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The Scribe of Siena

Page 11

by Melodie Winawer


  * * *

  “Well spoken, Bartolomeo,” the usually taciturn deacon said as the congregation filed out. “I thought you might need to be rescued from your perch midsermon, but you found inspiration to go on.”

  “Indeed I did,” said Bartolomeo, still a bit mystified by his sudden deliverance, and added: “With God’s help, of course.” Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched the congregants leaving the cathedral. Among them he caught the sight of a woman with dark braids wound around her head, her green gown swirling around her as she turned to depart. He had seen her before—on the night he had first chanted the hours, weaving with his voice the fragile thread of prayer that would guard Siena’s citizens: “Keep them safe, Lord, and guard them as they sleep.” Distracted by some sound in the pews he had seen the woman moving quickly through the nave, her black hair streaming behind her. He had feared then that a spirit might have found its way from the supernatural world, let in by his faltering prayer. It seemed that the spirit had stayed.

  * * *

  “Is it a love letter?” Ysabella stood on her toes, trying to see the folded parchment delivered to the house that afternoon, but Gabriele held it just out of her reach.

  “Of a sort,” Gabriele said, with a half-smile, “but not the kind you imagine. I have been granted the commission to paint a scene from the Virgin’s life over the Ospedale entry.”

  Rinaldo smiled, but his words were barbed. “Now you may earn your keep, and repay my father’s generosity.”

  “It is easy to be generous to such a generous spirit as our Gabriele,” Martellino countered. “And as for the commission, it is no great surprise. Whom else would they choose?”

  Ysabella’s eyes lit up with interest. “Gabriele, how marvelous! When do you start, and what will you paint?”

  “The rector has asked that I come to his office tomorrow, to begin planning the project. And the subject—I have long hoped to paint the Assumption of the Virgin, to crown the cycle of her life with her ascent into heaven.”

  Ysabella shaped her face into a dramatic rendition of a lovesick young adolescent. “Santa Maria, Gabriele’s one true love. Who can compete with the Virgin? Perhaps you should have been a monk instead of a painter!” She dodged the swipe of Gabriele’s arm and went to bank the fire with ashes.

  Before bed there were beans to be shelled, almonds to blanch and skin, repairs to be made—the big cauldron had lost its wooden handle—and it was several hours before the family retired upstairs. Martellino’s house was well appointed, with two good-size camere. Rinaldo and Bianca shared one of the bedrooms, and Ysabella and her father the other, with a large bed and smaller cot beside it. On the top floor under the wood-beamed roof, Gabriele had a modest space to himself where he might not only sleep but also spend time sketching studies for his future paintings on the plaster walls.

  Alone in his room at last, Gabriele stared at the contract in his hands, touching the words. The handwriting was delicate, with a strange look to it—it reminded him of hearing his own language spoken with a faint accent, the cadence of a visitor whose home was far away. The signature too was unfamiliar: an owl, perched on a branch, with the scribe’s initials entwined in its curve. A new scribe perhaps, or a visiting one.

  Gabriele lay in bed, imagining his upcoming meeting with the rector. For hours he lay staring at shadows as they stretched slowly across the beamed ceiling. He despaired when he heard the sound of the Matins bells hours later with only a third of the night behind him. When he finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed he was awake, watching the window for a sign of dawn. He woke groggy with fatigue to the smell of baking bread, afraid he’d overslept for his meeting. Martellino managed to press a small loaf into Gabriele’s hand as he hurried out the front door.

  * * *

  To Monna Immacolata de’ Medici

  Palazzo Medici, Florence

  Written by the hand of your Husband, Giovanni de’ Medici

  From the Communal Prison, Palazzo Pubblico, Siena

  25th Day of July, three weeks before the Feast of the Assumption, 1347

  It is said that a spendthrift wife is a husband’s burden. I trust you are not wasting, in my absence, the funds that I require for my Deliverance. Business did not proceed as I might have hoped, and I have been detained here in this cesspit of a city. Iacopo ought now to be on his way back to Florence, but in the interim, send a messenger with as much haste as you can muster. Bid him carry fifty fiorini d’oro to speed my departure from this pitiful edifice of communal Sienese justice. I expect to be released, despite the efforts of these incompetents to detain me.

