Immortal by Traci L. Slatton Read Free Book Online Page B

deep ripping in my belly as all the hope I had left in the world dissolved.
    “I would like to go out,” I whispered. Oh yes, I would like it very much, to have some relief from this rich, mute, lonely prison. I hated myself for the gratitude that surged in me at the prospect of even a small portion of freedom, for I knew I would more willingly let myself be used because of it.
    “There are rules.” He gave me a meaningful look.
    “Yes, sir.” I nodded vigorously. “I understand rules. I will follow them exactly.”
    “You wouldn’t want to end up like Marco, would you?”
    “No, sir,” I squeaked.
    “He didn’t end up so badly.” Silvano shrugged and scratched his narrow, protruding chin under his coiffed beard. “I’ve sent others out of here into the cool arms of the river. Once she has you in her embrace, you don’t last long. He will live on the street. People out there are generous to cripples. Isn’t that so, boy?” He didn’t really seem to want an answer and I didn’t want to give him one because it would entail lying, and I neither wanted to lie nor to displease him. People out there weren’t generous. I had worked hard to collect alms, and still often went hungry.
    “The women will give you coins to buy food at the market. You’ll like that. I used to watch you there, coveting everything. You have a lustful and acquisitive nature. Feeding it will make you plump again.” He motioned for Simonetta to take me back to my room.
    “Oh, boy,” Silvano called. Simonetta and I froze. “There’ll be extra patrons each week, to pay for your outings,” he said. Simonetta clutched my hand to her soft bosom and we raced back to my room. I felt as if I were racing from the image of Marco, bloodied and crippled. I was also fleeing my part in his fate. As horrific as the patrons were, I almost couldn’t wait to travel to Santa Croce. The frescoes would erase Marco, and perhaps my own guilt, from my mind.
             
    WEEKS LATER I WENT OUT TO VISIT the Franciscan church of Santa Croce. Winter was drawing on, the city was cold and windy, and I walked with an ermine-lined mantello wrapped around myself, the finest garment I had ever worn. I walked about the interweaving flagstone streets of the bustling, working-class Santa Croce quarter with my heart palpitating and my nerves seething in anticipation: I meant to stand before the frescoes to which I had journeyed so often. I passed wool-dyeing mills and justice courts and a market that I now frequented. Since Silvano had granted me freedom, I had gone for walks, but I had not returned to my old haunts. I did not want to see Paolo and Massimo. They would despise me. I was changed now. I had always been different from the beggars, gypsies, and castoffs I met on the street, but now I was different even from my old self. I was soiled to the core by the work I did, yet I was bathed and dressed in fine clothes. I was also no longer hungry, and shamefully grateful for that. And I had discovered within myself a secret and wondrous journeying that separated me still further from my old companions and former self.
    I walked across the right transept of the church of Santa Croce into the Peruzzi Chapel. Finally, reverently, I stood in front of the frescoes of St. John. They were exactly as I had seen them in my travels. All the details—the musical clusters of figures, the harmony of people with buildings, the ravishing hues, the full-blooded liveliness of flesh and mien—were even as they’d been revealed. It was wondrous, miraculous, and I dropped to my knees in gratitude.
    “Do they so move you, boy?” asked a kindly voice.
    “Oh!” I was startled out of the rapture and sat backward, foolishly. I twisted around. A few paces back stood a stout and homely old man. He regarded me as curiously as I did him. Then I yelped with recognition. “That day at Santa Maria Novella—you’re the ingegno man!”
    “An honorific I hope to be worthy of,” he