Juliet

II.I

And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk deathThou shalt continue two and forty hours

Siena, A.D. 1340

Oh, they were fortune’s fools!

They had been on the road for three days, playing hide-and-seek with disaster and living on bread as hard as rock. Now, finally, on the hottest, most miserable day of summer, they were so close to their journey’s end that Friar Lorenzo could see the towers of Siena sprouting bewitchingly on the horizon ahead. And here, sadly, was where his rosary ran out of protective power.

Sitting on his horse cart, rocking wearily along behind his six mounted travel companions—all monks like himself—the young friar had just begun to imagine the sizzling beef and soothing wine awaiting them at their destination when a dozen sinister-looking horsemen came galloping out of a vineyard in a cloud of dust to surround the small travelling party and block the road to all sides, swords drawn.

‘Greetings, strangers!’ bellowed their captain, toothless and grimy but lavishly dressed, no doubt in the clothes of previous victims. ‘Who trespasses on Salimbeni territory?’

Friar Lorenzo yanked on the reins of his cart to stop the horses, while his travel companions did their utmost to position themselves between the cart and the bandits.

‘As you can see,’ replied the most senior of the monks, holding out his shoddy cowl as proof, ‘we are but humble brothers from Florence, noble friend.’

‘Huh.’ The brigand leader looked around at the alleged monks, his eyes narrow. Eventually, his gaze settled on Friar Lorenzo’s frightened face. ‘What treasure on the cart back there?’

‘Nothing of value to you,’ responded the senior monk, backing up his horse a bit, the better to block the bandit’s access to the cart. ‘Please allow us passage. We are holy men and pose no threat to you or your kinsmen.’

‘This is a Salimbeni road,’ the captain pointed out, underlining his words with his blade—a signal for his comrades to move closer. ‘If you wish to use it, you must pay a toll. For your own safety.’

‘We have paid five Salimbeni tolls already.’

The villain shrugged. ‘Protection is expensive.’

‘But who,’ argued the other with stubborn calm, ‘would attack a group of holy men bound for Rome?’

‘Who? The worthless dogs of Tolomei!’ The captain spat twice on the ground for good measure, and his men were quick to do the same. ‘Those thieving, raping, murdering bastards!’

‘This is why,’ observed the monk, ‘we should rather like to reach the city of Siena before dark.’

‘She is not far,’ nodded the brigand, ‘but her gates close early nowadays, on account of the grievous disruptions caused by the rabid dogs of Tolomei to the general disturbance of the fine and industrious people of Siena and even more so, I might add, to the grand and benevolent house of Salimbeni—in which dwells my noble master—in particular.’

The captain’s speech was received with supportive grunts from his gang.

‘So, as you can surely appreciate,’ he continued, ‘we do, in all humbleness of course, rule this road and most other roads in the general vicinity of this proud republic—of Siena, that is—and so my insightful advice to you, as a friend to another friend, is to hurry up and pay that toll now, so you can get on your way and slip inside the city before she closes, after which point innocent travellers like yourselves are likely to fall prey to the scoundrelous gangs of Tolomeis that come out to pillage and such—as shall not be specified in the face of holy men—after nightfall.’

There was a deep silence after the villain had spoken. Crouched on the cart behind his companions, holding the reins slack, Friar Lorenzo felt his heart hopping around inside his chest as if it was looking for a place to hide, and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. It had been one of those days, a scorching sun and not the slightest breeze, that reminded one of the horrors of hell. And it did not help that they had run out of water many hours ago. If Friar Lorenzo had been in charge of the moneybag, he would readily have paid the villains anything in order to move on.

‘Very well, then,’ said the senior monk, as if he had felt Friar Lorenzo’s silent plea, ‘how much, then, for your protection?’

‘Depends.’ The villain grinned. ‘What do you have on that cart, and what is it worth to you?’

‘It is a coffin, noble friend, and it contains the victim of a dreadful plague.’

Most of the brigands drew back at this news, but their captain was not so easily put off. ‘Well,’ he said, his grin broadening, ‘let’s have a look, shall we?’

‘I do not recommend it!’ said the monk. ‘The coffin must remain sealed—those are our orders.’

‘Orders?’ exclaimed the captain. ‘Since when did humble monks get orders? And since when’—he paused for effect, nursing a smirk—‘did they begin to ride horses bred in Lipicia?’

In the silence that followed his words, Friar Lorenzo felt his fortitude plunging like a lead weight to the very bottom of his soul, threatening to come out the other end.

