There was nothing fragile in the box; in fact, there was barely anything at all except paper. Boring paper at that. Not money or stocks or deeds or any other kind of securities, but letters in envelopes and different kinds of texts typed out on sheets that were either stapled together or rolled up with rotting rubber bands. The only actual objects in the box were a notebook with scribbles and doodles, a cheap paperback copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and an old crucifix on a silver chain.
I inspected the crucifix for a while, wondering if perhaps it was extremely old and somehow valuable. But I doubted it. Even if it was an antique, it was still just made of silver, and as far as I could see, there was nothing special about it.
Same story with the paperback volume of Romeo and Juliet. I flipped through it several times, determined to see its value, but there was nothing about the book that struck me as the least bit promising, not even a single pencil-note in the margin.
The notebook, on the other hand, had some interesting drawings that could—with a bit of goodwill—be interpreted as having to do with a treasure hunt. Or maybe they were just sketches from trips to museums and sculpture gardens. One sculpture in particular had caught my mother’s eye—if indeed this was her notebook, and these her drawings—and I could see why. It represented a man and a woman; the man was kneeling, holding a woman in his arms, and had her eyes not been open, I would have guessed she was asleep or even dead. There were at least twenty different drawings of this sculpture in the notebook, but many of them dwelled on details, such as facial features, and in all honesty, none of them made me any wiser as to why my mother had been so obsessed with it in the first place.
There were also sixteen private letters in the box, sitting on the bottom. Five were from Aunt Rose, begging my mother to give up her “silly ideas” and return home; four were also from Aunt Rose, but they were sent later, and my mother had never opened them. The rest were in Italian, sent to my mother from people I did not know.
At this point, there was nothing left in the box except the many typewritten texts. Some were creased and faded, others were newer and more crisp; most were in English, but one was in Italian. None of them appeared to be original texts, they were all—except the Italian one—translations that must have been typed out sometime within the last hundred years or so.
As I looked through the bunch, it gradually became clear to me that, in fact, there was rhyme and reason in the seeming madness, and once I had acknowledged as much, it did not take me long to spread out the texts on my bed in some kind of chronological order:
Maestro Ambrogio’s Journal (1340)
Giulietta’s Letters to Giannozza (1340)
The Confessions of Friar Lorenzo (1340)
La Maledizione sul Muro (1370)
Masuccio Salernitano’s Thirty-Third Story (1476)
Luigi da Porto’s Romeo & Juliet (1530)
Matteo Bandello’s Romeo & Juliet (1554)
Arthur Brooke’s Romeus & Juliet (1562)
William Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet (1597)
Giulietta and Giannozza Family Tree
Once I had them laid out before me, however, it took me somewhat longer to make sense of the collection. The first four texts—all from the fourteenth century—were mysterious and often fragmented, while the later texts were clearer. But most important, the later texts had one thing in common; they were all versions of the story of Romeo and Juliet, culminating in the one that most people knew: Shakespeare’s Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.
Although I had always considered myself a bit of an expert on that play, it came as a complete surprise to me to discover that the Bard had not, in fact, invented the story, but had merely piggybacked on previous writers. Granted, Shakespeare was a genius with words, and if he had not run the whole thing through his pentameter machine, it is doubtful whether it would ever have become widely known. But even so, it looked—in my humble opinion—as if it had already been a darn good story when it first landed on his desk. And interestingly enough, the earliest version of it—the one written by Masuccio Salernitano in 1476—was not set in Verona at all, but right here, in Siena.
This literary discovery very nearly distracted me from the fact that I was, quite frankly, uncovering a pretty hefty, personal disappointment. There was nothing in my mother’s box that had any monetary value whatsoever, nor was there—among all the papers I had looked at so far—the slightest suggestion of family valuables hidden elsewhere.
Perhaps I should have been ashamed of myself for thinking like this; perhaps I should have shown more appreciation for the fact that I was finally holding something in my hands that had belonged to my mother.
But I was too confused to be rational. What on earth had made Aunt Rose believe there was something tremendously valuable at stake—something worth a trip to what was, in her mind, the most dangerous of places, namely Italy? And why had my mother kept this box of paper in the belly of a bank? I felt silly now, especially thinking of the guy in the tracksuit. Of course he had not been following me. That, too, must have been a figment of my all too fertile imagination.
I started leafing through the earlier texts without enthusiasm. Two of them, “The Confessions of Friar Lorenzo” and “Giulietta’s Letters to Giannozza,” were nothing more than collections of fragmented phrases, such as, “I swear by the Virgin that I have acted in accordance with the will of Heaven” and “all the way to Siena in a coffin for fear of the Salimbeni bandits.”
“Maestro Ambrogio’s Journal” was more readable, but when I began leafing through it, I almost wished it wasn’t. Whoever this Maestro was, he had had a bad case of verbal diarrhea and had kept a journal about every single triviality that had happened to him—and, by the look of it, his friends, too—in the year 1340. As far as I could tell, it had nothing to do with me or with anything else in my mother’s box, for that matter.
That was when my eyes suddenly fell on a name in the middle of the Maestro’s text.
Giulietta Tolomei.
I frantically scrutinized the page under the bedside lamp. But no, I had not been mistaken; after some initial musings on the hardships of painting the perfect rose, the verbose Maestro Ambrogio had written page after page after page about a young woman who happened to have a name identical to mine. Coincidence?
Leaning back in my bed, I started reading from the beginning of the journal, occasionally checking the other fragmented texts for cross-reference. And so began my journey back to Siena in the year 1340, and my kinship with the woman who had shared my name.
[ II.I ]
And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death
Thou 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 envision 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 traveling 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 to better 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 travelers 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 fella 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.”
“Soon, you will be protecting nothing but the stench of death.”
The captain laughed dismissively. “The smell of gold, my friend, overcomes all such odor.”
“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 roused 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 clamor 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 for an easier opponent. Employing both hands and feet, he tried to hold it steady, but while he struggled for a good grip on the unwieldy thing, a motion on the road behind him made him look up and realize that the comfort 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 defense, 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 pirate and heard him yelp with pain as the oxtail drew blood. One cut, however, was enough for the villain, and when Friar Lorenzo struck again, the other 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 prev
ent him from finally climbing on board.
Seeing that the friar was out of munition, 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 tenant—a young woman whose wild hair and flaming eyes made her look like an angel of venegeance—sat up with all signs of 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 of a madcap than his mate 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, the measure soon began to take effect. Within another quarter 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 dwellers.