“We must find a place for him to bear out the remainder of his illness apart from the other pilgrims, however long it may last. Or however short,” Umiltà said, ominously. She bent her head to consult with one of his caretakers. I stared at the suffering pilgrim’s rash and fevered face, and suddenly it hit me. This is the Plague, the great scourge of Europe. We’ll all be dead by tomorrow. I’d appeared right at the most dangerous time in Siena’s long history, the time my brother had spent years studying. I was in the city that would be hit by the most devastating infection the world had ever seen, and it would be worse here than anywhere else, for some reason I still didn’t know. My vision blurred, and I felt myself swaying. Please don’t let me die here, stranded in the past with only five antibiotic tablets. Then my training took over. I’d seen that kind of rash before in med school textbooks—it was smallpox, not Plague. Smallpox had been eradicated in 1975, but we were a long way from 1975. I silently reviewed my immunization record and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. For everyone else’s sake, I was glad Umiltà knew enough to insist on quarantine. But, in ten months, in the spring of 1348, the Plague would come to Siena. It would come to me, if I were still here, and to all my unsuspecting companions in this time and place.
Umiltà led me swiftly through the hall. On our way out, she pointed in the direction of the Church of the Santissima Annunziata. “If you find yourself able, you may join us for Vespers this evening, in the Ospedale’s own chapel,” she said, making me feel like a schoolchild contemplating playing hooky.
I followed Umiltà to the Pellegrinaio delle Donne. We passed through a small courtyard with a round stone well, then up two flights of stairs to a tiny cell just large enough for a narrow bed with a wooden chest at its foot. A small arched window faced the cathedral and the gleaming green Sienese countryside beyond.
“I hope you will find peace on this stage of your journey, and that your respite here will assuage your suffering,” Umiltà said, standing behind me as I gazed out the window at the magnificent facade of the Duomo. I hoped so too.
A timid-looking young woman wearing a brown homespun gown knocked on the door as Umiltà was leaving. She placed a tray laden with a bowl of fragrant soup, a pitcher and goblet, a spoon, and a slab of crusty bread on the wooden chest and backed out of the room, leaving me to eat.
The thick, white soup was completely unfamiliar but delicious. It reminded me of warm vichyssoise without potatoes. The top was sprinkled with spices—cinnamon and nutmeg, what else? Cloves, definitely cloves. And cardamom, like the rice pudding in Indian restaurants. And in the soup itself, the heat of ginger. But I still couldn’t figure out the main ingredient. I wiped the bowl clean with bread, then finished that off too. I looked into the pitcher: wine. I poured and drank, but cautiously. It was ruby-colored, sweet, and watered down—just as well.
The meal took me no more than a few minutes to eat. I sat on the chest, which appeared to serve as both table and chair. Besides that and the heavy canopied bed, the only other furniture in the room looked like a cross between a podium and a desk—one small wooden step and above it a tilted top. An inginocchiatoio—the Italian version of a prie-dieu. The supplicant was supposed to kneel on the step and put his or her arms and maybe an inspirational text on the desk above. The shelf was empty.
Although prayer hadn’t been in my daily repertoire since grade school, my situation made me feel that I should at least try. I knelt awkwardly on the bench and put my hands together. No inspiration came, so I decided to start with the invitation that begins the divine hours, hoping things might flow from there.
“Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise.” I paused. More personal might work better. “Thanks for that really nice soup. This is a lovely room too, private, great view, quiet.” I was praying, not reviewing a hotel. “And thanks for sending Umiltà. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with Stozzi out there.” I hoped no one could hear me. The door, heavy and barred, was closed, and the walls looked like solid plaster. “So the thing I’m getting at is, this has been a really extraordinary experience, whatever is going on, but I’d very much like to know how to get home. I’m hoping to leave before May of 1348 ideally. Please.” I realized my eyes were wet.