  Giovanni folded this first letter and affixed his seal in wax. There had been a witness to their nocturnal encounter with the night watchman, a witness who had denounced Giovanni for homicide. When a knock had come on the inn’s door, Giovanni sent Iacopo to hide behind a curtain to minimize any trouble he might cause. But trouble came notwithstanding, for the pair of thick-necked police arrested Giovanni, marched him through the city like a common thief, and imprisoned him in this grim cell to await trial. Iacopo had had enough sense to stay hidden and had followed his father’s order to return home to Florence and await further news.

  Giovanni spat into the viscous ink left by the guard that morning, and began his second missive. The guard had also allowed him pen and parchment, though at an exorbitant price.

  To My Son Iacopo de’ Medici

  With the grace of God

  Spending these nights in a Sienese jail cell has done nothing to improve my poor opinion of the commune’s citizens. They pride themselves on their new facilities, as if their fledgling efforts to build a modern prison should place them in the firmament of communal justice, with the little shack they have appended to their so-called Palazzo Pubblico. I am being held in a cell awaiting trial for the dispatch of that night watchman who presumed foolishly to block our way. If he had known that it is wiser to let a businessman go about his business undisturbed, he might still be alive today.

  It appears some other citizen in disregard of curfew witnessed my lesson to the night watch and took it upon himself to denounce me to the Podestà. On my arrival in the prison, I provided the warden with an incentive to better my accommodations. I managed in this way to avoid the common cells, but have not been granted the relative liberty that my station should warrant. I do not expect to remain long, but while I am here, I should spend my days in a fashion appropriate to our family’s position. There is a Magnati ward here, but it appears that the treatment of “foreigners” and “serious crimes” prevents my placement there.

  Your mother will send a messenger with funds to smooth my passage here, but I expect to see you before this Holy Sunday, so that I may communicate to you a matter of great importance regarding the instigator of my arrest.

  Giovanni paused, rubbing his right hand with his left to soften the cramp that had lodged itself at the base of his thumb. As he picked up his pen to dip it again into the remaining ink, he forgot for a moment what he had intended to write. His usual certainty was replaced by an odd sensation, like hunger but higher in his chest. When he took up his pen again, his next words surprised him.

  I find that the unexpected confinement and restriction of my liberty has made me long for the company of my family, those in whom love and loyalty for Firenze runs as deep as the blood that links us. I look forward to a face sympathetic to my plight, instead of these mocking visages that hint at a dark future for me and those who share my name. When I close my eyes to rest, I begin to believe I can feel the weight of the thick stone that surrounds me and bars my communion with the sun and air. I bid you to return to me with the greatest haste, not only to assist me in obtaining the justice and liberty that are my due, but also to stand at my side so that I may have some reminder of a life outside these walls.

  From the hand of your father

  Giovanni de’ Medici

  Detained awaiting trial and in God’s hands

  This 25th Day of July,
1347

  Three aspects of imprisonment vied to be the most infuriating. First was the knowledge that he would be using his own gold to pay for his unwilling sojourn in prison—it made his dinner rancid in his stomach. The physical confinement provided greater misery. In this cell, only slightly larger than a horse’s stall, he ached to stretch his limbs again. But the most maddening consequence of imprisonment was boredom. His two letters written and dispatched with a guard, along with the soldi required to assure their delivery, Giovanni was left with no other task to complete, no meeting to attend, no subordinates to command. The guards had taken his knife, or he might have enjoyed sharpening it on the whetstone he carried in his belt pouch, or even, for a moment of titillation, testing it on the edge of his thumb. The sight and smell of blood, even his own, would have provided some welcome stimulation in this bland stretch of hours.

