The Scribe of Siena

by Melodie Winawer

  Iacopo nodded. “Since we failed at the battle of Montaperti, conspiracy would seem a reasonable alternative.” He heard the slap of his father’s hand before he felt the sting on his cheek.

  “Listen to me, idiot. You will have to eschew such talk if you are to work at my side.” The pain in Iacopo’s cheek radiated up to his temple, which began to throb. “This plan for Siena failed, and Brienne proved useless.” Giovanni laughed harshly. “I was pleased to have a hand in his sudden departure from Florence. You know he barely escaped with his life.”

  Iacopo remembered Brienne’s ousting from the city. He had been driven out in a violent uprising by the families who had initially supported him, once his despotic rule and harsh economic policies had alienated those who had called him to power. Giovanni continued: “Some of us still believe that through agitation of casati families we might find a manner in which Florentine influence could dominate. My visits to Siena have been to further that aim, through allies there that serve our purpose. Do you see now?”

  “I do, Father.”

  “Prepare yourself, for we ride to Siena tomorrow morning. There, we will meet with Ser Signoretti, one of Siena’s nobles, who may prove ripe for the picking. He has all that we need to forward our plan—power, wealth, and discontent. And I shall use those to my advantage.”

  “Yes, Father.” Iacopo’s head raced with what he had just learned. My father leads a plan to overthrow Siena’s government, and I, the heir to the Medici legacy, shall follow him. Iacopo began to imagine the meeting with Ser Signoretti, himself and his father side by side, commanding respect, even awe. They would be served fine wine, their voices would be serious, hushed, dampened by tapestries on the walls, the servants dismissed while their important business took its course. The visions in his head eclipsed the present until Iacopo’s father barked at him.

  “I said prepare yourself, did you hear me?” Iacopo bowed once and fled, tripping on the marble lintel but managing not to fall.

  * * *

  On the day after Ysabella announced the Ospedale commission, Gabriele failed to finish his work on the Signoretti Chapel by nightfall. He had timed the day’s section poorly, and as the light dimmed, he stared grimly at the infant Maria’s unfinished face. Hoping he would not regret the decision to stay late, Gabriele lit a candle and pressed onward until the baby’s features materialized on the quickly drying plaster, her rounded cheeks flushed with rose.

  Exultant, he extinguished his candle and descended the scaffolding in the near-dark. As he left the chapel, Gabriele saw a figure emerge from the Signoretti palazzo, cloaked and hooded despite the warm night. A second figure followed the first as he watched. It was late to be entertaining visitors, and most would have stayed the night rather than depart at this hour. Once he was certain that the men had gone, Gabriele crossed the courtyard and came out onto the street, staying in the buildings’ shadows to avoid the night patrol. A fine for being out past curfew would be costly, and other dangers posed by walking the city streets at night might have even graver consequences.

  Gabriele had walked only a few moments before he heard the watchman’s voice; Cristoforo’s rasping breath would mark him anywhere. Gabriele had seen Cristoforo the week before in the mercato, one arm proudly draped about his new wife’s shoulders. Despite their acquaintance, tonight Cristoforo might have to charge Gabriele for violating curfew. Gabriele stayed hidden and listened.

  “Halt, strangers, what keeps you out so late?”

  “Our business is none of yours.” This second voice was unfamiliar: low and ominous.

  “Declare your purpose, and your identity, or you will find yourself in prison.”

  “A gentleman of Florence does not bow to Sienese enforcers,” the stranger said. “I suggest you let me pass.”

  “You will give me your name, and recount your doings in detail, if not here, then before the Podestà himself. I am sure our chief magistrate would have great interest in your story.”

  The next voice was higher-pitched, wavering. “This is Messer Giovanni de’ Medici of Florence, a city whose beauty makes Siena a cesspit by comparison. The purpose of our visit is no concern of yours, son of a whore.”

  Gabriele bit his lip, trying to remain silent.

  “Florentine filth pollute our city. I will see that you are brought up before the Podestà for violation of curfew and insult of a city official. You can both spend tonight in a cell, and explain your late-night business to the Podestà in the morning.”

