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September 4, 1468
Israel Hands is six years old when he sees his family for the final time.
His father takes him by the hand and guides him onto an ox cart that takes them far away from home. Houses, rivers and villages pass, so different from the endless meadows and fields he spends his days running through.
His father’s face, often decorated with a smile as warm as the August sun, is tight, his eyes pinched, and Israel thinks it’s not only due to the wind. He wraps his fingers around his father’s thumb, calloused with the rough work of the pastures. “Papà, why are my brothers not coming with us?”
Something crosses his father’s face—a shadow, like a swallow flying past the sun on a cloudless day. Israel almost thinks he looks sad, but that makes no sense. Papà is always happy. “Someone had to stay at home and look after the goats.”
Israel nods. The goats need to be fed twice every day—of course they couldn’t all leave!
“I miss the goats,” he says, leaning into his father’s side. “And my brothers. When can I see them again?”
Papà doesn’t answer for a long time. Israel is about to repeat his question, but then he replies: “I don’t know yet, amore.”
Israel lets his gaze roam. A little brook runs by the side of the trail their cart rolls on, almost like the one by the edge of the forest behind the last houses of Montarfoni. Israel’s oldest brother, Davide, always takes Israel on his shoulders to cross it. “You’re too short, diavoletto. Don’t want the fish to catch you, do you?” he always says, and then he plucks Israel off the ground and swings him over his shoulders.
Israel sinks down and leans against the wooden railing of the cart. He wants to jump out and play in the stream, but he’d quickly get bored without his brothers. “Will we see them soon?”
Papà looks down, and this time Israel is sure the sheen over his eyes is hiding a pain he doesn’t want Israel to see. “Soon? I hope so.”
Israel curls up on the floor of the cart, using a burlap sack as a pillow. He drifts off, dreaming of meadows, dark forests and strong arms that carry him.
When Israel wakes, he is in a place unlike any he has ever seen. The air around him bustles with church bells, shouts and laughter as unfamiliar smells crawl up his nostrils. Above him, the sky is grey and starless.
“Papà, where are we?” he asks.
Papà smiles at him. “We’re in the big city. Welcome to Florence, Israel. Do you like it here?”
Israel pulls himself up to peek over the railing. His jaw drops as he takes it all in—around him, houses rise higher than trees. They’re on some sort of paved road, rocking the cart even though their ox walks with his usual even gait. There’s more people only on the side of the street that Israel can see from here than live in Montarfoni, and it smells like someone is cooking cabbage and roasting a pig in the latrine pit.
Israel’s eyes water. “No. Can we go home?”
Papà furrows his brows and places a hand on Israel’s shoulder. “Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
“Okay.” Israel pulls the sack he’d been using as a pillow over his knees.
The cart clatters its way through the city. Israel closes his eyes and attempts to make out voices in the commotion. Most speak the same language he does, the same Tuscan drawl of his home, but some of them sound like they’re still getting used to the words. Others speak in languages Israel has never heard—some soft and round, some harsh and pointy. Israel itches to understand them.
“Michele, come here!” a woman yells, and while Israel still tries to figure out if one of the many other voices swarming in the air like flies belongs to Michele, they’ve already rolled so far down the road that he’ll never get an answer.
He wedges his head between his knees and puts his hands over his ears, and stays like this until the cart lurches to a halt.
“We’re here,” Papà says.
Israel takes his hand and climbs off the cart. They’re in a quieter area, the noise of the city softened to a bearable background buzz. In front of them is a tall yellow wall, interrupted by a slim house, stairs leading up to the door. It reminds Israel of the church back in Montarfoni, only it’s much larger.
Papà leads him to the door and slams the knocker down three times.
“What is this house?” Israel asks. His voice is quiet, like it’s losing the fight against all the other noises filling the air.
Papà squeezes his hand. “It’s a monastery.”
Israel’s jaw drops. “Like the one Davide studied at?”
“Just like that, amore.”
“Will I learn to read and write, too?”
“You will,” Papà says. “You will, if you study hard. Promise me you will?”
Israel opens his mouth, but before he can make the promise his father wants to hear, the door swings open.
Before Israel stands a man wearing the most beautiful garments he’s ever seen. His habit gleams so white that it stings in Israel’s eyes, and under the black cloak, his shoulders look broad and strong.
His eyes land on Papà, and his face softens with a smile. “Tommaso. We’ve been waiting for you. Is this the boy?”
Papà embraces the strange man, then places his hand on Israel’s shoulder. “It is. This is my son, Israel.”
The man sinks to one knee, his face now level with Israel’s. “Hello, Israel. I’m Fra Antonio. You must be very nervous.”
Israel hesitates to reply. He reaches out to take Fra Antonio’s hand, and decides he likes him. He talks to Israel like he’s an adult, not like he’s a baby. Israel likes that. He turns to Papà. “I’m not nervous.” It feels like the wrong answer.
