I smiled. “Please continue.”
“I lay on successive layers of plaster, each more fine than the last. The final layer will be mixed with marble dust, and then the wall will be ready to welcome paint.” He said the last sentence as if he were describing a long-delayed romantic meeting.
“Do you know what you’re going to paint before you start?”
“I spend many days preparing studies before I approach the unpainted wall, and outline my intended image in red-brown sinopia, well before I begin to paint. But I can only plan so much. The full execution eludes me until the moment I lay pigment on wet plaster, feeling the brush move in my hand as if a force other than my own propels it. That is the moment I live for, and that I cannot explain. Perhaps this is more than you were prepared to absorb?” Gabriele smiled wryly.
“Not at all.” He was describing something I’d felt in surgery—a moment-to-moment knowledge of what to do that transcended planning. “When will you start painting?”
“After the Feast of the Assumption. Am I correct in assuming that you have never been in Siena for the festival of the Blessed Virgin?”
“You’re correct.”
“I would like to extend an invitation from my uncle Martellino to join our family in the procession of the Civetta contrada to the cathedral today, if you are at liberty.”
“Of course I’m free, and I’d love to come.” I beamed back at him. “Siena has become a second home for me, and visiting your family made me feel more welcome than anything I could have imagined.” I remembered Felice draping the Civetta scarf around my neck and putting her soft hand into mine.
“We will all be deeply honored to welcome you this evening, into our family and our contrada,” Gabriele said, with that killer bow he’d performed the first day we met. I suppressed the urge to say I had prior Civetta loyalties too.
“Thank you so much for the invitation. Where do I go? What should I bring? What time does the procession start?” Gabriele’s smile had broadened with each of my queries, and now he looked like he was about to laugh.
“I must ask that you repeat yourself, as my painter’s slow mind cannot possibly keep up with your scribe’s agile one. Will you indulge my deficiencies?”
“Where I come from, a lot of people talk fast.” I was thinking of New York City, but of course he couldn’t know that.
“What a dizzying place Lucca must be.”
We stared at each other happily until I realized I was supposed to ask my questions again.
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten my questions too. I guess scribes are no more agile than painters.”
“That is a matter for later discussion. I will come to fetch you at the Nones bells, and you need bring only yourself.” He bowed gracefully and stepped through the open window onto the scaffolding. The usual glazier had injured his hand and repairs were delayed; I hoped no one would fix the window anytime soon.
The streets were thronged with celebrants by the time the bells rang at midday, and more kept emerging from doorways, dressed in their festival best. Gabriele wore a brilliant red tunic edged in black and white, and a brimmed cap in the same Civetta colors that stood out against the silver of his hair. The family was waiting outside the bakery. Two people I hadn’t met before stood between Ysabella and her father. One was a self-satisfied-looking man whose smirk undermined his otherwise attractive features. His arm draped protectively over the shoulders of a woman whose tiny frame was overwhelmed by her pregnant belly. Gabriele introduced me.
“My good cousin Rinaldo Giacomo Accorsi, and his devoted wife, Bianca, it is my pleasure to introduce Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, the assistant scribe of the Ospedale. She has graciously accepted my invitation to join us today, and we are honored by her presence.” Martellino beamed at me and bowed. “It is our great pleasure to have you join us, Signora.”
Ysabella also welcomed me warmly, then reported on my missing dress. “I’m afraid your green gown is not laundered yet—our preparations for the festival have left many other more mundane tasks neglected. The blue does become you, though.” I tried to tell her that delivering it clean wasn’t necessary, but she silenced my protests.
Rinaldo stepped forward, releasing his grip on Bianca’s shoulders. “A woman scribe, how refreshing,” he said, “and from Lucca, little Ysabella tells me. You must tell us how it feels to be in a city so awe-inspiring, compared to what I am sure is a lovely, though modest place to live.” His exaggerated bow seemed more like mockery than a sign of respect. I decided I did not like him.
