He extinguished the flame from the candle and deftly climbed out the window of his room. A letter to his mother and father laid on his desk, explaining his intentions and how he loved him dearly. He doubted that they would understand; that anyone would understand the love that he and Francesca shared for each other. He did not bring anything with him except a few dozen lire, a loaf of bread, and a few crumbs of cheese, figuring that they would be able to find hospitality along the way to Venezia. This was it; this was the beginning of his new life.
The night was cold and quiet; the waning moon still provided a reasonable amount of light, but he felt as if darkness encircled him. He expected a few signs of life along the way to the baptistry- a drunkard stumbling along, lovers tucked within the alleyways, ladies of the night lingering around the corners- but he found no one. The loneliness disturbed him; it left him alone with his thoughts. When he arrived in front of the baptistry, he stopped to admire the Gates of Paradise, something he had done many times during the day, but never at night. He felt a sense of foreboding. The only scene on the bronze doors that he could discern was the one of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden. He felt uneasy, so he thought of Francesca and their new life together to assuage his nerves. But the more he thought, the more he doubted himself. How were they going to make it all the way to Venezia when he has never left Firenze? Where will they sleep along the way? When they get there, where will they go? How would he find an artist to take him on as an apprentice? How would he support the two of them if he wasn’t even currently making money at Messer Lucardi’s workshop? This was all too much for him to think about. The immensity of the abyss laid before him and he was afraid to walk forward. He would be cast out of Eden but on his own volition. These doubts triumphed over any reassuring thoughts. He was afraid of the unknown. He could not go.
“I’m a fool,” he told himself. “I must tell Francesca that we made a mistake. We could go home tonight and forget that any of this happened, God willing.”
He took a deep breath, but as soon as he did, he felt a hand grip his shoulder and he was pulled backward. Before he could react, he felt searing pain from a sharp object piercing his stomach. He tried to cry out, but a rough hand muffled his voice. He felt excruciating pain as the knife pierced his stomach and chest several more times.
“You should have kept your prick in your pants and far away from her, filthy urchin,” the hoarse voice growled in his ear.
The figure let go of him and he collapsed onto the ground. He looked up to try and see his attacker, but all he could see was a black cloak vanishing into the night. He was visited by death himself, he decided. This was God’s punishment for him for the cornucopia of sins he had committed over the past few days. The only sin that he truly regretted, however, was the corruption of the pure and divine spirit that was Francesca. He regretted that immensely, as he laid there, struggling to breathe. He was cold, and everything that tethered himself to this earth grew distant. He grew tired and as he drifted off into sleep, he did not think about Francesca or his sins. He did not think about his art or sculpture. He thought of Antonio and the sunset they shared. He could hear the gentle lapping of the Arno, and for an instant, he saw the dazzling color of the sky that had once filled him with awe. Giancarlo basked in that perfect moment for what felt like an eternity.
“A love eternal,
A life ephemeral,
A puppet in the scheme of things
A king, only in my dreams.”
Chapter 17 | Table of Contents
Header Image: Expulsion of Joachim, Domenico Ghirlandaio. 1485.