear a beard and colour it grey from the day you start to grow it. I’ve noticed that men’s beards are often greyer than their head hair. What do you think?”

  “I could, but I’d have to apply colour to it almost every day to maintain the effect.”

  She nodded. “You would, but of course I’ll help you. It would be a small price to pay for stopping any gossip.”

  With them both now being away on commissions, Piero and Luca crossed paths infrequently, and it was not until 1479 that they met again in the Borgo. Thanks to Maria, Luca now had a full but neatly trimmed white beard and a greying head of hair.

  Their meeting coincided with a celebration of the second birthday of Niccolò’s young son, Gianni. Niccolò, who was now well-established as a master carpenter, had married Antonella Maria Donnetti, the daughter of a local merchant, in 1475. Gianni had arrived two years later.

  Piero greeted his friend with his usual bluster and enthusiasm, hugging him with the pure joy of seeing him again.

  “My dear friend, I’m delighted that you have at last received some of the recognition you deserve, at least in these local towns, even if the steep price I have had to pay is seeing far less of you.”

  “My recognition, as you call it, Piero, is all thanks to you.”

  He turned to look at Piero and saw that his friend was studying him carefully. He felt slightly embarrassed when for several seconds Piero uncharacteristically said nothing. Finally, Piero sighed.

  “As you know, Luca, I am fascinated by the human form. And your face, well, it doesn’t deceive me for one moment. You still haven’t aged, have you? This grey and white in your beard and hair, it’s false, isn’t it?”

  Luca looked down, avoiding Piero’s penetrating look. He pursed his lips in resignation. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No, my friend, not at all. You’ve done a remarkable job. It’s very convincing. But my critical eye can see through it. Even though you’ve covered half your face with hair, I can see that your skin tone is still remarkable, and those incredible pale grey eyes of yours are as clear as ever.”

  Luca slumped into a chair. “I simply don’t understand it, Piero. I’m fifty-two years old, and yet if I were to remove all this powder mixture I’ve formulated and cut off this ridiculous beard that I hate, I’d look exactly the same as I did twenty years ago. I’m also – it’s strange – I have the vitality that I had twenty years ago; I’ve retained my fitness; my musculature seems not to have deteriorated and my stomach hasn’t rounded and softened like a normal man of fifty. And I’m never, ever, ill – I’ve never in all my life had even a cold. In harsh winters when Maria tends to get worrying coughs that put her to bed for a week and make me fear she has lung fever, I can tend to her, be around her, and nothing will ever touch me. I have even been exposed to the plague on occasions. It’s known, is it not, that people with the plague and afflictions like it have bad air around them that should not be breathed. I must have breathed it, but never once have I shown the slightest tendency to any of these ills.”

  Piero raised his eyebrows in incredulity. “You are truly blessed, Luca.”

  “Or cursed.”

  “Cursed not to catch the plague? A strange curse and one many people would be pleased to have put upon them. How are your eyes?”

  “My vision is as good as it was when I was a boy. My hearing too.”

  Piero sighed. “I can offer you no explanation, my friend. But I can offer you some advice. The Church doesn’t like unexplained phenomena and your condition, or whatever it is, could be misinterpreted. You would do well to carry on with this little pretence of altering your appearance. It certainly seems to be working.”

  “For now yes, but it requires so much attention. Although this powder mixture is effective, I have to apply it every day. That’s why I have taken to wearing a hat so much – it hides most of my hair while emphasising the white beard that is easier to maintain. Maria is most diligent, ensuring that I never go out without looking totally convincing.” He smiled wryly at Piero. “Except to you, that is.”

  “You are very fortunate to have such a wife.”

  “She has taken to coming with me. For the past year, whenever I’ve taken on a commiss
ion outside the borgo, she has insisted. It’s regarded as very unusual, but as well as helping me maintain my disguise, it helps spread the notion that I am ageing and in need of assistance. She’s always there to support me, Piero. I think without her my secret would be quickly uncovered. But it worries me; she is not the strongest of women. The loss of our two daughters at birth after Nicchi was born took its toll. She nearly died the second time. I worry that she might fall victim to some illness in one of these fine villas or palazzos. So many of them are cold and dank places.”

  Piero nodded. He had worked in many such buildings himself.

  Luca’s fears became a reality in November 1485, when the now fifty-one-year-old Maria caught an early winter chill in a damp and drafty villa where Luca was painting a large fresco. The chill developed into a more serious bronchial condition, confining her to bed with a fever, and her weakened lungs quickly succumbed to the illness. She died with a grief-stricken Luca at her bedside.