  “I regret you will not have the opportunity to see me safely to the Podestà’s office.” The first stranger’s voice, which Gabriele now knew must belong to Giovanni de’ Medici, was filled with malice but the sounds that followed were worse: the scrape of a blade unsheathed, Cristoforo’s scream, then the pounding of running feet. Gabriele stood frozen for a few seconds, then he reached for a plaster trowel from his bag and leaped from his hiding place. The street was faintly lit by a votive candle in a wall niche before an image of Saint Ansanus staring sadly downward, and the light flickered on a tangle of black-and-white cloth on the ground. Cristoforo lay on the pavement, gazing up at Gabriele with wide eyes. His attackers had fled.

  Blood seeped rapidly through two rents in Cristoforo’s tunic and he patted them softly with his hands, as if he were simply looking for his spectacles, rather than trying to hold on to his life as it left him. “Gabriele Accorsi?”

  Gabriele nodded, wrapping his arms around Cristoforo’s body and lifting him to stand.

  “Cristoforo, a surgeon lives nearby who once tended my uncle. Can you take a step?”

  “Your efforts are wasted on me, but I’ll spare you the curfew fine for your good intentions.” He coughed raggedly. Gabriele hefted the watchman over his shoulder and stumbled toward the surgeon’s house. Cristoforo’s blood flowed down Gabriele’s neck and shoulders and his weight made Gabriele’s knees buckle as he walked.

  “You’d best put me down,” Cristoforo rasped, before they’d reached the surgeon’s house. Gabriele let his burden slide slowly to the ground. “Denounce the Florentines,” Cristoforo whispered, “and tell my wife that I love her with all my heart.” He closed his eyes.

  “My good man,” Gabriele began, but Cristoforo had drawn his last breath.

  Gabreiele covered his friend’s body with the man’s own cloak, and closed the staring eyes with one hand. Gabriele made his way home quickly, but once in bed could not rest, remembering what he had heard and seen—the harsh threats, and the look in Cristoforo’s eyes as his life bled away. I have been a witness to a murder, Gabriele thought, and I must act. But what would it mean to act? To denounce a powerful nobleman from the rival commune whose force was a threat to Siena? Would that I had not stayed late, this one night . . . but he had stayed. Perhaps God willed that he be a witness, and bring the murderer to justice. Gabriele knew of the informers’ boxes outside the office of the Podestà. Rinaldo never tired of recounting how he had once informed on a sodomite, penning his secret accusation on a sheet of parchment. The information had led to the man’s trial, and death. Gabriele wondered whether Rinaldo would have been so proud to do his part to protect his commune without the shield of anonymity. Enough witnesses had stepped forward to allow Rinaldo to remain a silent informer setting the machine of the Iudex Maleficiorum in motion. Gabriele had tried to imagine how he might rise to the service of his commune, but knew that he would not find such pleasure as Rinaldo in the retelling.

  * * *

  The night after he had witnessed Cristoforo’s murder, Gabriele again found himself unable to sleep. With the weight of what he knew bearing down on him, he penned a letter on parchment and quietly left the house, making his way toward the office of the Podestà. The words he had written hummed in his head:

  I have witnessed the brutal murder of Cristoforo da Silvano in his course of duty to protect Siena, by the violent hand of Giovanni de’ Medici of Florence. Written this day by my hand, I do bear witness to the crime, and would swear b
efore the Podestà and judges should this murderer be brought to trial. —Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi

  The note dropped through the slot in the large wooden box outside the palazzo. Gabriele disappeared into the shadow of the shuttered buildings, quickly making his way home.

  * * *

  One of the disadvantages of having such an angry husband, Immacolata de’ Medici considered as she lowered herself slowly into her bath, was raising an equally angry son. Immacolata’s maidservant stood behind her, pouring warm water into the wooden tub until the water lapped around Immacolata’s shoulders. Rose petals floated on the surface of the bath, filling the room with their scent. The maid turned her eyes away, appearing not to notice the spray of bruises across Immacolata’s back before they disappeared under the surface. Giovanni had been in an evil temper when he left for this most recent business journey.

