‘“Within days the plague began to abate, and soon passed away. But those who had taken part in the mob felt ashamed at what they had done. Some of them came back to the courtyard. It was empty and deserted. They took down the torn body from the door and wished to bury it in the Christian tradition. But the priests feared the bishop and his accusation of heresy. So a few braver souls took the body on a litter out into the countryside. They burned it and threw the ashes into a mountain stream.
‘“The father confessor of the house of Petrucci, who wrote all this down in Latin, did not give the exact year, and even less the month and the day. But there is another annal which mentions the time of the Great Rain most exactly. It was in the year 1544, the month was July and the rain came on the night of the second day.”’
CONCLUSION
‘The day of the Palio,’ said the American, ‘and the Day of Liberation.’
The German smiled.
‘The day of the Palio was fixed later, and the departure of the Wehrmacht was coincidence.’
‘But she came back. Four hundred years later, she came back.’
‘I believe so,’ said the German quietly.
‘To tend soldiers, like those who raped her.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the marks on her hands? The holes of crucifixion?’
‘Yes.’
The tourist stared at the oaken door.
‘The stains. Her blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh my God,’ said the tourist. He thought for a while, then asked, ‘And you maintain this garden? For her?’
‘I come every summer. Sweep the flags, tend the roses. It is just a way of saying thank you. Maybe she knows somehow. Maybe not.’
‘It is the second day of July. Will she come again?’
‘Perhaps. Probably not. But this I can guarantee to you. No-one, man, woman or child, will die in Siena this night.’
‘There must be out goings,’ said the tourist. ‘Costs . . . to keep it going looking like this. If there is anything . . .’
The faded man shrugged. ‘Not really. There is an offertory box, over there on the bench by the wall. It is for the orphans of Siena. I thought she would have liked that.’
The American was as generous as all his race. He delved into his jacket and produced a thick billfold. Turning to the offertory box he peeled off half a dozen bills and stuffed them in.
‘Sir,’ he said to the German when he had helped his wife to her feet, ‘I wi
ll leave Italy soon and fly back to Kansas. I will run my ranch and raise my cattle. But I will not forget, all my life, that I was here in this courtyard where she died, and I will recall the story of Caterina della Misericordia as long as I live. C’mon, honey, let’s go and join the crowds.’
They left the courtyard and turned down the alley to the sound of the celebrations in the streets beyond. After a few moments a woman emerged from the deep dark shadows of the cloister where she had remained unseen.
She also wore stone-washed denim; her hair was braided in cornrows and ethnic beads hung from her neck. Slung across her back was a guitar. From her right hand dangled a heavy haversack and from her left her own tote bag.
She stood by the side of the man, fished a joint out of her top pocket, lit up, took a long drag and passed it to him.
‘How much did he leave?’ she asked.
‘Five hundred dollars,’ said the man. He had dropped the German accent and spoke in the tones of Woodstock and all points west. He emptied the wooden box of the bundle of dollars and pushed them into his shirt pocket.
‘That’s a great story,’ said his partner, ‘and I love the way you tell it.’