  The fresco was never finished. It remained on the damp and poorly finished villa walls for another fifty years until, like the surfaces around it, it crumbled and flaked as the building fell into disrepair, lost like so many similar works to the ravages of time and the lack of understanding of, or interest in, maintaining it.

  Luca returned to San Sepolcro in a daze. He had lost the love of his life, his Maria. He could see no further point in carrying on and could summon no enthusiasm for painting. He had no more interest in his house in the Borgo where he and Maria had lived with Niccolò and Gianni – Niccolò’s wife had died in childbirth along with their second child four years earlier. Every corner, every angle, every surface carried memories of times that had gone forever and it pained Luca to be reminded of them. When Maria’s brother, Antonio, who ran her family’s farm a short distance from the town, suggested the three of them move into a cottage that was one of the outbuildings, Luca jumped at the chance, and both Niccolò and Gianni readily agreed. They wanted nothing more than for Luca to recover from his grief.

  While the move briefly lifted Luca’s spirits, he soon returned to his introspection. On the rare occasions he went out he shuffled along like an old man, a scarf pulled round his face and a hat covering his hair.

  A change for the better occurred in the late spring of 1486 when Niccolò realised that Gianni, now nine years old, was beginning to show some of his grandfather’s artistic skills. He showed Luca some of the boy’s sketches and a couple of paintings.

  “He is afraid to show you, Babbo; he thinks you would consider them too poor.”

  Luca sifted carefully through the pile. “He’s a silly boy. These are excellent for a child of his age. He has real potential. Perhaps I can help him a little.”

  Niccolò was delighted. “Would you really, Babbo? He would be thrilled.”

  “I shall make it my mission, my son. I may have lost interest in painting for myself, but it would be terribly selfish of me if I shied away from the opportunity of bringing on a young talent. Whatever would his grandmother have said? As for Piero, he’d disown me!”

  The last time Luca and Piero met was a week before Piero’s death in October 1492. Piero had been living back in the Borgo for some years, devoting himself to his treatises on perspective and algebra. The old friends called on each other from time to time, their meetings always resulting in the raising of Luca’s spirits since Piero’s zest for life and good humour had not diminished as he advanced into old age. They seldom discussed Luca’s ‘condition’, as Piero had taken to calling it, although none of the meetings passed without Piero closely studying Luca’s features.

  At this final meeting, Piero had taken to his bed following a fever. His face had a sickly, grey pallor that made him look even older than his eighty years. His eyes, however, were alert and fixed on Luca, puzzled as ever by the dilemma he knew he would never solve.

  “You behave like an old man, Luca,” Piero’s now thin voice piped, “but do you feel old? Have you really slowed down in the way you’d have us believe? When I look into your eyes, I can still see that vitality, that young man who’s never gone away. And your skin. My God, Luca, your skin is as youthful as ever! If I were to cut your hair and beard, and remove that ridiculous powder, I don’t think you’d look any different from when you were a young man.”

  “Nonsense, I’m feeling my years like everyone else,” lied Luca.

  “Listen, my friend,” whispered Piero quietly, “I’m tired and I have a feeling that this fever might be winning its fight against my body. I need to rest. When I’m gone, I want you to promise me that you will continue to take the utmost care. There are people in this town, particularly among our learned priests, who would not look favourably on your condition, people who would wish to develop all kinds of frightening hypotheses, most of them centred on evil forces. Take very great care my friend.” He looked towards the bedroom door, paused for breath and called out, “Nicchi!”

  A sad Niccolò entered the room. He had accompanied Luca to see Piero, but realising the seriousness of Piero’s condition, had chosen to remain in an outer room so the old friends could talk.

  “Nicchi,” wheezed Piero, “say goodbye to your old zio.”

  Forgetting himself, Niccolò buried his head in Piero’s chest. Piero gasped and then laughed. “Careful Nicchi, you don’t want to hurry my end along too much; I still have a few things to tidy up.”

  The tearful Niccolò grasped both of Piero’s hands, kissed them and looked lovingly at the old man. “I’ll never forget you, Zio Piero.”

  “Nor I you, Nicchi, I’ll be watching you from wherever I’m going. But you must promise me that you’ll take good care of this other old man.” He raised a worn hand towards Luca.

  “I promise.” Niccolò chewed on his lip.

