Wind Dancer

One March 3, 1503 Florence, Italy Stop, thief! Stop her! I've been robbed!" Sanchia tore across the Mercato Vecchio, raced past the church and on down the street, jumping over an emaciated brown-and-white mongrel that devoured garbage scattered over the flagstones. She ducked under the outstretched arm of a leather-aproned cobbler, but his large hand caught the coarse woolen shawl covering her head. She jerked it from his grasp and kept running. The merchant chasing her was plump, but still he was closing the distance between them, and Sanchia's heart slammed against her ribcage in a delirium of panic. She was going to be caught. Her hands would be chopped off at the wrists. She would be thrown in the Stinche to be eaten by the rats. Hot, agonizing pain shot through her left side. A stitch. She had to keep running. What would Piero do? she wondered wildly. The others were older; they would find a way to survive. But Piero was only six. So many things could happen to so young a child. . . . "Grab her, you fools. The slut stole my purse!" Dio, Sanchia thought, he sounded close. How could he run so fast with all those rolls of fat hanging around his middle? She dodged around a wheelbarrow filled with fish, turned the corner of the Canto di Vacchereccia, then bolted down an alley yawning between a goldsmith's shop and an apothecary. Darkness. Twilight lay over the city but full darkness reined in the alley. Bright eyes glittered in the deep shadows at the base of the small buildings. Rats. Dozens of them! She stopped short, involuntarily recoiling. The stones beneath the thin soles of her shoes were greasy from the garbage thrown out there by shopkeepers. She need have no fear of the rats, though, while they were feasting on the garbage. The smell of rotting food in the closeness of the alley was overpowering. She swallowed, trying to fight down the nausea caused as much from terror as the stench. "Which way did she go?" The merchant's voice was wheezing and sounded a little farther away. Had she lost him when she darted into the alley? She shrank back into the densely clotted shadows of the goldsmith's shop, her palms pressed flat against the stone wall. Her breath was coming in harsh, painful gasps. Could he hear her? She tried to hold her breath, but there was no breath to hold.Cristo, what if he had heard her? The cold, wet slime-covered wall chilled her back as it penetrated the wool of her gown. Her muscles felt leaden, the blood frozen in her veins. She was suddenly acutely conscious of the sharp, rough texture of the stone wall against her palms, but the sensation was almost pleasurable. Touch. What would she do without her hands? How could she live? How would all of them live? "This way, you stupid blunderer." She stiffened. The voice was not that of the fat merchant but one with which she was bitterly familiar. Her heart gave a wild leap of hope. The alley door of the apothecary shop had opened, and even in the darkness she recognized Caprino's slight, foppishly dressed silhouette. She darted the few yards separating them and almost fell through the doorway into the shop. Her gaze flew to the front of the store, but the apprentice behind the small counter was scrupulously avoiding looking in her direction. "He's safe," Caprino said. "He does work for me." Poison, Sanchia thought with a shiver, or perhaps the strange white powders Caprino gave his whores. Caprino slammed the door and held out his hand. "The purse." She fumbled beneath her shawl for the soft leather pouch and then dropped it into his palm. She leaned back against the door, her knees shaking so badly she could barely stand upright. "You were clumsy," Caprino said harshly. &qJohansen, Iris is the author of 'Wind Dancer', published 1991 under ISBN 9780553288551 and ISBN 0553288555.