Two Years Prior

War was just as bloody as Isabella had anticipated.

She kneeled over a still pool of water that was fed by the mellow river that ran through the valley. Her reflection bore an image that startled the teenager. Her hair, which had been cropped to a shoulder length, was matted down with mud, blood, and brains. The scars that dotted her face from a childhood illness were indiscernible from the ruins of battle.

She bent, cusping water between her shaking hands, and drank. Isabella had strangely never enjoyed the taste of wine, even if it dulled the pain of her battered body. Slowly, but surely, her thirst was ebbed away.

Isabella stood and ambled to the bank of the river to attempt to wash her face and hands. The cold water was welcoming in contrast to the horror of human remains being taken by the water.

There was rustle behind her.

She froze with the palms of her hands pressed into her eyes. Someone was behind her and from the sound of a blade being taken out of its sheath, they were more likely foe than friend.

They were less than two feet behind her when Isabella slammed her hands into the river bank. Using the leverage, she rounded her legs behind her and with one swift move she knocked her assailant into the mud. Isabella flipped up to ground her feet and face the soldier, immediately drawing her own blade, a small yet deadly weapon.

The man in question was slightly larger than her and by the shock painted across his face he certainly wasn't expecting such a swift reaction. Isabella recognized him as a Milanize soldier by the red overtunic exposed between his chainmail.

"You're..you're a woman?" he stuttered.

Isabella kicked the blade out of his hand and into the river with a resounding splash. "What about it?"

He glanced down at her sword, which was firmly pressed against his throat, drawing blood that trickled down his neck. "It's impossible."

"Yet here I am," she pressed harder. "Do you plead mercy before the Lord or shall I paint this riverbank red?"

She could see the contemplation behind his eyes. "I refuse to be killed by a woman."

"Is that mercy?"

There was pause.

"No."

Isabella took in a breath. He was unarmed, no longer a threat. Even though he essentially signed over his own life to Death, it wasn't her right. "You will return to your camp," she ordered. "And you will tell no one of what has happened."

***

Isabella pressed her face between the bars of the cell in an attempt to see out into the hallway. She squinted but couldn't see farther than a foot. How the jailer was able to walk around in near darkness was beyond her. Her only light was the small window at the top of her cell with light that was defused by the dank and the dusty air.

She felt the little mouse from before snuggle into the nape of her neck. In the long hours of waiting and praying, the two became rather bonded. Isabella would fit bits of bread to the mouse out of her hand and let it hide under her cloak at night to stay warm. She didn't name it for fear that it would run or be killed, but its presence remained comforting.

Isabella stood and began to pace her cell, holding the creature in her hands and gently stroking its small head. It nibbled at her thumb in response. "Shhhhh..." she whispered. She felt a deep foreboding in her blood, almost anxiety and dread but more the sense of unknowing.

"She's down here, sir," an unfamiliar voice precluded the unmistakable clatter of the door opening. Obviously, they meant her. There weren't very many prisoners at all. The church often chose to imprison and execute heretics locally and Isabella was the rare exception.

Quickly, she tucked the mouse into her cowl to hide it from view. It pawed at her skin, almost confused by the action but resigned to nestling within the fabric. Isabella didn't really understand why she chose keep the mouse, but it small heartbeat on her collarbone kept her grounded.

One of the pages, a boy about her own age, peered at her curiously. He was nervous. "The Pope would like to see you ma'am."

Of course, she thought. Something about what had happened last night.

Isabella couldn't exactly remember what had happened or why- all she knew was that it was important. Probably the most important event to happen in St. Peter's for the last decade. She didn't know for sure, but the tide was changing like the monthly moon. The air suspended itself like the breath of a newborn- unsure and unsteady.

The door opened and Isabella stepped out next to the boy. She was certainly shorter than him but there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes as he looked down. "Uh, this way."

The page guided her through familiar halls decorated vividly with frescos that gradually darkened with soot from centuries of torches the higher up they went. For a moment, a single heartbeat, Isabella could have sworn that the walls were dripping blood that was twisting and dancing around the figures. She blinked. It was gone. "...Signoria?"

Isabella pulled herself out of the daze and followed the boy, almost racing to leave the hall and reach their destination. Her stomach turned. Something was happening- something sinister. The air was divine but the human intent was tainted. The tide was turning.

He took a turn that she did not recognize and a small, almost tucked away, door revealed a narrow alley. Petrichor wafted up from the cobblestones amidst the waves of rain beyond the alley. Instinctively, she pulled her cowl over her hair. She knew it wouldn't truly protect her from the rain but old habits die hard.

Isabella was right. Before the page and her made it less than a block her hair had began to stick to skin. She was halfway thankful, the water was washing off the smell of the prison cell and disguising how truly unkempt her hair was.

The boy was moving fast, barely giving Isabella any time to examine the environment in hopes of uncovering where he was taking her. Any quick glances to either side were in vain, for the rain obscured any distinguishable landmarks. She had only been to Rome twice. When she made her vow, she rode through the night at the tender age of thirteen to be blessed by the Pope himself. It was a miracle that she made it there and back in one piece. The other time was with the Albizzis in the midst of a war. Isabella had cut her hair short and wore a hat that sagged to one side to hide her noticeable disfigurement from the plague.

