Juliet. Anne Fortier
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Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords.
Well, I thought to myself, if this evil Luciano Salimbeni had really killed my mother over a treasure called Juliet’s Eyes, then Romeo’s statement was true; whatever the nature of those mysterious eyes, they were potentially more dangerous than weapons, simple as that. In contrast, the second passage was a bit more complex than your average pickup line:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
I mulled over the lines all the way down Via del Paradiso. Romeo was clearly trying to compliment Juliet by saying that her eyes were like sparkling stars, but he had a funny way of phrasing it. It was, in my opinion, not particularly appealing to woo a girl by imagining what she would look like with her eyes gouged out.
But really, this poetry was a welcome diversion from the other facts I had learned that day. Both my parents had died in a horrendous way, separately, and possibly even at the hands of a murderer. Even though I had left the cemetery hours ago, I was still struggling to take in this terrible discovery. On top of my shock and sorrow I also felt the little fleabites of fear, just as I had the day before, when I thought I was being followed after leaving the bank. But had Peppo been right in warning me? Could I possibly be in danger now, so many years later? If so, I could presumably pull myself back out of danger by going home to Virginia. But then, what if there really was a treasure? What if, somewhere in my mother’s box, there was a clue to finding Juliet’s Eyes, whatever they were?
Lost in speculation, I strolled into a secluded cloister garden off Piazza San Domenico. By now day was turning to dusk, and I stood for a moment in the portico of a loggia, drinking in the last rays of sunshine while the evening shadows slowly lengthened. I did not feel like going back to the hotel just yet, where Maestro Ambrogio’s journal was waiting to sweep me through another sleepless night in the year 1340.
As I stood there, absorbed in the twilight, my thoughts circling around my parents, I saw him for the first time—
The Maestro.
He was walking through the shadows of the opposite loggia, carrying an easel and several other items that kept slipping from his grip, forcing him to stop and redistribute the weight. At first I simply stared at him. It was impossible not to. He was unlike any other Italian I had ever met, with his long, grey hair, sagging cardigan, and open sandals; in fact, he looked most of all like a time traveller from Woodstock, shuffling around in a world taken over by runway models.
He did not see me at first, and when I caught up with him and handed him a paintbrush he had dropped, he jumped with fear.
‘Scusi,’ I said, ‘but I think this is yours.’
He looked at the brush without recognition, and when he finally took it, he held it awkwardly, as if its purpose completely escaped him. Then he looked at me, still perplexed, and said, ‘Do I know you?’
Before I could answer, a smile spread over his face, and he exclaimed, ‘Of course I do! I remember you. You are—oh! Remind me…who are you?’
‘Giulietta. Tolomei? But I don’t think—’
‘Si-si-si! Of course! Where have you been?’
‘I…just arrived.’
He grimaced at his own stupidity. ‘Of course you did! Never mind me. You just arrived. And here you are. Giulietta Tolomei. More beautiful than ever.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I never understood this thing, time.’
‘Well,’ I said, somewhat confused, ‘will you be okay?’
‘Me? Oh! Yes, thank you. But…you must come and see me. I want to show you something. Do you know my workshop? It is in Via Santa Caterina. The blue door. You don’t have to knock, just come in.’
Only then did it occur to me that he had me pegged for a tourist and wanted to sell some souvenirs. Yeah, right, I thought.
When I called Umberto later that night, he was deeply disturbed by my new information about my parents’ deaths. ‘But are you sure?’ he kept saying, ‘are you sure this is true?’ I told him that I was. Not only did everything point to there having been dark forces at play twenty years ago but, as far as I could see, those forces might still be lingering and on the prowl.
‘Are you sure he was following you?’ Umberto objected. ‘Maybe—’
‘Umberto,’ I interrupted him, ‘he was wearing a tracksuit.’
We both knew that in Umberto’s universe only a black-hearted villain would walk down a fashionable street dressed in sportswear.
‘Well,’ said Umberto, ‘maybe he just wanted to pick your pocket. He saw you leaving the bank, and he thought you had taken out money.’
‘Yes, maybe. I sure don’t see why someone would steal this box. I can’t find anything in it to do with Juliet’s Eyes…’
‘Juliet’s Eyes?’
‘Yeah, that’s what Peppo said.’ I sighed and threw myself down on the bed. ‘Apparently, that’s the treasure. But if you ask me, I think it’s all a big joke. I think Mom and Aunt Rose are sitting up in heaven, having a really good laugh right now. Anyway…what are you up to?’
We talked for at least another five minutes before I discovered that Umberto was no longer in Aunt Rose’s house, but at a hotel in New York, looking for work, whatever that meant. I had a hard time imagining him waiting tables in Manhattan, grating Parmesan over other people’s pasta. He probably shared my sentiments, for he sounded tired and out of spirits, and I wanted so much to be able to tell him that I was on track to land a major fortune. But we both knew that, despite recovering my mother’s box, I had barely figured out where to start.
Death that hath suck’d the honey of thy breathHath had no power yet upon thy beauty
Siena, A.D. 1340
The lethal strike never came.
Instead, Friar Lorenzo—still kneeling in prayer before the brigand—heard a brief, frightful wheeze, followed by a tremor that rocked the whole cart, and the sound of a body tumbling to the ground. And then…silence. A brief glance with a half-open eye confirmed that, indeed, his intended killer was no longer looming over him, sword drawn, and Friar Lorenzo stretched nervously to see where the villain had disappeared so suddenly.
There he lay, broken and bloody on the bank of the ditch, the man who had moments ago been the cocksure captain of a band of highwaymen. How frail and human he looked now, thought Friar Lorenzo, with the point of a knife protruding from his chest, and with blood trickling from his demonic mouth and into an ear that had heard many sobbing prayers but never taken pity on a single one.
‘Heavenly Mother!’ The monk uplifted his folded hands to the sky above. ‘Thank you, oh sacred Virgin, for saving your humble servant!’
‘You are welcome, Friar, but I am no virgin.’
Hearing the ghostly voice and realizing that the speaker was very near and rather fearsome with plumed helmet, breastplate, and lance in hand, Friar Lorenzo sprang to his feet.
‘Noble St Michael!’ he cried, at once exalted and terrified. ‘You have saved my life! That man, there, that rascal, was just about to kill me!’
St Michael raised his visor to reveal a youthful face. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice human now, ‘I had surmised as much. But I must add to your disappointment; I am no saint either.’
‘Whatever your description, noblest knight,’ exclaimed Friar Lorenzo, ‘your advent