  Immacolata had held her husband’s cloak as he prepared his horse and bags. “When will I have the pleasure of welcoming you home again, my husband?”

  “Do not presume to delve into matters of my business,” Giovanni had barked, pulling on his boots. “Whenever I return you will be prepared to receive me, or face the consequences.”

  Admittedly, Giovanni’s absences provided a certain relief. A bath such as this was a pleasure she reserved for her evenings alone—Giovanni would have found it frivolous and wasteful. This current trip was lasting longer than usual. He had already been gone five days, and only to Siena; the distance certainly did not justify the time elapsed.

  Immacolata watched her breasts floating on the surface of the warm water. The stab of distress she still felt looking at her body surprised her; after so many years her failures should have ceased to rankle. After all, she had a child. Though Iacopo was hardly a child now, twenty-eight years old and working at his father’s side—and on this occasion traveling with his father to Siena. She was pleased to see Iacopo taking an interest in the merchant-banking firm, though his absence came, of course, with its attendant worry.

  Sighing, Immacolata pulled herself out of the cooling bath. As she lay alone in bed, she allowed herself a moment of pleasure in the solitude afforded by Giovanni’s absence.

  * * *

  After I’d spent a week with the ledgers, Fra Bosi finally decided to trust me with a weightier task. Bosi set a wax tablet in front of me.

  “Today you shall draw up a contract from this draft provided by our notary,” he said gruffly. “See that you make no mistakes.” He turned away with his usual lack of social niceties, and I sat down to read the words engraved in the wax, marveling at the medieval reusable notepad. I read, translating silently from the Latin.

  On this 14th day of July, 1347, in the name of God, amen. I, the rector of the Ospedale della Scala di Siena, with the support of the Nine Governors and Defenders of the commune, hereby contract, with the goal of the beautification of our city through patronage, the commission for a fifth fresco on the facade of the Ospedale to honor and exalt the Blessed Virgin, heavenly protector of Siena. We grant this commission, for the amount of forty lire in gold, to Messer Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, pupil of the late Maestro Simone Martini of Siena.

  I dropped the tablet onto the desk, startling Egidio.

  “Are you well, Signora?” His face creased in concern.

  That’s my Gabriele, and he’s going to paint the facade of this very building. And I’ve been asked to work on his contract.

  “I need some air,” I said, and rushed out of the scriptorium, down the steep stone steps, and into the courtyard. I sat on a stone bench and took a few deep breaths. Gabriele was here, no longer a long-dead writer of a medieval diary. It was shocking, the sudden collapse of centuries that had separated us when I’d first read his words.

  I shook my head until my thoughts cleared and my breath returned to normal. The courtyard was empty except for myself and a flock of sparrows gathered about the central fountain, and for a moment I watched the birds in the sun. I got up slowly and made my way back into the scriptorium and Gabriele’s waiting contract.

  PART III

  THE LITTLE OWL

  Bartolomeo stood behind the pulpit in the cathedral rehearsing his sermon silently. He’d waited longer than most for his opportunity—one year as an acolyte, another assisting the cathedral elders with preparations for their services, then months chanting the night office before he was allowed his own sermon. Empty your mind. Be a vessel for the Holy Spirit. Distractions were everywhere—the ache in his legs, the rasp in his throat that he feared might silence him when he began to speak today.

  The other young priests strove to rise rapidly in the church, but Bartolomeo had dragged his training out as long as he could. Like many of his compatriots, he was the third son in a family of good worth. His eldest brother had inherited the family property while the second had the skill and temperament to train as a knight and was squiring with one of the Sienese contado’s largest landowners.

  The clerical path suited Bartolomeo. He had always liked disappearing with a book; even as a child his attempts to play swords and lances had fallen hopelessly flat. As a result, he spent an inordinate amount of his childhood hovering around his mother in the kitchen of the great stone house. His brothers called him “little sister” when their mother was out of hearing, but she did not question his quiet nature. Education in the church was a perfect retreat from all that Bartolomeo found most challenging, with one small exception: public speaking. He had hoped repetition might soften the edges of his fear, but here he was, five minutes before the ringing of the bells, biting his nails to the quick.