He turned a corner and beckoned for her to enter into another door. It was similar to the wooden one that they used to exit the Vatican and let out a deep groan as the page pushed it.

Isabella pulled down her cowl and looked around the interior of the building that they had stepped into. The bricks peaking through the plaster on the walls were stacked in the same Roman fashion as ruins Isabella explored outside Florence as a child. The room was obviously a chapel. Behind the altar a painting of Madonna and Child was affixed under centuries old mosaics of the apostles. She instinctively crossed herself in the presence of the crucifix.

"Isabella de Medici," a familiar voice spoke behind her. She turned to be face to face with the very Pope who had her imprisoned for the last several days. Behind him, watching cautiously, was Cardinal Condulmerio. She could make out his plain features more clearly, with the soft light streaming in through the windows. The Pope took a careful, measured step toward her. "You came to Rome several years ago under a different Pope to take the vow of Perpetual Virginity so that you may dedicate yourself to Christ. You arrived a second time with the army- don't look surprised, I know everything here." Isabella could now feel his hot breath on her face, but didn't break her resolve of direct eye contact. "Now, you have come to sue for peace between Milan and Florence along with the hope that the church could provide spiritual direction for these 'gifts' that the Lord has bestowed upon you."

He walked to the altar, motioning for Isabella to follow. The two stood, watching the twisting shadows of rain against the Madonna. "You were never reconsecrated with a purpose, your grandfather did not allow it." There was pause as he let the words hover in the air between then, caught between one breath and another. "Cardinal Condulmerio spoke to me about an incident last night, something that coincided with a vision that was delivered to me in my dreams."

The Pope finally turned to Isabella. She saw through him, almost as if he was nothing more than the glass in the walls. He was no longer the man who imprisoned her for trying to usurp his authority and compared her to demon in from the book of Revelation. There was glimmer in his soul, something different.

Dominus conservet eum et vivificet eum et beatum faciat eum in terra et non tradat eum in animam inimicorum eius**

Something holy.

Dominus opem ferat illi super lectum doloris eius universum stratum eius versasti in infirmitate eius

"Your father is about to mimic artistry found only in the Lord's creation, bringing hope amidst the ruins of this war and great devastation," he said. "Isabella, you must insure that his work goes forth, no matter what happens in Florence. The Medici name will be one with devotion to Christ, so you must rise above your station, as a pledge to the One True God, and allow truth to prevail no matter the cost. Cities will fall behind you as they fall from Heaven, for you are hope, truth, and perseverance."

ego dixi Domine miserere mei sana animam meam quoniam peccavi tibi

Deep within Isabella, she knew she had understood this pledge since before she was begotten.

inimici mei dixerunt mala mihi quando morietur et peribit nomen eius

Nothing the Pope spoke of was strange nor surprising, even if it was the first time Christ's mission as ordinance upon her soul had been spoken aloud. A wave of reassurance and anxiety flowed through her body as ants crawling through her veins and burrowing into her bones.

et si ingrediebatur ut videret vane loquebatur cor eius congregavit iniquitatem sibi egrediebatur foras et loquebatur

The moments between her heartbeat spoke in whispers to her soul in words Isabella had yet to truly understand.

in id ipsum adversum me susurrabant omnes inimici mei adversus me cogitabant mala mihi

Isabella closed her eyes and felt her hands be pulled upward in grace, posturing themselves in ecstacy.

etenim homo pacis meae in quo speravi qui edebat panes meos magnificavit super me subplantationem

A wave of spirit pierced her heart so deeply that she didn't feel the the wet red liquid entwine itself around her arms and drip to the floor.

tu autem Domine miserere mei et resuscita me et retribuam eis

The mouse buried within her cowl became still- almost as if the spirit of St. Francis had befallen it to witness the glorification of Isabella's vow.

in hoc cognovi quoniam voluisti me quoniam non gaudebit inimicus meus super me

A deep silence fell upon the small ancient chapel. The rain knocking on the window was now muffled by the heavy grace filling the room.

me autem propter innocentiam suscepisti et confirmasti me in conspectu tuo in aeternum

The world became still around the four within the chapel. An unexplainable stillness reached across the earth in a swelling wave. Even upon the battlefield, the tremors of the mystical pressure rattled soldiers and generals alike. In the command tent, Albizzi's cup of wine fell over, spilling the deep red liquid across his strategy maps and pulled the ink together into a single mass. The mystery of the dome, revealed through prior creation, became clear as Cosimo witnessed Brunelleschi tapped an fertile egg upon a table in a demonstration of his plans for the Duomo.

Contessina, the woman who bore Isabella and held the babe against her breast, stood in her daughter's room and tenderly opened the small journal that sat the bedside table. Tucked between the pages sat Isabella's beloved wooden rosary. Contessina lifted the chain of beads curiously and held them against her heart with shaking hands.

benedictus Dominus Deus Israhel a saeculo et in saeculum fiat fiat

When she opened her eyes with an utterance of "Thy will be done," Isabella found God's chosen servant kneeling before her passion with the utmost humility.

Christ had christened Isabella in His blood for His divine purpose. 

***