“Did you not tell him?” Fra Antonio’s voice is gentle, but Israel hears a certain strictness underneath.
Papà closes his eyes and takes a long breath before he replies. “I couldn’t bear it.”
Israel doesn’t like seeing his father so sad. “Papà?”
“You’re going to have to be very brave now, Israel.”
Brave? Israel doesn’t understand. He’s always brave, climbing up trees that even his older brothers don’t dare to scale, but there are no trees here.
Papà takes his hands in between his bigger, warmer hands. “You’re going to stay here for a while, alright?”
Israel’s heart sinks. “Why?” He doesn’t want to stay alone in this loud, smelly, ugly city! He wants to go home and play in the fields!
Papà sighs. “So you can learn how to read and write, amore.”
“Can’t I learn at home?”
“No, Israel, you can’t. Mamma and I can’t teach you.”
Tears well up in Israel’s eyes. He wants to learn, more than he has ever wanted anything else, but he doesn’t want to stay here all alone.
In the end, Papà gives him a long hug, so tight that Israel’s bones creak, and mounts the cart again. Israel waves after him until he turns the corner and disappears.
Fra Antonio places his hand on Israel’s shoulder. “Would you like to go inside?”
Israel is still crying, but he nods. Maybe inside is quieter, at least.
“It’s late already. I’ll show you your quarters. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.” He leads Israel down a long and narrow hallway, illuminated by flickering candlelight. Israel nods quietly and rushes to keep up with the man. “Do you believe in God, Israel?”
“Of course,” Israel says. “ I pray to him before I go to bed every night. I ask him to keep my family and our animals safe. And that I can learn to read one day, like my brother. And that Papà buys us candy at the market more often.”
“That is lovely,” Fra Antonio says, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “You will fit right in here, I believe.”
October 21, 1470
Israel cried during his first night in the monastery, and then never again.
He still misses his parents, but it’s become a distant, dull ache, often overshadowed by his days at the monastery.
He often thinks that God must have sent him here on purpose, and God never makes mistakes. He was right to send Israel here—this monastery where Israel spends his days hidden away from the loud, hectic streets of the city, where every day is the same, and where he can spend as much time as he likes poring over the books his teacher presents to the class.
This is what God made him for, Israel is sure. He spent his first year at the convent learning Volgare and Latin, reading the entire Bible front to back, and then moved on to languages he didn’t even know existed. His Hebrew is still a little rusty, but the beautiful angular letters of Aristoteles’ Greek flow from his quill almost as easily as those of his native tongue now.
Last week, Fra Antonio praised him for his recitation of the psalms, and for the comment he’d written on the Categories!
“Thank you, God, for guiding me to this place,” Israel whispers to the cross on the wall. He crosses himself, then rises from his kneel on the floor and sheds his robes. The air in the dormitory is thick with the stench of sweat and sleep and, even at this late hour, alive with the buzz of boys sharing secrets with each other.
The blanket scrapes over Izzy’s skin as he pulls it over his head. He’s not one to stay up late, which the other boys like to laugh about, but Israel prides himself in never falling asleep during Lauds.
As every night, he drifts off quickly, rises just as fast when the bell calls him to Matins and keeps his head high as he joins into the hymns. Some of the other oblates huddle around a scrap of paper that someone scrawled the words to the responsory on, but Israel doesn’t need to look them up anymore. The words come as easily over his lips as his own name.
Still, after the nightly service, he is grateful to sleep another few hours before he is expected in the church again. He crawls into bed, turns onto his side, and hopes to wake up to another day filled with the exact same tasks as every other day has been over the past two years.
Only, right before the sun can reach her fingers over the horizon and colour the sky with a dusty dawn, Israel’s hazy dreams suddenly sharpen around the edges.
He rarely remembers his dreams, considers them nothing more than tricks of his mind, but this is different. This has a substance, a body, an almost physical presence, and it draws him in with a diffusely urgent feeling. Right in front of him, so close he could touch them if he reached out, are two figures. One wears a red cloak, the other a dark shirt, stained with traces of work. Israel can’t discern their faces. They’re glowing from the inside out, like the sun shining through stained-glass windows in the morning, casting one of them in a golden and the other in a silver glow.
“Who are you?” Israel asks, and they turn towards him.
The golden one smiles—Israel can’t see, but he feels his face softening in a smile. “We’re waiting for you.”
The silver one nods, tresses of dark hair floating around him like a halo. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’m ready, Israel wants to say, but before he can utter a word, the two dissolve into the mist they came from.