  Some relief came at the hands of the guard returning with an evening meal, but the bean stew left him sharply unsatisfied. As the guard retreated, Giovanni raised his hand to signal a question. The guard stopped, staring suspiciously—he’d been warned about these Florentines, their open disregard for Sienese law and order.

  “Have you knowledge of any . . . shall we say, amusements, that might be afforded visitors with the means to support them?” Giovanni’s hand went to the pouch at his belt, and he fingered the coins inside so their clinking could be heard easily.

  The guard licked his lips. “I am sure you know, Ser, nocturnal visitors are strictly forbidden.” But as he spoke the guard rubbed his fingers together, as if noting the absence of something.

  “Of course. But we both know that the straightest rule can be bent.”

  The guard stepped closer. “Are those golden lilies you carry with you? They might call forth an equally lovely nocturnal visitor.”

  Giovanni laughed quietly. “The florins will take root nicely in your palm,” he said, dropping two into the guard’s upturned hand.

  “Expect a visitor at the Matins bells,” the guard said, and left. The sound of the bolts troubled Giovanni less now that he knew the distraction the night hours would bring.

  The room was dark when the door opened again, awakening Giovanni from a light sleep. His visitor wore a robe and hood that hid her face. She placed a small candlelit lantern on the table by his bed.

  “I would see what my lilies have bought,” Giovanni said quietly, and he watched as two white hands emerged from the long sleeves to push back the hood. A surprisingly young and delicate face for a whore—perhaps she was new to her business. So much the better; fresh maidens were not yet hardened to the shock of their patrons’ desires. Immacolata had long since ceased to arouse him, but Giovanni found ample opportunity for gratification elsewhere.

  “I have never had the opportunity to plough Siena’s fields,” Giovanni said, and he was pleased to see the girl’s hands tremble at her sides.

  “My Lord, at your service.” Her voice trembled too, appealingly young and frightened. Giovanni leaned against the wall, enjoying the tension in his visitor’s face as he paused.

  “Are you new to this . . . employment?”

  The girl nodded. “Shall I lie down?”

  “This is not a meeting of newlyweds. Turn your back to me.”

  “Ser?”

  “I said, turn your back. I have paid for your body, not your conversation.” She complied, and he saw with satisfaction the anxious hunch of her shoulders under the homespun gown. “Now listen closely—I do not like to waste my breath on repetition. Kneel on the floor and raise your dress over your head—but do not remove it.” Giovanni felt himself grow aroused as the girl complied, and he saw her pale buttocks before him, invitingly parted by her position.

  “Do I have the good fortune of having bought a virgin?”

  “My Lord, I have been with a man only once.”

  “Well, then I shall use you where you haven’t yet been. I like to be the first to break new ground.”

  “Ser?”

  “And of course, I would prefer to avoid the chance that I might leave you with child.”

  “I cannot hear you, My Lord.” Her voice was muffled under the fabric.

  “I suppose you are a virgin to sodomy?”

  “I am a woman, My Lord.”

  “That will not protect you. The anatomy you share with a man allows the same invasion.” Giovanni’s voice fell almost to a whisper. He heard her gasp and the fear in it brought him such delight he could not restrain himself a moment longer. His hands were soft, the girl thought—like a nobleman’s—as they gripped her hips, but his intent clearly was not.

  * * *

  “Iacopo, are you in your chamber? The table is laid for supper.”

  Iacopo emerged into the light of the dining room, his habitual scowl deeper than usual. Immacolata smoothed her son’s hair with one hand.

  “Mother, I am no longer your little boy,” Iacopo said, but he leaned into the caress. It seemed such a short time ago that his head had been at her waist, Immacolata thought, lowering her hand reluctantly.

  “Can you not rest another night before you return to Siena?”

  “My father has bid me return with haste, as you well know.” Iacopo covered his eyes to block the last of the evening light filtering through the leaded glass windows of the sala.