I wiped my eyes and face with the back of my sleeve and put my forehead down on the cool wood of the inginocchiatoio’s shelf. I knelt there until the light through the tiny window changed to the darker gold of late afternoon. As I unfolded myself I heard footsteps, and then the sound of the door swinging open. I looked up into the face of the same young woman who had dropped off the soup. She was a girl really, maybe thirteen years old, and light wisps of hair escaped from under the edges of her linen coif, floating about her face.
“What was in that remarkable soup?”
She stared at me as if I were from another planet, which I suppose I was, in a way. “The poratta, Signora?” she said.
I’d made another blunder by not knowing what I was eating. “I’m from Lucca.” She kept staring. “I had always heard there was no match for the food here in Siena.”
Her expression softened slightly. “I helped the cook make it myself, Signora.”
I saw I’d hit on a matter of personal conceit. “You are certainly on your way to becoming an exceptional cook.”
Her pale face flushed an appealing pink. “Grazie, Signora. The leeks come from the mercato, but we make the almond milk ourselves, with nuts from the Ospedale’s own grance.”
Almond milk: that was the elusive flavor I’d been trying to identify. The last time I’d had any was out of a cardboard carton at a vegan friend’s house, but it had tasted nothing like this. “Can you tell me what that symbol means?” I said, pointing to a golden ladder embroidered on her dress.
“That is the insignia of our Ospedale—Santa Maria della Scala. The Ospedale gets its name from the steps of the Duomo, across the piazza.”
I risked a personal question. “Do you live here at the Ospedale?”
“The Ospedale has been my home since the night my parents left me in the stone basin in the piazza, where orphans are found by the Ospedale mantellate at sunrise.” She reached into her bodice and drew out half a metal disc on a narrow cord she wore about her neck.
“I was found with this wrapped in my swaddling clothes. Suor Umiltà says my mother left it with me so she could find me someday.” She tucked the pendant back into her dress. “She also tells me I will be an excellent cook.”
“I’m sure of it,” I said. We smiled at each other.
“Were you praying? I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what I had been doing. She picked up the tray and the bells rang again. “Vespers,” she said, turning quickly through the door.
I headed out after her, tugging the bodice of my white underdress to make it cover more of my chest and draping my shawl over my shoulders; I’d have to come up with a more permanent solution later.
The small Ospedale chapel of the Santissima Annunziata was full. Some of the congregants looked like nuns, some like friars; others had the battered look of pilgrims. Many were dressed like the young cook-in-training I’d followed here. I realized I hadn’t asked her name. The vault filled with singing, and I let myself drift along with it, for a blessed moment not thinking at all. After the service ended, I stayed in the back of the church as it emptied.
Umiltà found me staring up at the stained glass windows of the clerestory. “Our church is plain, but filled with the essence of Our Lord, is it not? It is our duty, and our pleasure, to provide a haven for those in need.” Her tone changed abruptly. “Tell me again, of your origins, parentage, and purpose? Have you a letter from your local priest, or family, to support and sponsor your pilgrimage, a written certificate confirming your good character?” I made the disturbingly easy decision to lie again.
“I lost it in the mercato.” Umiltà’s eyes narrowed. Benjamin always used to say “When you have to lie, use the available facts.” I did
. “I never knew my father, and my mother died shortly after I was born. I was raised by my older brother Beniamino, who also died, recently and unexpectedly. He was a . . . chronicler. My husband, a notary in Lucca, is dead as well. I embarked upon this pilgrimage along the Via Francigena with my head bowed in sorrow and loss.” I had a sudden image of my walk out the Porta Camollia, in my old time. Most of the story was true, including the sorrow and loss part, and being the widow of a notary would elevate my social status. “I hoped the journey would allow me to start a new life with a fresh heart.”
“How long do you plan to spend on this stop of your pilgrimage, Monna Trovato?” I hadn’t planned anything, of course, but didn’t say that.
“I am finding such consolation in the welcome of the Ospedale that I would like to prolong my stay, if possible. I hope that my skills may offset the burden that the Ospedale’s charity could engender.” Now I was speaking her language.