The image blurs, then solidifies again, like a reflection on a quiet pond. This time, Israel immediately recognises what he sees—the gleaming white and green facade of Santa Maria Novella has become as good as a second home for him. Over the past two years, during processions and on holy days, he watched as the marble swallowed up more and more of the brown brick beneath, decorating the plain building with intricate patterns worthy to praise the glory of God.
Scaffolding still hides most of it from view, even in Israel’s dream, but it’s easy to imagine just how magnificent it will look one day.
On the highest storey of the scaffolding, men sit, talking and laughing. This is not unusual—the workers are there from dawn to nightfall, with the exception of Sundays—but Israel can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. Something glints in the hands of one of them—a bottle, filled with something that looks suspiciously like the cheap wine working folk like to imbibe on.
Israel’s stomach roils.
The man on the scaffolding stands, raises the bottle like one about to call for a toast, turns to his comrades, and—
One wrong step is enough. His fall takes longer than Israel would have thought; it’s likely only a heartbeat until his skull cracks on the pavement, but it stretches out for what feels like hours.
Only when blood blooms under him, Israel’s trance breaks, and he begins running. Judging from the unnatural angles the man’s limbs are sticking out in, it’s futile, but Israel can’t not try and ease his pain, at least.
The church bell strikes noon, and the dormitory bell calls Israel to Lauds.
It was just a dream, Israel realises as he wakes.
Before noon, a man will be dead, a voice deeper in his brain whispers, but he tries to shake the thought. There’s no reason to believe this dream had anything to do with reality.
He still shakes as he gets dressed and stumbles over his words during Mass. Something under his skin itches to warn someone, to at least give that poor soul a fighting chance, but he has a feeling it would not be well received. He can’t just make waves throughout the entire convent based on nothing but a weirdly vivid dream.
The news comes just as he’s about to start supper.
At Santa Maria Novella, a stonemason fell to his death after imbibing on the job, shattering most of his bones in a spectacular fall from the highest level of the scaffold.
Israel drops his slice of bread into his soup. He has to press his hands over his mouth to keep himself from screaming.
This is his fault. This is all his fault. He practically jumps off his seat to run to the prior.
He’ll have to atone for this, he knows.
November 27, 1472
Again and again, Israel runs his fingers over the parchment laid out in front of him, and his heart swells with pride on every stroke.
The flimsy pieces of paper he practised his letters on in the musty schoolroom of the convent doesn’t compare to this. It already feels sacred, despite the fact that the page is still blank and waiting for Israel and his fellow scribes to decorate them with bible verses and intricate miniatures.
Next to him, Giacomo shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. He’s the only other oblate who was moved to the scriptorium along with Israel, and his nervousness is beginning to rub off on Israel as well. Israel shoots the boy an annoyed glance. They got chosen because of the quality of their work, and Israel doesn’t want Giacomo to embarrass them by making a mistake, or worse, spilling ink and ruining the entire precious page in front of them.
He pokes at the edge of the page again—sturdy and strong, the only material worth bearing the word of God. Israel’s heart beats faster as he remembers that he is going to be the one etching God’s will onto the page.
Fra Benedetto leans over his desk and places a finished page there. Israel balls his hands and sits up straighter, soaking up every word as the head scribe shows them how to line the page in silverpoint and how to hold the feather to emulate the elegant letters of the first chapter of Genesis. “Now you try it, boys. Be careful—we can only scrape off your mistakes so many times before the parchment is ruined.”
Israel nods, eager to get started.
When he dips his feather into the inkwell and takes his first stroke, his hand is sure and steady, as if God himself is guiding it.
March 23, 1474
“We’re not supposed to be doing this,” Israel says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Ludovico grins at him, pitying and challenging at the same time. “So what? We’re also not supposed to be in the library by ourselves, yet I have it on good authority that you sneak in there most nights.”
Israel feels his face reddening. He’s never been able to keep his emotions under wraps. It’s a good thing he barely has any sins to confess, because his utter inability to conjure a straight expression when he needs to would certainly come back to bite him in the back. “That’s different.”
“Yeah, it’s different,” Ludovico says, stepping closer. Israel’s entire body feels hot. “It’s more fun than spending half the night reading Greek, first of all.”
Israel runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“No? Goodness, what have I done to warrant such low expectations of me?”
Israel shrugs. “I just… I never kissed anyone. Doesn’t look very fun to me. Just wet, mostly.”
Ludovico grins. “Oh, I promise, it’s much more fun than reading.”
“Yeah?” Israel pulls up an eyebrow. “Well, prove me wrong, then.”
Ludovico is right, it turns out.
When Israel sneaks out of bed the next night, he heads straight past the library and downstairs to the lavatory, where warm hands and a soft mouth are already waiting for him.
January 22, 1476
Israel’s feather scratches over the parchment in quick, precise strokes.