“We all need refreshment on such a hot day. I’m pleased to provide it.” I could see Rinaldo’s face working to figure out whether I was making fun of him.
Bianca opened her mouth but Rinaldo cut her off, patting her shoulder. “Bianca welcomes you as well. Her condition sometimes makes her slow to speak.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Bianca,” I said, addressing her directly. “How are you feeling?”
“I am well, thank you, Monna Trovato.” Her voice was so quiet that I had to strain to hear what she was saying.
“Congratulations. It must be a miraculous thing, to be creating a life inside you.”
“I thank God for this gift, but I fear for what is coming. May God grant me and our child safe passage.” I saw her dart a glance at Gabriele. Next to me I felt a ripple go through him, but his face was unchanged. Instinctively, I tried to read him further, knowing the tragedy that might be at the source of his reaction. He turned to look at me sharply. Maybe I was imagining it, but it felt like he was warning me not to try that on him again.
“I will pray for you both.” Had I really just said that?
“Your prayers are most welcome, thank you,” Rinaldo answered, pulling Bianca closer to him. I got the feeling he would have put her in his pocket, if pockets had existed in the 1340s.
I’ve always been a sucker for a good parade, and today’s was the best I’d ever seen. Gabriele was buoyant beside me with the power of the holiday, and for the first time I felt I could understand what it meant to believe that the Virgin Mary had ascended to heaven in the company of angels, and now watched her beloved city from above. I’m getting to be a little medieval, I thought. The thought made me inordinately happy.
We were surrounded by musicians playing as we walked; the thready high sound of wooden flutes intertwined with brassy sounds from a horn. Above the music the cathedral bells began to ring, calling us to pay our respects to the Virgin. It felt like a small pilgrimage.
In the Piazza del Duomo, we all congregated under a Civetta banner. Ysabella took my wrist firmly.
“Come have a cup of wine,” she commanded, and pulled me to a sea of barrels arrayed in front of the cathedral steps, each one manned by someone dispensing drinks to the celebrants. Full cup in hand, I watched while Siena’s principal magistrates entered the cathedral. Next came the representatives of Siena’s territories in the contado, and then the casati families, all bearing candles in tribute. Decorated silk banners fluttered above us, and I could see the glint of thousands of candles through the open door of the Duomo.
“The Virgin must see how much we love her.” Ysabella, who generally radiated maturity beyond her years, looked suddenly young, her face full of pure delight. It was all so beautiful I almost forgot that I didn’t belong here. That thought led to a more troubling one: What if I could not go back to my own time simply because I did not genuinely wish to, and only the purest longing would bring me back? What if losing Ben had loosened my grip on my own reality, allowing me to slip untethered into another century, with insufficient motivation to carry me home again? If I were stranded here forever, it might be my own fault.
As we were waiting in the line to enter the cathedral, a wave of uneasiness swept over me. Near the Duomo’s entrance I saw a tall figure in an elaborate red hat trimmed in fur with a matching cloak. It was a hot outfit for August, but that wasn’t what had caught my eye. The man, with his dark hair and aquiline nose, reminded me of t
he scholar who’d made so much trouble for me back in my old time. Ysabella caught me looking, and followed my gaze.
“That is Ser Signoretti,” she said proudly, “one of Siena’s most esteemed gentlemen, and a great patron of the arts. He has hired our own Gabriele to paint a fresco in his private chapel—the man clearly has impeccable taste.” She smiled and I tried to smile back. So Gabriele worked for Signoretti, or at least the Signoretti household. I looked around to locate Gabriele, but he was several people behind us in line, arm in arm with his uncle. I turned back to Ysabella.
“Do you know him?”
Ysabella smiled indulgently at me, the sort of smile kind people reserve for ignorant visitors. “Ser Signoretti? We all know of him. Ser Signoretti’s patronage is a great boon to Siena.”
“Do you know of any connection between the Signoretti family and the Medicis from Florence?”