  “And that boy of yours. Your babbo showed me some of his work the last time he was here. He has great potential. Make sure that his illustrious tutor continues his lessons.”

  As they slowly made their way from Piero’s house towards the walls of the town, they passed a street stall selling peaches. Luca stopped in surprise — it was unusual to see them in early autumn.

  “Piero has always adored peaches, Nicchi; I think I’ll buy some. When we get home, we can eat them and toast him with a glass of wine.”

  He took out his purse and was about to remove some coins when he was knocked sideways and the purse snatched from him. A boy of about fifteen who had been lurking quietly in the shadows had decided to take his chance against this old man.

  “Hey!” yelled Niccolò, quickly gathering his wits and sprinting up the street after the boy. But the boy was fast and Niccolò, who wasn’t in the best of condition, slowed and stopped to lean against a wall to gather his breath. He glanced up as someone else ran past him at full tilt, his jaw dropping open as he realised it was his father. On regaining his balance, Luca had shrugged off his cloak and hat and without a second thought, charged off up the street after Niccolò and the boy.

  It had been years since Luca had broken into anything more than a fast walk, but his legs felt good as they pounded after the youth. “Stop!” he yelled as a couple of women and a priest stepped quickly aside. He caught the youth at the corner of the next building as he was about to disappear into a dark alleyway. Grabbing the boy by the scruff of the neck, he turned him round. The boy was filthy, an urchin living on the street, and terrified by this elderly man who had outrun him.

  “Give it to me!” demanded Luca, holding out his hand for his purse.

  The boy passed it over. Still grasping him firmly by the neck, Luca looked him up and down. “How long have you been living on the street, boy?”

  “Five years, signore, since my mother died,” he stammered.

  “Well, if you want money, ask for it. Don’t steal it!” Luca let go of the boy. He was about to open the purse to give him some coins when, in a flash, the boy was gone.

  As Luca stood there shaking his head, Niccolò rushed up to him, carrying his cloak and hat.<
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  “Babbo!” he hissed. “Babbo! Half the street is staring at you. They know who you are. Put this on quickly and cover your head.”

  Luca put on the hat and cloak and looked around. A small crowd had formed and there was a quiet muttering as they stared at him.

  “Babbo, for the love of God. Lean on me, look tired, stagger a little,” whispered Niccolò.

  Luca took a step towards his son and faltered, reaching out for him. “Help me, Nicchi,” he groaned loudly, “I think I’ve overdone it. Whatever was I thinking of, a man of my age?”

  Continuing with the playacting, Niccolò helped his father walk slowly along the street, shaking his head at various members of the crowd to gain their sympathy. Luca sat down heavily on a barrel and asked feebly for a glass of wine.

  “You should be careful, di Stefano,” called out a shopkeeper. “You’re too old to be chasing after urchins.”

  Luca nodded weakly in reply.

  The priest, Padre Bognini, who had been forced to jump out of Luca’s way as he raced along the street, stood back in the shadows watching the whole performance with interest. He waited until Luca and Niccolò had disappeared, then slipped away down a side alley.

  The relationship between the Church and the lay authorities in San Sepolcro had been complex for more than two hundred years. The town was unusual in that its independently-minded men had a strong control over its clerical life, deliberately limiting the Church’s power and influence within the town walls, much to the frustration of the clergy. As a result, the despised bishop of nearby Città di Castello, who claimed clerical authority over the town, had maintained control of only two of its numerous churches for decades. Anything that might swing the balance towards the Church was welcomed by the bishop, who had a number of sympathetic eyes and ears in place in the town to help him gather evidence that the lay authorities were failing in their duty of overseeing the spiritual life of the townspeople.

  The following night, Padre Bognini met with Angelo d’Angeli, archpriest of the Santa Maria della Pieve church, one of the two in the Borgo under the bishop’s control. An austere and ambitious man, d’Angeli was artfully in the process of increasing his sway with the major confraternities that ran San Sepolcro. As Bognini related his rambling account, the archpriest narrowed his eyes in interest, knowing he could use this information to his advantage. And from what the obsequious priest had to tell, it sounded as if action was more than justified.

  “The man is in league with the Devil, Father Angelo, there can be no other explanation for his unholy demeanour. I tell you I saw it with my own eyes – a man well into his sixties running down the street like a youth. And despite his pretence at exhaustion afterwards, there was not a bead of sweat upon his face, while his heavy breathing was clearly a sham. If anything, there was a superior look of joy. He was gloating at his prowess. I am a similar age to di Stefano and I lead a pious life of frugality, yet I think my heart would fail me if I attempted such a feat.”