He loves this task that’s fallen to him in the monastery—he truly does—but this manuscript has been frustrating him for weeks now. He takes pride in his ability to read Latin just as well as his native Tuscan, has read most of the convent’s library’s slim selection of ancient philosophy, and generally considers himself well educated.
Boethius seems determined to prove him wrong, though.
Israel mechanically copies the long-winded phrases on parchment, but he doesn’t understand a lick of it.
It’s getting on his nerves. It’s not doing anything for the quality of his work, either—his quill keeps slipping up when Israel misreads a word, and he’s had to scrape four errors off only this one page.
He mouths the words to himself, but it’s to no avail. The nib of the quill slips again, and he drops the thing before he can throw it at the wall in anger.
He presses his hands to his eyes. This can’t be it—it can hardly be this difficult to understand.
Music of the spheres. It sounds beautiful, but what on earth is that actually supposed to mean?
Israel’s eyes skip back to the top of the page. He’s going to read it again, try to understand what is going on, and then continue to write. What he’s trying to do right now is pointless.
On his second passage through the text, it slowly begins to make sense. This has always been his favourite part of life at the convent—to study, to learn and then debate his fellow friars, armed with newly sharpened knowledge. There’s a bliss like no other in that moment where things finally click into place and begin to make sense, and Israel reaches for it with both hands.
Finally, on the third read, the other shoe drops. The sounds of the planets and stars moving around the earth in their heavens, the natural frequency of them, and ties to music and mathematics—suddenly Israel sees it all in front of him, clear as day. Without thinking, he picks up his silverpoint and begins to scribble a diagram in the margins—concentric circles, a melody flowing throughout all of them, binding them together in a divinely ordained song.
He goes through the text again, underlining passages and scribbling explanations on the side, his own running commentary, the sort of explanation he hopes will equip whoever reads the finished manuscript with the sort of armaments he needs to battle his way to understanding. Israel feels on fire with intellectual fervour.
The bell calling the friars to Vespers tears Israel back out of his thoughts.
Silently, he curses himself. He ruined an entire good page of his work. Tomorrow, he’s going to have to start anew without any scribbles in the margins.
Fra Benedetto walks past his desk. “Is the ink dried already?”
“Should be,” Israel replies.
Benedetto takes it off the desk and continues his round through the room to collect the rest of the finished pages.
Israel should tell him about the ruined page, he knows, but even as he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.
Benedetto looks up from his stack of parchment. “What are you waiting for, Israel?”
“I—nothing, Fra, I apologise,” Israel says, ducking his head as he shuffles out of the room.
Looks like his doodles are going to end up in the final manuscript, now.
April 26, 1478
Plumes of incense flood Israel’s nostrils and cloud his vision.
Choirs sing, their voices like angels descended from heaven to give the assembled sinners a glimpse of paradise.
Brunelleschi’s dome floats far above his head, a feat of engineering and a beauty so miraculous that old Pippo must have had some divine inspiration as he planned the thing.
Shoulders bumping into him as believers shuffle back and forth in the large hall of Santa Maria del Fiore.
Suddenly—hectic movements in the corner of Israel’s eye.
The flash of a blade pulled out from under a brocade cloak.
Screams echoing off the vaults.
Men rush to the front, then retreat, stumbling backwards in horror.
Blood runs over the white and grey marble pavement. The hem of Israel’s white robe dips into it, staining him with a guilt almost as great as that of the conspirators.
Giuliano is dead. Lorenzo isn’t, but it’s a close thing—divine intervention, perhaps, or just a lucky miss.
It will only be a few hours until the men responsible for this will hang. Bowels out, from the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria. Israel recognises only one of their faces—Jacopo de’ Pazzi, of course, of course he would want the Medici brothers dead.
A droplet of blood strikes Israel across the cheek.
He wakes in a cold sweat, the images still pulsing in front of him like they were never anything but real. His hands shake as he rises. He’s kept those dreams a secret until now—no one would have believed him, he’s certain, but this?
He has to stop it. He has to try, at least. There are lives at stake.
He quickly throws his habit on, then runs towards the prior’s cell.
April 27, 1478
When Israel sinks into his bed, he’s still shaking.
He tried to warn them. He only wanted to warn them, and yet, he could not prevent it. Prior Virgilio laughed at him, telling Israel to get his childish fantasies out of his head, even as Israel begged on his knees to send a warning to the Medici palace, at least.
Nobody was laughing as they dragged him out of his bed this morning.
How did you know, they screamed, spittle flying in his face and accusations ricocheting off his chest, who told you? Were you a part of it? Did you have a dagger under your habit as well?
Israel’s honesty did not pay off. I saw it in a dream did not seem to convince anybody, and even though he assured them that there was no way for him to have met with any of the conspirators in secret or smuggle a weapon to and from the convent, their incriminations just kept coming.
