“I have been praying,” I said, quietly.
“As have I.” Gabriele would not be deflected. “These implements belong to you, do they not? The work is delicate, and the material unfamiliar to me. I have never seen anything fashioned thus, and would be very surprised if it were found in Lucca.”
“They’re not from Lucca.”
“And are you from Lucca, Beatrice? Or is that part of your story as open to question as your mythical husband?”
Gabriele waited for the answer without a trace of restlessness. It was easier to look at Gabriele’s hands resting on the table between us, rather than his face. His fingers were long and graceful and the hair on his arms was bleached golden by the sun, light against the brown of his skin. He had traces of paint under his nails, remnants of angels in progress.
“I’m not from Lucca, no.” I hoped all he was imagining was that I was from somewhere far away. Stainless steel hadn’t been invented in the 1300s. Maybe Gabriele thought the pins were made of silver, but their shape was nothing like anything I’d seen in the fourteenth century.
“I expect you still have some use for these, since they were affixed to your gown?” Gabriele held out his hand again, the pins innocent in his palm, until I took them from him. “I would be honored to be able to assist you, Beatrice. I may not understand all you have to say, but I will not judge you ill, and I will do all I can to assure your well-being. I am at your service.”
I couldn’t tell him where I came from, who I was, what I knew. “Thank you,” I said instead, and the silence I didn’t fill widened between us. Finally, Gabriele rose and bowed his gray head, then left me alone with Ser Lugani’s contract and the safety pins in my hand.
* * *
Umiltà and Bosi both seemed unusually worried about the transaction I was writing up. Lugani based his business in Genoa, but he had outposts in many cities. He was a prominent businessman whose brocaded and finely woven woolens were known for their quality, and he had enough of a monopoly over the regional trade routes to make everyone anxious to keep him happy. The Ospedale had plenty of arrangements with powerful people of all sorts: wealthy barons and landowners, merchant bankers, patrons of the arts, city officials, high-ranking clergy—and I’d worked on many of their contracts. But Lugani, even in absentia, exerted an exceptional degree of influence. As I wrote out the rector’s proposal from my notes, a shadow fell over the page. Bosi stood behind me with a deeper than usual scowl on his face.
“Is my work unsatisfactory?” Bosi hadn’t scrutinized anything I’d done this closely since the first weeks of my employment. He’d been busy with his own work copying a book of hours for a weathy patron of the Ospedale, or he’d have taken on the contract himself. Instead, he hovered over me like a stormcloud.
“Not yet,” Bosi said gruffly. “But some fault will be found, an opening Ser Lugani will use to his advantage.”
“Lugani sounds quite . . . demanding,” I said, choosing the word carefully as I finished the last line on the page.
“Lugani obtains all that he reaches for, which may be considered a mark of his success. It is for God to decide whether this success will send the man to heaven when his life comes to a close.” With that ominous declaration, Bosi strode out.
Girolamo Lugani arrived before the week was out with an entourage of fattori—the medieval Tuscan equivalent of a finance department: ledger keepers, notaries, and accountants—and a pack of well-scrubbed office boys called garzani, the lowest rungs on the business ladder. The Ospedale exploded into action. My completed work was whisked away from me after review by the notary. I hadn’t met Lugani myself, since there was no reason for me to be put in his path. Clara informed that he had a particular fondness for sweets, and the kitchen went into overdrive preparing sugar-coated almonds, honeyed custards, and jellied fruits dusted with crystallized sugar. When I went near the kitchens I could taste the sweetness in the air.
Every time I passed the Ospedale’s main gate I stole a glance at the fresco taking shape. Gabriele had been working extra hours, and he’d been given several assistants from the Ospedale to assist him. They climbed up and down the scaffolding with his meals, and brought the tools and pigments he needed. He was on the platform just before dawn, descending at dusk. I saw him only from underneath when I passed by. We hadn’t spoken since he’d brought me the safety pins, and I wasn’t sure how to breach the silence, since I’d once again refused his gentle suggestion that I confide in him.
In lieu of direct contact, I watched his Assumption taking shape. The four angels gazed adoringly at the Virgin as they lifted her skyward, the sense of movement palpable. Three of the angels glittered brilliantly, their light-colored hair aflame with gold leaf. The fourth angel provided an intense contrast, her hair so black it conveyed endless depth. The dark angel’s face gave a suggestion of a hidden mortal secret, something unfathomable and grave behind the serene blue-gray of her eyes. No one said anything directly to me about our likeness, but I felt self-conscious anyway, and avoided looking too long at the painting when other people were around. As a result, I rarely had the luxury to contemplate Gabriele’s work for as long as I wanted to.