‘And look at that!’ the brigand went on, mostly to amuse his comrades. ‘Did you ever see humble monks wear such splendiferous footwear? Now there’—he pointed his sword at Friar Lorenzo’s gaping sandals—‘is what you should all have worn, my careless friends, if your intent was to avoid taxation. As far as I can tell, the only humble brother here is the mute fellow on the cart; as for the rest of you, I’ll bet my balls you are in the service of some munificent patron other than God, and I am confident that the value of that coffin, to him, far exceeds the miserable five florins I am going to charge you for its release.’

‘You are mistaken,’ replied the senior monk, ‘if you think us capable of such expense. Two florins are all we can spare. It reflects ill on your patron to thwart the Church by such disproportionate greed.’

The bandit relished the insult. ‘Greed, you call it? Nay, my fault is curiosity. Pay the five florins or I shall know how to act. The cart and coffin stay here, under my protection, until your patron claims them in person. For I should dearly love to see the rich bastard who sent you.’

‘Then you will be protecting nothing but the stench of death.’

The captain laughed dismissively. ‘The smell of gold, my friend, overcomes all such odour.’

‘No mountain of gold,’ retorted the monk, casting aside his humility at last, ‘could suitably cover yours.’

Hearing the insult, Friar Lorenzo bit his lip and began looking for an escape. He knew his travel companions well enough to predict the outcome of the spat, and he wanted no part in it.

The brigand leader was not unimpressed with the audacity of his victim. ‘You are determined, then,’ he said, head to one side, ‘to die on my blade?’

‘I am determined,’ said the monk, ‘to accomplish my mission. And no rusty blade of yours can sever me from my goal.’

‘Your mission?’ the bandit crowed. ‘Look, cousins, here is a monk who thinks God has made him a knight!’

All the brigands laughed, more or less aware of the reason, and their captain nodded towards the cart. ‘Now get rid of these fools and take the horses and the cart to Salimbeni…’

‘I have a better idea,’ sneered the monk, and tore off his cowl to reveal the uniform underneath. ‘Why don’t we go see my master Tolomei instead, with your head on a pole?’

Friar Lorenzo groaned inwardly as his fears were fulfilled. With no further attempts at concealment, his travel companions—all of them Tolomei knights in disguise—drew their swords and daggers from cloaks and saddlebags, and the mere sound of the iron made the brigands pull away in astonishment, if only to instantly throw themselves and their horses forward again in a screaming, headlong attack.

The sudden clamour made Friar Lorenzo’s horses coil on their haunches and erupt in a frenzied gallop, pulling the cart along as they went, and there was little he could do but tear at the useless reins and plead for reason and moderation in two animals that had never studied philosophy. After three days on the road they showed remarkable spirit as they pulled their load away from the turmoil and up the bumpy road towards Siena, wheels wailing and the coffin bouncing this way and that, threatening to fall off the cart and break into splinters.

Failing all dialogue with the horses, Friar Lorenzo turned to the coffin. Using both hands and feet he tried to hold it steady, but while he struggled for a good grip on the unwieldy thing, a movement on the road behind him made him look up and realize that the safety of the coffin should be the very least of his concerns.

For he was being followed by two of the brigands, galloping apace to reclaim their treasure. Scrambling to prepare his defence, Friar Lorenzo found only a whip and his rosary, and he watched with trepidation as one of the bandits caught up with the cart, knife between his toothless gums, and reached out to grasp the wooden siding. Finding the necessary fierceness within his clement self, Friar Lorenzo swung the whip at the boarding brigand and heard him yelp with pain as the oxtail drew blood. But this was not enough to deter his companion, and when Friar Lorenzo struck again, the second villain got hold of the whiplash and jerked the handle right out of his grip. With no more than the rosary and its dangling crucifix left for self-protection, Friar Lorenzo took to throwing bits of leftover lunch at his opponent. But despite the hardness of the bread, he was unable to prevent him from finally climbing on board.

Seeing that the friar was out of ammunition, the brigand rose to his feet in gleeful triumph, took the knife from his mouth, and demonstrated the length of the blade to its trembling target.

‘Stop in the name of Christ!’ exclaimed Friar Lorenzo, holding up his rosary. ‘I have friends in heaven who will strike you dead!’

‘Oh really? I don’t see them anywhere!’

Just then did the lid of the coffin swing open, and its occupant—a young woman whose wild hair and flaming eyes made her look like an angel of vengeance—sat up in consternation. The mere sight of her was enough to make the bandit drop his knife in horror and turn completely ashen. Without hesitation the angel leaned out of the coffin, picked up the knife, and thrust it immediately back into the flesh of its owner, as high up his thigh as her anger could reach.

Screaming with anguish, the wounded man lost his balance and tumbled off the end of the cart to even greater injury. Her cheeks glowing with excitement, the girl turned to grin at Friar Lorenzo, and she would have climbed out of the coffin had he not prevented her.

‘No, Giulietta!’ he insisted, pushing her back down. ‘In the name of Jesus, stay there and be quiet!’