Ysabella’s smile faded. “Ser Signoretti consorting with the Medicis? You may not have realized, living in Lucca, what animosity exists between Siena and Florence. And especially now—the news is already in the streets of the Medici criminal who killed one of our own night watch.” I nodded apologetically, letting her blame my Luccan ignorance for the mistake. But I knew something she didn’t. I upended my cup into my mouth without tasting what I was drinking.
* * *
Giovanni was not released from his cell for the festival but had to watch the throngs of other prisoners emerging from the prison gates into the Campo. Perpetrators suspected of homicide, he’d been told by a guard, were not released on feast days. The room’s window and high vantage point on the Campo, a privilege Giovanni had paid for dearly, was now proving to be a source of agony. The jailers did however allow him a visit from Iacopo. The narrow room smelled of sweat and fear. Iacopo sat this time without being asked.
“My case will be tried in three days; there is little time to plan.
“Have you been given any details?”
“Only that the witness will give testimony at the trial. Have you found Accorsi yet?”
“There are many Accorsis in the city. . . .” Iacopo winced, expecting his father to lash out in fury at his failure, but instead Giovanni was silent. “Mother is on her way. I told her your release was unlikely.”
“Immacolata has all the failings of her sex and none of the virtues. Her presence will not provide any comfort. Get me a lawyer from Bologna for the trial. The best of the procuratores are trained at the university there, and renowned for their defense arguments. Go there yourself, find the man with the best reputation, give him fifty florins with the promise of more if he should aid in my acquittal, and bring him back with you.”
“Yes, Father.” Iacopo didn’t reveal what he was thinking—that the trip to Bologna and back could barely be accomplished in time. Experience with his father had taught him such protestations were useless, if not dangerous.“Would Ser Signoretti testify on your behalf?”
Giovanni looked at Iacopo as if he were a thick-headed schoolchild who could not learn the simplest lessons. “Iacopo—do you seriously imagine that our co-conspirator, who is contemplating rising up against his government with the assistance of an enemy commune, would take this moment, when I have been imprisoned by that same government and may possibly be convicted of murder, to reveal his allegiance to me by defending my case?” Iacopo winced, hearing his own foolish thoughts taken to their even more foolish conclusion. “Now is not the time. Later, when the matter of my trial has passed, you should approach him to continue what we have begun. You will have the Brotherhood of San Giovanni behind you in this regard, if I should fail in my attempts to defend my innocence.” Iacopo knew of his father’s meetings with the Brotherhood, dedicated, or so he had thought, to charitable works. Giovanni had not seen fit to involve him before.
Giovanni sighed. His brief flash of anger had subsided, and he looked weary. “Iacopo, I do not expect to leave Siena alive.” Iacopo swallowed with effort, tasting bile. “Since your last visit, the guards allowed me no others until today, and the solitude eats at my soul. I try to pray but find my mind racing with unwelcome thoughts. It surprises me to say this, but I have faith that you will carry our name forward and serve Florence.” Iacopo held his breath, afraid to break the spell of his father’s words.
“You were named Iacopo—the rival, the one who comes after. Now you must grow into that name—as my successor, as Siena’s enemy, and as the destroyer of the man who has brought me to this ignominious end. You must take up my cause where I have been forced to leave it. I regret that you were born with neither brilliance nor physical strength, neither beauty nor the gift of eloquence. You have not inspired passion in women, nor trust from my clients, and I have doubted your abilities on many occasions.”
Iacopo flinched with each cool statement of his deficiencies but made every effort to keep his gaze steady. In contrast to the harsh words, Giovanni extended his broad hand toward his son, a gesture so powerfully seductive and unfamiliar that Iacopo could not resist. He put his hand into his father’s for the first time he could remember since he had played with wooden wheeled toys in the palazzo courtyard.
“Now, my son, I entrust this task to you because I know that despite your failings you have the will to succeed, and this will fuel your efforts. You are the bearer of our family name, and I charge you to carry that name into the future, should I be forced to leave this world before my appointed time. Swear to me now: you will dedicate yourself to the cause, and may God give you strength when I am gone.”