  “I have prepared a packet of dried fruits and almonds, those your father prefers, as well as all you might need for your journey. Your father’s words to me were brief—did he explain why they have detained him?” Iacopo remained silent. In the darkness behind his lids Iacopo saw strange geometric patterns of light and shadow pulsating. When he opened his eyes the flickering lines remained, obliterating half of his mother’s face. He squinted to bring the image into focus.

  “My son, you are so thin, and since you first left for Siena you have grown even thinner. Please have a few bites of trout with me tonight.”

  “I cannot eat.” Iacopo picked up a pitcher of spiced wine, then put it down again.“Father has killed a man of Siena’s night watch. The guard deserved to meet his end, but that has not prevented the agents of the Podestà from detaining him.” Iacopo de’ Medici had not slept more than a few ragged hours each night since his father’s imprisonment, and his head buzzed with unspoken words. It is my fault that they have him now, my fault that my father is locked in a Sienese jail cell, awaiting trial. He gave me a chance to prove myself, and I failed him. I spoke my father’s name, when I should have remained silent. I hid behind a curtain when I might have helped. I left Siena when I might have remained at my father’s side. Is this how I should repay his trust?

  “They will try him for murder?” Immacolata put her hand flat on the trestle table for support. “God help us.” She watched her only son open the door. She could still imagine his small boy self, plump feet peeking out beneath the hem of a child’s red gown.

  “We will need God’s help,” he answered, then disappeared into the courtyard as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

  Outside the light was fading as Iacopo ducked into the stable adjoining the Palazzo Medici. The incessant company in the house tired him and he preferred the relief of the stables, the sounds of the horses’ hooves shifting in the straw at their feet, the soft blowing of the mares against their foals’ necks. He headed toward the stallions’ pens to choose his mount for tomorrow’s journey. In the dark the jagged lines of light had grown to fill most of his field of view, and he had to squint to see where he walked. A thread of headache began, the left side of his scalp burned as if he had slept too near the hearth, and a wave of nausea nearly made his knees fold. He steadied himself, swallowing bile, and waited for the spasm to fade. In a few more moments the lights had passed, leaving him with a dull throb beneath his skull.

  As Iacopo approached, Pellegrino moved restlessly in his stall. The stallion was aptly named Pilgrim, loving always to be in motion. Iacopo spoke before moving; Pellegrino had a tendency to startle if approached too quickly.

  �
��Buona sera, Pellegrino. Will you ride with me tomorrow?” Iacopo touched the white blaze on the horse’s long nose. The animal’s hair was smooth under his hand. The horse asked nothing of him but food, water, and the opportunity to run. Iacopo felt at home in the saddle; he could not have said that of the other tasks placed before him. Iacopo moved in closer to Pellegrino until he could rest his cheek on the long muscled neck, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the twitch of Pellegrino’s skin, flicking off a wayward fly.

  Iacopo wished he might stay here forever in the stable, rather than return to the palazzo, his tapestried room with its imposing carved dark wood bed, the anxious words of his mother, and tomorrow’s journey. He would have preferred to sleep here, surrounded by the smooth warm flanks of the horses and the sweet and musky smells of hay and manure.

  When Iacopo left the stable, a sharp wind was blowing off the Arno. A bad portent for tomorrow’s journey; rain could quickly turn the road between Florence and Siena to churning mud, difficult if not dangerous. Iacopo could feel the parchment of his father’s letter folded against his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt, close to his own heart. The words appeared before his eyes as if he were reading them—

  I bid you to return to me with the greatest haste . . . to stand at my side so that I may have some reminder of a life outside these walls.

  He wishes my return, despite my missteps, Iacopo thought, and as the wind rose he felt it lift the hair from his forehead like a gentle hand.

  The demon rain came on a caroccio of unholy wind, unnatural for the month of July. The drops began to fall just after Matins, at first tapping quietly on the awning outside Iacopo’s window, then becoming more insistent, like the pattering of a hundred feet on the courtyard paving stones. A flash of blinding light, then a crack from the heavens heralded a deluge that cascaded off the tiled roof of the palazzo.

 

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