In the end, it was the content of his dream that made them back off. Had he been a part of it, he would have wanted Lorenzo dead, too, wouldn’t he?
The prior finally kicked them all out and sat Israel down on the other side of his ornate desk. “Let me offer you a piece of advice,” he said, planting his elbows on the tabletop and leaning forwards. “The Holy Father does not like men who fancy themselves prophets. Neither do I. It is a virtuous thing you’re trying to interpret those little dreams of yours, but… if I was you, I would keep them to myself. Understood?”
At least he didn’t sound like he was planning to hang Israel from the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria anymore, or to burn him for heresy, but his voice was still cold and sharp like—like a dagger, Israel’s brain supplied, and he nodded shakily.
“I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” Virgilio says. He leans back to rifle through a stack of papers, finally pulling the one from the very top. “As far as I am concerned, none of this ever happened. It was a fever that had you spouting all this nonsense. Take the rest of the day and sleep it off.”
“Yes, Father,” Israel said, fear falling off his shoulders like iron shackles. “Thank you, Father.”
Once dismissed, he rushed back to his cell and crawled into bed.
He’s still shaking with fear. He got off easy today, he knows, but he can’t shake the feeling that he made a mistake.
“God,” he whispers to the cross on the wall, “why did you give me these visions if no one will hear what you tell me?”
There’s got to be some sort of good to them. There simply has to be. God doesn’t make any mistakes.
Or does he?
Israel’s ears still ring with screamed accusations as he drifts off into a light, dreamless sleep.
June 14, 1480
“Israel! Come here and have a look at this.”
Fra Benedetto sounds uncharacteristically cheerful, so Israel waltzes over to his desk at the front of the scriptorium with a spring in his step. On it lies a large bundle of coarse fabric, stretched out over something beneath. “What’s that? New inks?”
“Oh, no,” Benedetto says, his eyes glinting. “Much better. A special delivery from Hornigold’s workshop.” Israel squints at him. “The bookbinder we’ve been delivering our manuscripts to. Most of them don’t return to us, as you know, but this one is for our own library.”
Israel raises his brows. If this is for them to keep, he’s going to get a look at it eventually, so why did Benedetto call him in for this?
“I thought you should get the first look at it, before all the other oblates get their grubby little hands all over it,” Benedetto says, and Israel chuckles drily. “Here, come on, you can unwrap it. Much of it is your work, after all.”
Israel involuntarily holds his breath as he pulls the coarse fabric off. It falls to the side and reveals a beautiful deep-red leatherbound book, decorated with metal furnishings and carved gemstones. It’s huge—over a braccio high, Israel remembers struggling to work the huge folios on his small desk without accidentally bending them.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, lowering his voice in awe like he does in a church.
“Isn’t it just?” Benedetto says. He looks like a proud father, Israel thinks, even though he barely remembers his own father’s face. “Go on, take a look inside—the pages you wrote and painted are in the back.”
Israel’s hands shake as he turns the pages. He finds one of his illuminations, the painstaking work of almost three weeks of bending over the page until his spine hurt and coloured flecks danced before his eyes. He was proud of it—he’s always been more of a scribe than an artist and only recently began painting his pages as well, and he doesn’t think he did a bad job on this one. Mother Mary’s blue robe catches the light and shimmers under the glow of Gabriel’s halo. It looked lovely when he handed it off to Benedetto to be delivered to the bookbinder, but like this, bound into the most breathtaking book he’s ever seen, it’s…
“It’s perfect,” he says, his heart beating like it wants to break free from his chest. He made this—at least a small part of it, a small cog wheel in the greater good of bringing this marvel together. Something inside of him settles. It’s like when he first arrived at the monastery and found peace and beatitude in the ritual and prayer.
He belongs here. He has found his place.
A knock on the door pulls him out of his thoughts—a skinny, red-faced errand boy. “Fra Benedetto,” he pants, trying to catch his breath, “the prior wants to speak with you?”
Benedetto rises from his chair, his movements slow and cumbrous. The lean diet of the convent hasn’t stopped the gout from sinking its teeth into the old man’s joints. “You stay here, Israel, and look through the book all you like. I’ll be back when I can.”
Israel nods, and another wash of pride floods him. With his eighteen years, he’s the youngest scribe by a margin of a few years, and he doesn’t take the trust Benedetto puts in him lightly.
He’s pointedly gentle and careful as he turns the page. The psalms and hymns sit in their beautiful surroundings like jewels in a crown. Israel’s heart rejoices with love for his God. This is all the magnificence he deserves—all the praise Israel could give to him with the humble work of his hands.
