around and hit him with it. It caught him on the back of the head and he went down. There was a row of bottles on the table – I pulled a cork and sniffed to make sure it was what I wanted, then grabbed what I could fit into my pockets… and ran.’
No one speaks for several minutes. The only sounds in the room are those from the softly crackling fire.
Angelo turns enormous eyes to Agostino. ‘You wanted the truth, and you have had it. So: when will you be informing the authorities?’
Agostino’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Sofia looks from him to Angelo; Angelo is staring at him, silently demanding an answer he cannot possibly want to hear.
No one speaks or moves.
Another log shifts and falls; this time a little knot of wood bounces out onto the hearth. Once again, it is Federico who reaches forward. Picking up the still burning fragment between finger and thumb, he flicks it back into the blaze.
Beppe draws in a breath. ‘We could hold a congedo ,’ he says into the stifling silence.
Agostino’s head snaps around. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘A congedo .’ He pauses. ‘It’s a possible alternative course of action, if you don’t like the idea of handing a fellow actor over to the podestà . Which, even now, I don’t think I like very much at all.’
‘A congedo ? But… but we’ve never had to do such a thing. I’ve never heard of one being done in my lifetime, and —’
‘Perhaps no one has deserved it in your lifetime.’
Agostino looks stricken. Cosima reaches across and takes his hand, and at her touch he seems to rally. He holds Beppe’s gaze for several seconds, then nods. ‘Yes, Beppe, you’re right. Though I’m not sure I know…’
‘I’ve heard it described.’Niccolò clears his throat. ‘I know what should happen.’ He looks grave. ‘There can be no going back once it has begun, though, so you must be very certain you want it to go ahead.’
Agostino breathes deeply three, four, five times, then nods. Turning to each troupe member in turn as he speaks, he says, ‘I think Beppe’s right. I cannot contemplate deliberately handing a fellow performer over to the authorities – whatever he has done.’
Remembering her terrible, fear-soaked hours in the locked room in Bologna, Sofia glances over to Angelo, imagining the thoughts that must be fighting themselves in his mind. His expression, however, is unreadable. In the flickering candlelight, she thinks, he looks like an exquisite statue.
‘Do you all agree with Beppe’s suggestion, that a congedo is an alternative?’
There is a murmur of agreement from everyone in the room. Sofia, however, says quietly to Beppe, ‘What is this? What does it mean?’
‘It’s for the best. Watch, and you’ll see.’
Agostino coughs, and seems to be on the point of speaking again, when Cosima stands and says, ‘Before we begin anything, perhaps we should eat. Our hosts have been kind enough to provide for us, and we are letting their good food go cold. They will think us ungrateful if we leave what they have provided.’
Everyone nods, without speaking. In silence, Cosima puts sliced meat, braised vegetables and torn quarters of bread onto plates and hands them out, one by one. The food, which had been hot on delivery, has cooled somewhat and congealed, but everyone in the room eats without comment. Only Angelo shakes his head as a plate is handed to him, and sits, wordlessly fiddling with the ring on his little finger, turning it around and around, pulling it up to the swell of the joint and pushing it back down again.
‘Very well,’ Agostino says a little while later, after the empty plates have been neatly stacked on one of the trays, and the cups that had contained ale have been put to one side. ‘It’s time. Niccolò, can you advise as to how we should best begin?’
‘It’s like the scelta ceremony in reverse,’ Niccolò says quietly, ‘only now the person accused must speak for himself. No one can
No one speaks for several minutes. The only sounds in the room are those from the softly crackling fire.
Angelo turns enormous eyes to Agostino. ‘You wanted the truth, and you have had it. So: when will you be informing the authorities?’
Agostino’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Sofia looks from him to Angelo; Angelo is staring at him, silently demanding an answer he cannot possibly want to hear.
No one speaks or moves.
Another log shifts and falls; this time a little knot of wood bounces out onto the hearth. Once again, it is Federico who reaches forward. Picking up the still burning fragment between finger and thumb, he flicks it back into the blaze.
Beppe draws in a breath. ‘We could hold a congedo ,’ he says into the stifling silence.
Agostino’s head snaps around. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘A congedo .’ He pauses. ‘It’s a possible alternative course of action, if you don’t like the idea of handing a fellow actor over to the podestà . Which, even now, I don’t think I like very much at all.’
‘A congedo ? But… but we’ve never had to do such a thing. I’ve never heard of one being done in my lifetime, and —’
‘Perhaps no one has deserved it in your lifetime.’
Agostino looks stricken. Cosima reaches across and takes his hand, and at her touch he seems to rally. He holds Beppe’s gaze for several seconds, then nods. ‘Yes, Beppe, you’re right. Though I’m not sure I know…’
‘I’ve heard it described.’Niccolò clears his throat. ‘I know what should happen.’ He looks grave. ‘There can be no going back once it has begun, though, so you must be very certain you want it to go ahead.’
Agostino breathes deeply three, four, five times, then nods. Turning to each troupe member in turn as he speaks, he says, ‘I think Beppe’s right. I cannot contemplate deliberately handing a fellow performer over to the authorities – whatever he has done.’
Remembering her terrible, fear-soaked hours in the locked room in Bologna, Sofia glances over to Angelo, imagining the thoughts that must be fighting themselves in his mind. His expression, however, is unreadable. In the flickering candlelight, she thinks, he looks like an exquisite statue.
‘Do you all agree with Beppe’s suggestion, that a congedo is an alternative?’
There is a murmur of agreement from everyone in the room. Sofia, however, says quietly to Beppe, ‘What is this? What does it mean?’
‘It’s for the best. Watch, and you’ll see.’
Agostino coughs, and seems to be on the point of speaking again, when Cosima stands and says, ‘Before we begin anything, perhaps we should eat. Our hosts have been kind enough to provide for us, and we are letting their good food go cold. They will think us ungrateful if we leave what they have provided.’
Everyone nods, without speaking. In silence, Cosima puts sliced meat, braised vegetables and torn quarters of bread onto plates and hands them out, one by one. The food, which had been hot on delivery, has cooled somewhat and congealed, but everyone in the room eats without comment. Only Angelo shakes his head as a plate is handed to him, and sits, wordlessly fiddling with the ring on his little finger, turning it around and around, pulling it up to the swell of the joint and pushing it back down again.
‘Very well,’ Agostino says a little while later, after the empty plates have been neatly stacked on one of the trays, and the cups that had contained ale have been put to one side. ‘It’s time. Niccolò, can you advise as to how we should best begin?’
‘It’s like the scelta ceremony in reverse,’ Niccolò says quietly, ‘only now the person accused must speak for himself. No one can
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