Slamming the lid over her indignant face, Friar Lorenzo looked around to see what had become of the other horseman. Alas, this one was less impetuous and had no intention of boarding the rumbling wagon at its current speed. Instead, he galloped ahead to seize the harness and slow the horses, and much to Friar Lorenzo’s distress, this soon began to take effect. Within another quarter of a mile the horses were gradually forced into cantering, then trotting, and finally to a complete standstill.

Only then did the villain approach the cart, and as he rode towards it, Friar Lorenzo saw that it was none other than the lavishly clad captain of the brigands, still smirking and seemingly untouched by the bloodshed. The setting sun gave the man a halo of bronze that was utterly undeserved, and Friar Lorenzo was struck by the contrast between the luminous beauty of the countryside and the sheer viciousness of its inhabitants.

‘How about this, Friar,’ began the villain, with uncanny gentility. ‘I grant you your life—in fact, you can even take this fine cart and these noble horses, no tolls paid—in exchange for that girl?’

‘I thank you for the generous offer,’ replied Friar Lorenzo, squinting against the sunset, ‘but I am the sworn protector of this noble lady, and I cannot let you have her. If I did, we would both go to hell.’

‘Bah!’ The brigand had heard it all before. ‘That girl is no more of a lady than you or I. In fact, I strongly suspect she is a Tolomei whore!’

An indignant shriek was heard from inside the coffin, and Friar Lorenzo quickly put his foot on top of the lid to hold it closed.

‘The lady is of great consequence to Messer Tolomei, that is true,’ he said, ‘and any man that lays a hand on her will bring a war upon his own kin. Surely your master, Salimbeni, desires no such feud.’

‘Ah, you monks and your sermons!’ The bandit rode right up to the cart, and only then did his halo fade. ‘Do not threaten me with war, little preacher. It is what I do best.’

‘I beg you to let us go!’ urged Friar Lorenzo, holding up his quivering rosary and hoping it would catch the sun’s last rays. ‘Or I swear upon these holy beads and the wounds of sweet Jesus that cherubs will come down from heaven and strike your children dead in their beds!’

‘They shall be welcome!’ The villain drew his sword anew. ‘I have too many to feed as it is.’ He swung his leg across the head of his horse to jump aboard the cart with the ease of a dancer. Seeing the monk backing away in terror, he laughed. ‘Why so surprised? Did you really think I would let you live?’

The brigand’s sword withdrew to strike, and Friar Lorenzo sank to his knees in submission, clutching the rosary and waiting for the slash that would cut short his prayer. To die at nineteen was cruel, particularly when no one was there to witness his martyrdom, except his divine Father in heaven, who was not exactly known for running to the rescue of dying sons.

II.II

Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,For you and I are past our dancing days

I cannot remember how far I got in the story that night, but the birds had started chirping outside when I finally drifted off on a sea of papers. I now understood the connection between the many different documents in my mother’s box; they were all, in each their way, pre-Shakespearean versions of Romeo and Juliet. Even better, the texts from 1340 were not just fiction, they were genuine eyewitness accounts of the events that had led to the creation of the famous story.

Although he had not yet made an appearance in his own journal, the mysterious Maestro Ambrogio, it seemed, had personally known the real human beings behind two of literature’s most star-crossed characters. I had to admit that so far none of his writing offered much overlap with Shakespeare’s tragedy, but then, more than two and a half centuries had passed between the actual events and the Bard’s play, and the story must have travelled through many different hands along the way.

Bursting to share my new knowledge with someone who would appreciate it—not everyone would find it funny that, through the ages, millions of tourists had flocked to the wrong city to see Juliet’s balcony and grave—I called Umberto on his mobile phone as soon as I got out of my morning shower.

‘Congratulations!’ he exclaimed, when I told him that I had successfully charmed Presidente Maconi into giving me my mother’s box. ‘So, how rich are you now?’

‘Uh,’ I said, glancing at the mess on my bed. ‘I don’t think the treasure is in the box. If there even is a treasure.’

‘Of course there’s a treasure,’ Umberto countered, ‘why else would your mother put it in a bank safe? Look more carefully.’

‘There’s something else.’ I paused briefly, trying to find a way of saying it without sounding silly. ‘I think I’m somehow related to Shakespeare’s Juliet.’

I suppose I couldn’t blame Umberto for laughing, but it annoyed me all the same. ‘I know it sounds weird,’ I went on, cutting through his chuckle, ‘but why else would we have the same name, Giulietta Tolomei?’

‘You mean, Juliet Capulet?’ Umberto corrected me. ‘I hate to break it to you, principessa, but I’m not sure she was a real person…’

‘Of course not!’ I shot back, wishing I had never told him about it. ‘But it looks like the story was inspired by real people…Oh, never mind! How’s life at your end?’