He laughs as he finds his scribbles in the margins of a psalm—he can’t believe he forgot to erase them again! The pen he uses is fine enough to barely be noticeable, and no one has complained so far. This time, it’s running commentary, or rather, the results of Israel’s years and years of studying the Bible. My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? is etched on the page in pitch-black ink, and Israel’s stylus added next to it, He hasn’t, even though it might feel that way. Our suffering does not go unseen. It goes on like that, a comment or an explanation to every other line squeezed into the margin or between the lines of text. They should just let him write a full commentary, Israel thinks, but of course he hasn’t taken his vows yet, so of course they can’t.
Grinning to himself, Israel turns the page. Maybe some poor oblate tasked with reciting these psalms will benefit from his ill-advised notes.
He turns another page, and a little scrap of paper flutters out and to the floor.
Without thinking, Israel picks it up. The letters on it are jotted in graphite, and he carefully blows the residue of it off the parchment before trying to decipher the writing. It looks crude and clumsy, the script of a kid who only recently learned the hang of it. These pages are incredible, it says. Thank you for the explanations. Would be hard to understand without them. I think next time you should add them to the entire Bible.
The signature is illegible. It starts with an E, but that is all Israel can suss out. He caresses the paper, strangely touched by the kid’s words. If he helped them understand the word of God a little bit better, the blood and sweat he poured into his work are more than worth it.
Benedetto’s heavy steps clatter down the hallway.
Without thinking, Israel folds the piece of paper up and hides it in his sleeve. It’s not a secret, per se, but it feels personal.
Maybe he can figure out where their next delivery is going and sneak them a note back, or deliver on their request. His heart flutters. He feels like he just made a new friend.
December 3, 1482
For the fourth time tonight, Israel startles from a shallow, dreamless sleep.
Frustrated, he throws the blanket off his chest. Despite the freezing wind hissing through the alleys of Florence like a ghost on a horse, the small coal stove in the corner works overtime to make his cell stuffy and too hot to think.
Israel’s eyes dart to the window and the few stars peeking through the crack in the shutter.
I want to give myself to you, God, he thinks, so why am I so scared?
Tomorrow, he’s going to take his solemn profession. He’s been working towards this for over fourteen years. He should be excited—he is, on the surface, but beneath, an anxiety bubbles that he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries.
What if he’s making a mistake?
But then, where else would he go? He stays inside the monastery most of the time—not because he has to, but because the noise and never ending chaos of the city drives him half mad if he spends too much time outside. San Marco is his home. He wants to stay.
He sighs. God, if I’m going down a wrong path, I need you to give me a sign. The stars stay as they are, and no voice shakes the thick walls of the convent, but Israel didn’t expect that sort of sign.
Losing himself in prayer is familiar and easy, and soon, sleep envelops him, warm and comforting like the heavy fabric of his habit.
As so often, just before the golden light of dawn can spill through the city like the waters of the Arno in spring, Israel’s shadowy dreams gain shapes and contours.
Before his eyes, two men materialise. By now, they are almost as familiar as his fellow friars, with the one exception that he has never seen their faces.
They used to scare him, he remembers. Back when he didn’t know yet what these dreams, these visions truly were, he thought them demonic, sent by Satan to steer him off his path. Now that they’ve been with him for so many years, he’s sure they’re on his side. They stood with him through difficult decisions and guided him back on his way through crises of faith. They must be saints, he’s sure, or angels, perhaps, sent to him by God to keep him upright whenever he stumbles.
The golden one glows particularly brightly today. “You’ve come so far already.”
“Almost where you need to be,” the silver one agrees, stepping closer to his partner. “Almost. Big day tomorrow, huh? Think you’re ready to take the leap?”
It’s hardly a leap, Israel thinks, less a jump off a cliff into murky unknown waters and more like finally submerging himself in lukewarm bathwater he’s only ever dipped his toes in.
They can hear his thoughts, Israel is pretty sure.
The silver one nods solemnly. “A vow of obedience. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Israel swallows. It doesn’t sound appealing, but he knows well what it means. He’s offering up his very self in service to God. Could there be anything greater than this?
The golden one blesses him with that warmth that emanates off him in the closest thing he can offer to a smile. “I’m sure you’re on the right path. We’re waiting for you on the other side.”
The silver one reaches out for him and pulls him close, their combined light so bright Israel has to blink. Still, he watches through squinted eyes how the two men move closer, their hands finding each other, travelling along well-worn paths up their arms and around each other’s shoulders. Israel’s breath stops in his throat.The two turn towards him one final time before they lean in and meet in a kiss. Light radiates off them in waves, strong and warm, and despite the fact that Israel has been told that man should never lie with another man, this doesn’t feel wrong. It feels more than right—like it is the only thing that ever mattered, and Israel is blessed to witness them in all their glory.
They break their kiss, turning to look at him expectantly. Israel’s heart hammers in his chest. The silver one extends an arm towards him. “We’re ready. When are you going to join us, Izzy?”