“I am glad you have found succor here, Monna Trovato. Tonight you will rest, and tomorrow we will undertake to find work to busy your hands while your soul heals. You have met Clara, who brought you food this evening? She will find you in the morning and direct you to the scriptorium after Mass.” With that informative pronouncement she sealed my immediate future, and I found my way back to my room.
I’d taken care of the basics now, escaped arrest, and made a few friendly acquaintances. That would have been fine if I’d moved to a new country. But this was time travel, not tourism. And if I couldn’t get out of here soon, I’d have to deal with the Plague. No brilliant plan to address this problem came to mind, and finally, overwhelmed by fatigue, I fell asleep.
* * *
I woke to the sound of bells the next morning at dawn. For a moment I thought everything that had happened might have all been a dream, until I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling of my room in the Pellegrinaio delle Donne. It’s July 7, 1347, I told myself, as if stating the date could force it to make more sense. I used the chamber pot in the corner, then tried my best to clean myself using a pitcher of water and a basin. I hadn’t seen anything resembling a bathroom yet. I had slept in my white linen dress from the twenty-first century—it made a reasonable medieval nightgown and undergarment, and I’d left the green dress draped over the back of the inginocchiatoio overnight.
The door opened and Clara appeared holding a flickering lantern as I was getting dressed. She hung the light on a metal hook in the wall and watched me as I tucked my handkerchief into my offending neckline. The handkerchief wasn’t entirely clean but neither was I, and I didn’t want to end up breaking any more indecency laws. While Clara wasn’t looking, I secured the handkerchief with the two twenty-first-century safety pins from my bag.
I stumbled down the dark corridor back to the Santissima Annunziata. The church glowed with candles; flickering light haloed the worshippers’ faces.
Oh Lord, make haste to help me . . . I recognized the Latin of Psalm Fifty-nine from Catholic school. It was nice to hear the familiar words; that sense of belonging across centuries was one benefit of religion. I’d never needed it so much before.
Let the heavens and all life on earth praise him who created them.
I watched the light grow brighter through the tall windows, making the panes glow.
And in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
The last lines of the morning psalms echoed in my head as the congregants rose. The sun was streaming into the chapel as we walked out. Clara asked me whether I had committed to daily fasting during my pilgrimage; I opted for food.
This time it was broth flavored with smoked pork ladled over a piece of bread. I ate in the company of hundreds of pilgrims seated at long trestle tables set up in the huge refectory of the Ospedale, the clamor of voices startling after the church’s quiet. After I finished eating, Clara led me to the scriptorium to meet the head scribe.
“Fra Bosi will be here shortly,” she announced, leaving me to look around.
A wall of colonnaded windows glazed with small panes of thick glass let in the sunlight. The windows were wide enough to walk through, but didn’t appear to open. There were two angled wood writing desks in the room, like drafting tables with a ledge at the bottom to prevent things from sliding off. Above each of the desks was a small shelf. I saw a book propped open on one; fresh empty pages rested on the desk below.
Along the walls, niches and wooden shelves overflowed with manuscripts and books. Some had elaborately tooled leather bindings closed with single or double clasps. Others were simply folded pages held between rectangles of wood. Ben would have had a field day doing research in here. Maybe I could too, even in this century? Before I could look more closely at anything, a robed man entered. He had a large, fleshy face, a round head topped by a bristling circle of short gray hair, and deep-set eyes shadowed by heavy brows. He wore an ingenious pair of red folding eyeglasses without earpieces that hinged at the bridge of the nose. It was hard to tell how old he was; aging seemed to have a different rhythm here than I was used to.
“I am told that you can write,” he said doubtfully. This must be Fra Bosi. I nodded. “My former assistant, Guido Baldi, the younger of the two Baldi brothers, disgraced himself in the tavern several days ago, and I suggested he find other employment.” It seemed I’d arrived conveniently at the moment of a job vacancy. Bosi continued, scowling. “I do not intend to waste my time training incompetent widows to hold a pen for charity’s sake, but Suor Umiltà seems to think you might be useful.”
“I hope to be,” I said. Against the wall, a young boy pounded rags with a mallet while an iron pot boiled over a fire in a corner stone fireplace. Fra Bosi saw the direction of my gaze.