  “Today on this auspicious day—” No, no, I cannot say day twice in one sentence. “On this auspicious day, before the feast of Santa Maria Magdalena—” TWO days before the feast. Can I not produce a single utterance without error? Oh, help me, Virgin, to survive this sermon. Bartolomeo wiped his palms on his robe, cleared his throat, and started again: “On this auspicious day . . .” The bells began to peal. Bartolomeo said a brief prayer to whatever saint might be near enough to help and mounted the wooden steps to the pulpit.

  * * *

  Back at my desk, I spread out a sheet of parchment and prepared a fresh batch of red ink for the initial rubrics. I had always been a rule-abiding sort of person, taking written contracts seriously. But now that I was writing one myself, for someone I felt I knew, the words took on even greater weight. When Fra Bosi returned at midday to examine my finished work, he actually gave a complimentary grunt. After some practice, I had learned to distinguish those from the disparaging grunts.

  “You are a scribe, you need a signature,” he said. “The mark that identifies the work as originating from your hand, and declares your authenticity, and thereby that of the document you create.” Bosi pulled a chair beside me, lowering his substantial bulk into it. “You must craft one that is uniquely recognizable and true to the path God has ordained for you. Think of the signs that have guided you to this point and marked you for who you are.”

  I picked up a pen and a blank piece of Egidio’s newly made paper. My head filled with images—Felice draping the Civetta scarf around my neck, my scalpel slicing through dura to find a fresh collection of blood. I drew an outline of an owl, then beneath it a scalpel, the mark of the profession I had so recently left behind, like a branch beneath the owl’s feet. I added a blend of my initials like leaves from the branch the knife had become. Fra Bosi picked up a cloth to blot the design I’d drawn. I felt as if I’d just clipped my first aneurysm, with a senior surgeon telegraphing silent approval.

  “You may sign your work thus, Scribe Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, and take the remainder of the day to restore your strength for tomorrow’s efforts.” He rose slowly and left.

  I headed out the front door of the Ospedale and for a moment I forgot my peculiar situation in the pleasure of the afternoon. But when I stepped into the Duomo’s shadow I remembered. I looked up at the striped facade, at the place where I’d left my own time and entered t
his one. Could the path between the two times still be open? If Gabriele’s missing journal had pulled me toward this century, I was out of luck, since I didn’t have the journal anymore. But what if it were the Duomo itself? I followed the bells, up the stairs and through the great doors. I sat in a pew at the front this time and stared at the lions, remembering how the marble had once felt worn and warm under my hand. I followed the dizzyingly striped columns of the nave to the huge dome above. In this century, the gold stars on their background of twilight blue had not been painted yet; the vaulted arches were bare, austere stone. Still the dome felt, with the oculus at its apex bright now in the midday sun, like it might be a portal to another world or time. I stared up until my neck ached and my eyes burned, but nothing happened. I tried again, this time closing my eyes and envisioning the little guest bedroom in Ben’s house, with its white curtains blowing over the linen-sheeted bed. All I got from that was a surge of homesickness—emotion, but no transportation.

  Before I could make another attempt, a young priest appeared in the pulpit, cleared his throat, and began speaking in a tremulous voice. Then his voice squeaked to silence. The congregants around me shifted restlessly while the priest stood at the pulpit openmouthed, but making no sound at all.

  I slid suddenly from looking at the panicked priest to being inside his head. He really had it bad. I felt his wave of nausea and heard the rapid beat of his heart in my ears. From the young priest’s perspective the congregants looked scornfully at the pulpit, ready to pull him down from his perch. I am unfit to give a sermon, unfit, unfit. . . . His words echoed in my head. But this time I managed to keep a part of me separate. I approached the priest’s anxiety the same way I used to stanch the flow of blood from a blood vessel—methodical, unhurried. Slow down, breathe, it’s OK—I was talking to him and myself at the same time. This is a great sermon; you’re doing fine, keep talking. You’re surrounded by fellow citizens patiently waiting to hear your words. Quiet heart, quiet mind, strong voice. I sensed his fear ebbing as my own heart slowed with his. I backed out as quietly as I could.