Israel’s eyes fly open—this time it’s not even the bell rudely interrupting his dreams but his own body. The silver angel’s words still echo in his head. Izzy. No one has ever called him that. He smiles to himself and tucks the words into a safe pocket of his heart, next to the few memories of his family he still has.
His gaze roams over to the window again. The thin sliver of sky is still grey, but a distinct shade of early morning pink is already seeping into it.
With a grunt, Israel pulls himself out of bed. There’s no point in falling back asleep. He’d rather spend what little time he has left before Mass in prayer.
He sinks to his knees, makes the sign of the cross and turns to the frescoed wall. He always thought it was ironic that he ended up in this cell, out of the many ones the convent has to offer. Jesus Christ sits humbly, mocked, spat at, blindfolded and crowned with thorns, but still he holds his head up high and bears the regalia of his kingdom with pride.
Israel swallows heavily. What are these visions God keeps sending him? Why him? Why these two creatures of light? Why did they kiss? With a sigh, Israel pulls out his rosary. The repetition will be good for him today.
Sometimes it feels like God is mocking him.
June 19, 1485
Accompanied by long melancholic notes of the organ, Israel bends over to curl his fingers around the handle of the coffin.
As they slowly stride towards the open door, he doesn’t bother wiping the tear tracks off his cheeks. Fra Benedetto wasn’t always easy to work with, and more than once, Israel had to confess his unjustified anger over something the man had said to him. Now that he’s gone, though, Israel’s heart feels like a page someone ripped a corner off. He’s never going to meet someone this smart and patient again.
Slowly, Israel and his fellow pallbearers carry the coffin towards the open grave by the far wall of the little boneyard.
In the end, it wasn’t even the gout that got him, nor the tuberculosis he was so scared of contracting. His heart just gave out. A risk of his ripe old age, Israel supposes.
The rest of the funeral passes in something of a blur—ashes to ashes, dust to dust, a small shovel full of soil and many pats on his back.
Israel is glad when the ceremony is finished and he doesn’t have any reasons to linger around the open grave. He finally wipes his tears off, smearing dirt over his cheeks.
A stern voice from behind his back stops him in his tracks. “Fra Israel. A word?”
Israel freezes. Prior Virgilio. This either means trouble or some big event coming up—neither of which sounds very appealing to Israel. Still, he turns around and greets him with a nod. “Father. What can I do for you?”
The prior graces him with a thin half-smile—a rare enough occurrence that some of the tension in Israel’s shoulders bleeds out of him. “First of all, I wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. I will be praying for our dear brother’s soul, but also for you. I know you were close with him.”
“I was,” Israel says. His voice wobbles, which annoys him, but then, he’s only a couple of steps away from the funeral of one of the few men he could call a genuine friend. “He taught me much of what I know. Thank you, father.”
“This is what I wanted to ask you about, actually,” Virgilio says. His eyes are a bright, sunny blue, Israel notices for the first time. Up close, the man looks much less intimidating than he does pacing the halls of the convent. Israel raises his brows, and Virgilio continues. “San Marco has not only lost a beloved brother and elder, but also the most capable head of its scriptorium.”
Israel feels tears welling up once again—he’s going to miss Benedetto’s chaotic desk and the meticulous attention with which he approached every task.
“I’ve been thinking about how to fill this gap he leaves, and one name kept coming up.” He pauses, pregnant with meaning, and Israel frowns. What does this have to do with— “His favourite student, of course.”
Israel must stare at him stupidly, but he barely cares. Why does Prior Virgilio have to bring this up to him now? Surely, he could ask his opinion on whoever the next head scribe is going to be at some other time—one where Israel isn’t still crying, perhaps.
Virgilio laughs, somewhat exasperated. “Come on, don’t be thick. Your name, Israel!”
“What?” Israel blurts out. “Me? Why me?”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Virgilio says. “I think everyone in that scriptorium knows as well as you do that you do twice the work in half the time, and somehow manage that without sacrificing quality. I think you’re just the man for the job.”
Israel stammers for a few seconds before he can string a sentence together. “I—Father, I am flattered, but—you must—” He takes a long breath, then continues. “There are men in there who have done the work for twice the time I’ve been here.”
“And yet they can’t hold a candle to the excellence of your work. Benedetto thought so, too,” Virgilio says, grinning like he knows that this is very likely to convince Israel. He holds his hands up and dips his chin. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. I just… wanted to propose the option. Think about it, yes?”
“I will,” Israel says, still catching his breath.
“Wonderful,” Virgilio exclaims, much too cheerful this close to an open grave. “Now excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.”
Before Israel can even utter a goodbye, he’s gone, leaving Israel alone and feeling like he’s been struck by lightning.
It sounds almost too good to be true. He’s been at San Marco for just over seventeen years, but in the grand scheme of things, he’s still young—too young for this sort of responsibility.