“We have taken on the modern techniques of making paper, in addition to parchment,” he said, gruffly. “Egidio is competent at preparing the sheets, but he has not proven himself with the pen and stylus.” I saw Egidio’s shoulders hunch and the pounding got louder.
“I’m here to write,” I said, bluntly. Fra Bosi’s face reddened and his eyes bulged; I was afraid that he might be about to blow a blood vessel somewhere.
“We shall see.” Bosi motioned for me to sit down and placed pages from an account ledger in front of me. Each row was headed by a phrase describing the nature of the expense or payment, and the columns were divided into credits and debits, like a modern double-entry bookkeeping record. The tiny cramped letters and numbers were all carefully ruled by hand.
“The Ospedale needs to provide to the Biccherna a copy of its accounts since the beginning of Lent.” He deposited a stack of stiff, faintly translucent sheets of parchment on the desk in front of me. I’d read about the Biccherna, Siena’s financial governing body, so I didn’t have to risk asking Fra Bosi what he meant. “I will return at the Nones bells to check on your progress. The materials are costly, I am sure you know. I suggest you minimize error.” He turned and left me with my assignment. I checked the quill points, arranged the inks, put the ledger on the stand, set out the ruler and square, and started copying. Nones was seven hours from now; I had some serious work to do.
Oddly enough, I felt more at home in the scriptorium of the Ospedale della Scala than I had almost anywhere in the past month, even in my own time. Maybe because it reminded me of working in Ben’s office, doing my homework while he read and wrote, and then, as a treat when I finished, trying to copy rubrics, the initial red letters that decorated the more elaborate manuscripts. I’d done a class project on a history of books and gotten an A-minus. It would have been an A, but it was a day late because I’d made the inks myself. Ben had called me “my little scribe” after that.
The next time I looked up from the ledgers, Egidio was stirring a large tub of rag pulp and hot water; his face glistened pink from the steam. While I took a break to flex my fingers and shake out my legs, I watched him pour the pulp and water slurry into screened trays and let the liquid drip through the screens into a large stone basin. Along another worktable, trays held sheets of newl
y made rag paper beginning to curl away from the frames. Egidio turned to the completed trays, carefully removing the sheets from the mesh. He laid the pages out on the table in front of him and painted one side of each sheet with a thick liquid that looked like Elmer’s glue. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other in our hours working side by side.
“What is that?”
Egidio turned, startled; I imagined Fra Bosi didn’t encourage a lot of idle conversation. “Sizing,” he said, blushing furiously. “Fra Bosi says it keeps the ink from spreading on the paper. I cannot write like you so I do not know.”
“Have you tried to learn to write?”
“Fra Bosi says I do not have the skill, Signora.”
“You can learn,” I said, unable to suppress my fundamental educational philosophy. “I don’t know how to make paper and you don’t know how to write. Both of our failings can be fixed.” Egidio’s small smile transformed his serious little face.
My hand was cramping agonizingly by the next peal of the bells—Prime, 9:00 a.m. I stretched for a few minutes, then went back to writing. When the bells rang hours later, the pain extended up to my shoulder. Sext—noon. Three more hours to go. No one had mentioned a lunch break. I sneaked a sip from my water bottle. I came to a long list of products from the Ospedale’s agricultural landholdings, with the income associated with their sale:
80 soldi/35 staia/grano/Grancia di Cuna
150 soldi/15 staia/mandorle/La Grancia Spedaletto
60 soldi/5 barili/olio d’oliva/Grancia di Grossetto
I didn’t know how big staia and barili were, but writing about wheat, almonds, and olive oil made me uncomfortably aware of my lack of lunch. I tried to pay attention to the amounts. If I ever ended up with any money of my own, I would need to know what it was worth. I copied out several lines on payment of artists’ commissions and contracts with architects. There was nothing about the fifth fresco on the facade, but of course Umiltà had only just requested funds for that; it wouldn’t be recorded yet.
The Scribe of Siena Page 8