  The archpriest cast a glance at Bognini’s well-fed torso and doubted his frugality extended to his diet. “A foolhardy endeavour for anyone of advanced years, Father Bognini. Yet I have heard di Stefano looks his age.”

  “A disguise, Father Angelo, a disguise. After the incident in the street in the Borgo, I took it upon myself to visit him, something I haven’t done for many years since he dissuaded his son from taking vows in the Holy Church. What kind of father would do such a thing?” He shook his head in disbelief, and then continued. “Last evening, after Mass, I went to his late wife’s family farm where di Stefano lives in a cottage.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “A most fascinating discovery, Father Angelo,” replied the priest, rubbing his pudgy hands.

  “I was about to knock on the cottage door when it opened and, to my surprise, Luca di Stefano himself emerged carrying a lantern. He had it held up and I could see his face clearly. He addressed me sternly, showing little respect, demanding I tell him my business. I told him I was concerned that I hadn’t seen him for confession for some time, and that given his advancing years, I didn’t want him to be surprised by death’s often untimely call without being purged of his sins.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He laughed in a manner I can only describe as scornful. He then told me he was in good health and did not expect an imminent visit from any representatives of the next world to take him away from this one. The presumption of the man, and said with such arrogance!”

  He paused, warming to his theme.

  “But Father Angelo, I haven’t told you all. As I said, the light was held up against his face. I could see his features clearly. He has, you know, the most unholy and penetrating pale grey eyes. I could see those eyes and the face around them. Unlike all other men of his age, Father, this Luca di Stefano has not a single line around those eyes, and as far as I could tell, not a single line on his face, although much of it is covered by an extensive beard. That beard too is very strange. I only had a brief opportunity to study it before he lowered the lantern and his face was plunged into darkness, but I swear it was far blacker than when I saw him in the town.”

  He paused again to let this sink in, his mouth salivating freely, his lips moist with excitement.

  “I am convinced he colours his beard grey to disguise the youthful looks that have been his reward for being the Devil’s agent.”

  The archpriest rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You have done well, Father Bognini. Without a doubt, this man needs investigating. If, as you say, he has maintained his youth despite his advancing years, then the only explanation can be that he has made some sort of pact with the dark forces, perhaps with the Antichrist himself.”

  He paused to cross himself before continuing. “Such behaviour cannot be tolerated. I shall report it to the bishop immediately and to the confraternal council at their meeting tomorrow evening. I shall insist that action is taken.”

  Archpriest Angelo d’Angeli pounded his fist onto the long wooden table in the meeting hall of the confraternity, his eyes glowing with fervour as he looked around the room. Spittle flew from his lips. “My brethren, it is our holy duty to take action against this man. From the account I have just given, it must be clear to you that we have the Devil’s work being carried out in this town.”

  The meeting of the confraternity’s eight members had been in session for an hour. Archpriest d’Angeli, as a guest of the meeting, had bided his time while its members discussed routine matters, some of which he knew would raise their ire against one member of the town or another for some real or imagined slight against the Church.

  When asked to address the meeting, he had started slowly, speaking in a matter-of-fact manner, detailing the report that the malicious priest had given him. He let his voice rise with every new point, adding what he hoped would be fuel to the fire in which he fervently wanted Luca di Stefano to burn.

  “This unbeliever must be brought here, stripped, and his body examined. His beard must be removed so that we can see the full extent of his sinful pursuits. I have no doubt we shall see the reward he has accepted from the Antichrist for the evil practices he has been performing is that his body has retained its youth. A most obscene concept.”

  The group was convinced. It was agreed that a squad of the town guard would be dispatched to arrive at the di Stefano cottage at first light, a time when it was assumed the occupants would still be sound asleep and any danger posed by whatever foul practices they had been performing under the cowardly cover of darkness would have diminished.

  Only one member of the group hung back slightly in his fervour at what he had no doubt would result in a public execution. Not that he wasn’t convinced: Domenico della Francesca was as devout as any of the men around the table. He was, however, concerned that the justice meted out was often based on what he considered flimsy evidence. Domenico was the son of Antonio della Francesca, Piero’s brother, and had taken over his ageing father’s seat o
n the confraternity’s administration. He looked on thoughtfully as the other members of the group discussed the plan for the following morning and arranged a time to meet for the interrogation of Luca, Niccolò and Gianni, and he wondered what his dying Uncle Piero would make of it.