Still, the idea of following in Benedetto’s footsteps appeals to him in more ways than one. It fills him with pride, of course, but it would also mean he’d get to choose which orders to work on and which ones to turn down. The past few years have been a bit of a drag, if Israel is honest, breviary after breviary with only the occasional evangelistary to break the pattern. He’s been missing his Greeks. He could pick and choose whatever the library is missing, go on the search for rare texts and have his fellow scribes copy them into the most beautiful books in all of Florence…
He’s going to have to think about it, Israel said, and he wasn’t lying, but his heart has already made its choice.
May 31, 1488
A knock on the door pulls Israel out of his work, and it takes everything he has not to curse out loud.
He doesn’t spill any ink, but it’s a near thing. He lifts the quill off the parchment and places it at a safe distance before fashioning his voice into something gentle. “Piero, for the millionth time, you are not supposed to knock or make any loud noises while I’ve got the quill on the paper. I don’t care how urgent the prior said it is, you wait until I lift it off the page before you disturb me.”
“Whoa,” a warm voice says from the doorway. “I don’t know who Piero is, but I gotta say, mate, I’m glad I’m not him if that’s the ire you’ve got for him.”
Israel’s head whips around. He has heard that voice before.
In the doorway, a young man in dark hose and a light brown doublet raises his hands and smiles sheepishly at Israel. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Who are you?” Israel asks, squinting at the man. He looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place his face. “You can’t be in here, you know that? How did you even get in?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” the man says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. He moves like he owns the place, and something about it unnerves Israel. “The name’s Edward Teach. I’m here to pick up that Plato manuscript to be bound, and what was the third one? Oh, I just asked your door guy nicely.”
“Plato?” Israel’s brain rattles. “Are you talking about the Symposium for messer Hornigold?”
“Yup,” Edward says, popping the P.
“Usually, I do business with the man himself. Where is he? Has he taken ill?” It would not surprise Israel, with how the man often reeks of beer.
“Nope,” Edward says, approaching Israel’s desk in long, confident strides. “Retired. Probably sipping wine somewhere by the coast right now. Left the workshop to me.”
Israel frowns. “You’re making it sound like you killed him.”
Edward snorts and tucks a hand into the pocket of his doublet. “I promise, the old man’s doing just fine and dandy. Here—” he hands Israel a folded up piece of paper. “In case you need evidence there’s no blood on my hands. Deed of donation.”
Israel only gives the thing a cursory glance. “Right. This means I’ll be conducting my business with you in the future, then?”
“Suppose it does,” Edward says, a smile creeping onto his face. “So. Where’s the manuscript?” He looks around the room, his eyes darting between the stacks and stacks of pages strewn across every available surface—Israel really needs to drill his scribes to keep their workspaces tidy. “Tell you what, it’s an order for Bonnet, which I think means it’ll go straight to Lorenzo’s personal library, but I’ve been looking forward to binding it, too. I like to read them as I bind them, you know. Haven’t gotten my hands on the Symposium yet, but I’m a huge fan of Plato.”
Israel pulls the stack of parchment from the compartment underneath his desk. “Huge fan, huh? Guess you could say that so am I.”
“Nice,” Edward says, his gaze fixed on the manuscript like a hungry animal.
“You’re going to like this one, I think.”
“Yeah? You read it, too?”
Israel smiles. “I wrote it, Edward.”
“Oh,” Edward says, looking away with something like embarrassment tugging at his features. “Right. Course you did.”
Israel pats the stack of paper. “If you want to look through them, you can, but the quality should be just as it always is.”
“That’s fine,” Edward says, “I know you guys only ever make top-notch stuff. Just need to wrap them up before I can take them.”
As Edward pulls a bunched-up piece of linen from his satchel, Israel fills in the slips of paperwork, documenting each page that leaves the monastery to be bound and sold. It always fills him with a certain wistfulness, knowing he’ll never see these folios he poured so much labour into again.
He hands the papers to Edward to sign, then collects the money from him and watches in silence as the young man begins to wrap the pages tightly to keep them safe.
His face still throws Israel off. “Excuse me,” he says, fully aware of how stupid he must sound, “have we met before?”
Edward’s fingers fly over the fabric. “Don’t think we have. Why?”
“You just… seem familiar.” Israel isn’t even sure if this is the truth or if he’s finally losing his mind.
“Huh. Maybe you bumped into me at the market before. I’ve been told I’m hard to forget,” Edward says, then has the gall to wink at Israel.
Instead of a response, Israel sputters and chokes on his spit.
Edward grins. “Anyways, pleasure doing business with you!” He looks at his hands, then back up at Israel’s face again. “See you soon, Izzy!”
He whizzes out of the room, leaving Israel alone in a cloud that smells of leather and confusion.