After hanging up, I started paging through the Italian letters my mother had received more than twenty years ago. Surely there was someone still alive in Siena who had known my parents, and who could answer all the questions Aunt Rose had so consistently brushed aside. But without knowing any Italian it was hard to tell which letters were written by friends or family; my only clue was that one of them began with the words ‘Carissima Diana’ and that the sender’s name was Pia Tolomei.

Unfolding the city map I had bought the day before, together with the dictionary, I spent some time searching for the address that was scribbled on the back of the envelope, and finally managed to pinpoint it in a minuscule piazza called Piazzetta del Castellare in central Siena. It was located in the heart of the Owl contrada,

my home turf, not far from Palazzo Tolomei where I had met Presidente Maconi the day before.

If I were lucky, Pia Tolomei—whoever she was—would still be living there, eager to speak with Diane Tolomei’s daughter and lucid enough to remember why.

Piazzetta del Castellare was like a small fortress within the city, and not that easy to find. After walking right past it several times, I finally discovered that I had to enter through a covered alleyway, which I had first assumed was the entrance to a private yard. Once inside the piazzetta, I was trapped between tall, silent buildings, and as I looked up at all the closed shutters on the walls around me, it was almost conceivable that they had been drawn shut at some point in the Middle Ages and never opened since.

In fact, had there not been a couple of Vespas parked in a corner, a tabby cat with a shiny black collar poised on a doorstep, and music playing from a single open window, I would have guessed that the buildings had long since been abandoned and left to rats and ghosts.

I took out the envelope I had found in my mother’s box and looked at the address once more. According to my map I was in the right place, but when I did a tour of the doors I could not find the name Tolomei on any of the doorbells, nor could I find a number that corresponded to the house number on my letter. You’d need to be clairvoyant to become a postman in a place like this, I thought.

Not knowing what else to do, I started ringing doorbells, one at a time. Just as I was about to press the fourth one, a woman opened a pair of shutters way above me, and yelled something in Italian.

In response, I waved the letter. ‘Pia Tolomei?’

‘Tolomei?’

‘Yes! Do you know where she lives? Does she still live here?’

The woman pointed at a door across the piazzetta and said something that could only mean, ‘Try in there.’

Only now did I notice a more contemporary kind of door in the far wall; it had an elaborate black-and-white door handle, and when I tried it, it opened. I paused briefly, unsure of the proper etiquette for entering private homes in Siena; meanwhile, the woman in the window behind me kept urging me to go inside—she clearly found me uncommonly dull—and so I did.

‘Hello?’ I took a timid step across the threshold and stared into the cool darkness. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw that I was standing in an entrance hall with a very high ceiling, surrounded by tapestries, paintings, and antique artifacts on display in glass cabinets. I let go of the door and called out, ‘Anybody home? Mrs Tolomei?’ But all I heard was the door closing with a sigh behind me.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, I started down the hallway, looking at the antiques on the way. Among them was a collection of long, vertical banners with images of horses, towers, and women that all looked very much like the Virgin Mary. A few were very old and faded, others were modern and quite garish; only when I got to the end of the row did it dawn on me that this was no private home, but some kind of museum or public building.

Now, finally, I heard the sound of uneven footsteps and a deep voice calling out impatiently, ‘Salvatore?’

I spun around to face my unwitting host as he emerged from a neighbouring room, leaning on a crutch. He was an older man, definitely past seventy, and his frown made him look older still. ‘Salva—?’ He stopped on the spot when he saw me, and said something else that did not sound particularly welcoming.

‘‘Ciao!’ I said, in a bushy-tailed sort of way, and held up the letter as you would a crucifix in front of Transylvanian nobility, just in case, ‘I am looking for Pia Tolomei. She knew my parents.’ I pointed at myself. ‘Giulietta Tolomei. To-lo-mei.’

The man walked up to me, leaning heavily on his crutch, and plucked the letter right out of my hand. He looked suspiciously at the envelope and turned it over several times to reread the addresses of both the recipient and the sender. ‘My wife sent this letter,’ he finally said, in surprisingly smooth English, ‘many years ago. To Diana Tolomei. She was my…hmm…aunt. Where did you find it?’

‘Diane was my mother,’ I said, my voice sounding oddly mousy in the big room. ‘I am Giulietta, the oldest of her twins. I wanted to come and see Siena—see where she lived. Do you…remember her?’

The old man did not speak right away. He looked at my face with eyes full of wonder, then reached out and touched a hand to my cheek to make sure I was real. ‘Little Giulietta?’ he finally said. ‘Come here!’ He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into an embrace. ‘I am Peppo Tolomei, your godfather.’