“I accept this charge, Father.”
“Very well, then, Iacopo. You must meet with the Brotherhood, and tell them that I have placed you in my confidence. Here in Siena there are still powerful men whose discontent with their own government can be turned toward sedition, with Florentine backing behind them. The weakened Sienese regime will be easy picking for Florence when that work is done.” Giovanni motioned for Iacopo to come near, so near that he could feel his father’s breath upon his cheek.
“If I am hanged for homicide, see to it that you avenge my death, bring this Accorsi to justice, and drive Siena to her knees. I will be beside you, even from the grave, my voice in your ear to urge you on. You will not stop until you have achieved these aims, or die in the attempt. I will go to my death knowing you walk my path after I am gone, and take comfort in that as they put the noose around my neck.”
“I swear it, my father, and let God be my witness.”
Giovanni’s embrace came as a surprise. At first, Iacopo stiffened, but then he threw his arms about Giovanni’s back and felt the beating of his father’s heart.
* * *
On the day after the festival Umiltà knocked on the door of my chamber. She found me sitting on the chest next to my bed, strapping on my sandals. I would have to find other footwear if I didn’t manage to get back to my world before the end of summer.
“Monna Trovato, you have been with us for over a month, and you have proven yourself as a trustworthy and skilled scribe. Fra Bosi speaks well of you, and that is no minor miracle, as he almost never praises his assistants. God in all his wisdom has seen fit to provide us with your industry and dedication, and to provide you with all that you sought: balm to your soul, a source of livelihood, a safe home, and a trade to keep your hands at work.” I had the feeling I was being buttered up for some particular purpose. “We have also had the good fortune to welcome into our midst a painter of extraordinary dedication and talent, who, inspired by his love and devotion to the Blessed Virgin, has been granted a commission to paint the Assumption on this great institution’s facade.” Of course she knew that I’d been there at her request for funds toward that painter’s commission, and had written his contract myself.
She took a deep breath. “Messer Accorsi has been called by our Podestà to speak as a witness in a criminal trial two days hence.” That thunderbolt brought me abruptly to attention. “The court’s own scribe has taken ill. The Podestà has asked that the Ospedale pro
vide a scribe in his place, and Fra Bosi and I have determined that you should be that replacement.” This must have been the summons Gabriele had received.
“I would be honored to provide any help I can.”
“Fra Bosi will explain your task at greater length tomorrow to prepare you for your role. I assume you have no prior experience in the courts?”
I assured her that my past did not include any brushes with the criminal justice system other than the time she’d rescued me from the grasp of Stozzi, the sumptuary officer who’d challenged my inappropriate neckline. She nodded to signal the discussion had come to an end, and exited my room with a dramatic sweep of her robes.
* * *
On the road to Siena, Immacolata considered the prospect of her husband’s death. She was surprised to discover that she felt neither grief nor fear. Instead, her mind slid sideways to other matters—the discomfort of the journey, the flies buzzing about her horse’s head, and the appearance of the guard who rode in front of her, wide buttocks and thighs spread across the leather, the flesh shaking like aspic under his leggings. Such mundane thoughts in the face of Giovanni’s upcoming trial were reprehensible, but her mind continued to produce them with uncanny perversity.
The two guards behind her talked quietly. Every now and then she could identify a word, usually something off-color. She did not care to comment on their deportment. They were armed and would keep her safe; that was sufficient.
She had leaned into the tasks left behind in Giovanni’s absence, finding a rhythmic satisfaction in accounts she managed when he was away. That was the pleasure men spoke of when they disappeared into their work, compelled as if by a secret mistress. As the horses plodded, Immacolata watched the scenery along the road: dense woods with an occasional inn or small town.
Since the arrival of Iacopo’s last letter, she had felt detached, as if looking down at herself from a height.
Father is still in prison in Siena, and it is said they will hang him. Do you know of an Accorsi in Siena? He may have been an informant, I am looking for him. I will stay in Siena until the trial. Come if you must.
The Scribe of Siena Page 15