Chapter 16 Chapter fifteen

I didn't see my fiancé again until the morning of the wedding. At the end of October Piero left the city, and with his entourage, went straight to the French barracks. In the classroom, our teacher asked us to pray for his safe return.Savonarola publicly cheered the arrival of Charles VIII from the pulpit, believing that he was a tool used by God to save Florence, and degrading Piero Medici as a coward, accusing Their family has destroyed our holy republic.The city in waiting is panic-stricken.Three days ago, Papa came home with news that the lord had announced that if the French army entered Florence, some families would have to be released to serve as their barracks.Both my old and new homes were selected.If the French army invades, my first marriage as hostess will be to entertain the French soldiers!

Every day one hears of families sending their daughters, and sometimes their wives, back to the nunnery for safety.But one day, when the panic was at its height, I heard my mother mutter, "Since when do foreign invaders respect the sanctity of the convent's façade?" And the date of my wedding, November 26, is less than two weeks away. The day before the wedding, the scorching heat finally broke through the sky, and a heavy rain fell.I doubt if this is also God's plan to cleanse the city.Elila is packing my suitcase. "It was all too sudden." "Yes," I looked into her eyes, "are you scared?"

She shrugged slightly, "Maybe you don't need to accept the first one they pick for you." "Oh, did I? Did I miss the line outside the door? Or would you rather see me in some dank monastery in the country, fingering my rosary? I've asked you to marry me there gone." She said nothing. "Elila?" I said expectantly. "He'll be your master too. If you know something I don't, you'd better tell me now." She shook her head. "We're bundled. All we can do is try to keep it from being too bad." It makes me feel like my life is like sand passing through an hourglass, and there is not much time left.I haven't heard anything from the painter yet.The best deception is honesty, and considering I was leaving soon, I decided to ask my mother to allow me to visit the chapel.Of course, there is no need for any female companions now, as long as Ilila stays with me.

The chapel has been transformed.The painter sat on the saddle, was hoisted by ropes, and was close to the ceiling, concentrating on painting the shadow of the grid onto the ceiling.When he had drawn one, he called down to let the workman loosen or tighten the rope, and he was drawn to the other side, to and fro over the flames. Elila and I stood by and stared at him blankly.Concentrated and skilful, he spins a gnarly but perfectly patterned web like a dangling spider.He moved quickly, trying to avoid the heat of the flames.The completed wall shows the outlines of some figures, outlined in ochre, ready for plastering.

"What is he doing?" murmured Ilila, visibly horrified by the spectacle. "Oh, he's grating the roof so he has a point of reference when he paints," said the helper boy eagerly.His face was covered with dirt, but his eyes were shining.When was the first time he felt itchy fingers? Elila shrugged, still bewildered. "The curvature of the roof is deceptive when drawing on it," I explained, "and it's almost impossible to calibrate the perspective. The lines of the grid will help him keep the painting from distorting. His sketches will be superimposed on the These lines, like a map, so that he can accurately move the whole picture on top of it."

The boy glared at me, and I glared back.Don't argue with me, said my eyes.I know more about these than you ever will, though in the end it is you and not I who paint this roof with pictures of heaven. "Go back and tell your teacher, we will watch here until he finishes." I said calmly, "Go and move some chairs for us." There was a little fear in his eyes, but he said nothing, and hurried back to the altar, looking for a suitable chair.When he was pulling two chairs, the painter called him over loudly and gave orders for a long time.The boy put the chairs in the middle of the floor, and Irilah went and carried them over.

That was the best part of the hour before he came down.The fuel is cheap straw, the combustion is very unstable, and the flame often bursts into flames.When the flames got too high, he would yelp a few times, and the workmen would pour water on them to lower them; but the smoke from this made him cough.I've heard of people being badly wounded just like that, so the man who controlled the flames had to be as skilled as a painter.Finally he gestured to them to turn the capstan and bring him down.The rope spun sharply as it dropped, and he was almost thrown out of the saddle and onto the ground.He coughed continuously, spitting out thick phlegm in mouthfuls in order to resume breathing.How could a woman do these things?Uccello's daughter may be able to paint "The Room of Marie the Good Whore" on the tapestry, but she will never be hung under the vaulted roof.Men perform, women applaud.I started to lose confidence.

He sat up with his head in his hands, scanning the chapel with his eyes, and saw that we were still waiting.He stood up, tried his best to arrange his clothes, and walked over.He seemed different, his shyness had been absorbed by the drawings, if his spidery movements had made him stronger.Ilila stood up and stood between him and me.His face was even darker than hers, and he smelled of sweat and burnt, as if there was something devilishly confident about him. "I can't stop now," his voice was already hoarse from the thick smoke, "I have to rely on sunlight instead of firelight."

"You're crazy," I said, "you'll burn yourself." "I wouldn't if I moved faster." "Oh! My father has some mirrors, which he uses to light the candles when he works at night. I can ask him for one for you." He bowed his head and said, "Thank you!" A worker at the altar asked a question, and he answered it in fluent dialect. "Your Italian has improved." "Burning one's butt always makes people learn faster." He had a ghostly smile on his dusty face. We fell silent again. "Elila," I said, "please go away for a moment."

She looked straight at me. "Please go." I really didn't know what to say. She glanced at him, then looked away, and walked toward the altar, wiggling her hips; she would do the same thing when she wanted a man's attention.The boy stared straight into the eyes, but the painter didn't notice. "You direct them?" He nodded slightly, but I couldn't see any hint in his eyes, they were bloodshot from the smoke.He hurriedly glanced back at the pile of flames... "If not now, when? I'll be leaving in a few days." "Gone? Where are you going?"

He obviously doesn't know anything. "I'm getting married, don't you know?" "No," he paused, "no, I really don't know." He was so completely cut off from the world that he didn't even know the gossip told by his servants. "Well, then you probably haven't heard that the city is under threat of invasion. Devils appear in the streets, and there's murder and destruction everywhere." "I...I've heard of it, yes," he murmured, momentarily losing that confidence in his face. "Have you been to church? So you heard him preach." This time he nodded just to avoid my gaze. "You have to be careful, that monk will use a Bible instead of your paintbrush. I..." But Ilila has come back to me, tsk-tsk to show dissatisfaction.It was her duty to watch over me and deliver me, innocent and innocent, on my husband's bridal bed, and of course not allow me to have an affair with a painter. I took a breath and said, "So when, painter? Tonight?  …" "...no," he said sharply, "no, I can't tonight." "Do you have another appointment?" I didn't wait for his answer, then said, "What about tomorrow?" He hesitated and said, "The day after tomorrow. Wait until I draw the grid and clean the torches." The man on the other side of the altar called him again, and he bowed, then turned and walked over.Right where we stood we could feel the heat of the flames.