* * *
Umiltà came into the scriptorium just after Prime at the beginning of the third week of September. Even at that early hour the sun provided enough light to write, but the heat of summer was fading and the evenings cooled with a breeze that hinted of autumn. That particular change of seasons had always made me a little melancholy, but now, the feeling was intensified, the calendar racing toward the Plague’s arrival. I was no closer to a plan to extract myself from this century than I’d been the day I arrived, nor could I protect myself and those around me from the approaching disaster.
When Umiltà walked in, I had just settled down with a new project. Lugani wanted a copy of Dante’s Paradiso, and my job was to create a new edition in a week. I didn’t notice Umiltà until she was in front of me.
“I’m not even close to finishing,” I said, looking up from the canto I was transcribing.
“Ser Lugani wants to meet you,” she said, grimly.
The shortness of her sentence worried me. “Why?”
Umiltà grimaced. “Messer Lugani’s scribe died of flux on the trip from Genoa, and the merchant has need of an immediate replacement.”
“You suggested me?” I was horrified. I’d been trying to get out of the fourteenth century, but getting out of Siena was no help. There was no point trying to run from the Plague, as it spread through what would someday be Italy and the rest of the world.
“Of course not. But Ser Lugani has discovered your existence, and wishes to evaluate your suitability for the position himself.”
“What if I don’t want to change my place of employment?”
“Neither of us is in a position to make that decision,” Umiltà said acidly, though it was clear her anger was directed at Lugani. “We are loath to lose you. I did appeal to Messer Lugani to consider your employ a temporary position, so that you might be returned to us after his voyage comes to an end.”
I didn’t like her phrasing. It made me feel like a misdelivered UPS package. “Then I suppose I’ll have to meet him,” I said, grumpily.
“He requests your presence today after the Sext bells. I will send Clara to escort you.”
“I’d rather spend the afternoon with Dante,” I said under my breath.
* * *
Lugani was not what I expected. The stories I’d heard of his sweet tooth and greed made me imagine an overfed, overprivileged whale of a man. Clara led me into the suite of rooms that had been turned into the merchant’s temporary office, and Lugani’s force of will hit me before I could even take in his appearance. He’d removed his red biretta and laid it on the table, revealing black hair cut close to his head in defiance of the pageboy style of the time. He wore a scarlet robe, and had a single gold ring on the third finger of his right hand with an inset ruby, but no other adornments. He was a jaguar restraining
himself before a kill, and I was his prey.
There was a single guard in the room, armed with a nasty-looking weapon. I stared into Lugani’s face, willing myself not to blink. His eyes were so dark I could hardly see the pupils, and his mouth incongruously sensuous.
“Monna Trovato, it is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance. I was told of your skill, but no one warned me of your exceptional beauty.”
“My appearance isn’t relevant if you want to hire me as a scribe.” Lugani laughed, a deep, free sound, filled with mirth. That surprised me too.
“And a sharp wit to match. That will be a pleasure on our voyage together.”
“I have an excellent position here at the Ospedale.”
“And I will return you to that position when I am done with you. It has been decided.”
Since it appeared that refusing was not an option, I got down to negotiating. “What are your terms?”
“Twenty florins to act as my scribe for the duration of the voyage, the use of a horse to reach the coast, ship’s passage, and private accommodations for the duration of the journey. That is far more than you would earn here.” He was irritatingly correct about the salary. I supposed he’d found out my stipend before meeting me.
“How long is the trip to Genoa?”
Lugani arched one eyebrow then and smiled in a way I didn’t like. “The trip to Genoa? That can generally be accomplished in three to five days, if conditions are favorable.”
“Aren’t we going to Genoa?” Lugani shook his head, still smiling. “Then what is our final destination?”
“Ah, our final destination?” Annoyingly, he didn’t answer me. “If all goes as planned, we should arrive by mid-October.”
I tried to wait him out. “How will I get home to Siena once the job is done?”
“I see that your many remarkable qualities include intelligence. You are even better than described, and you were certainly recommended highly, if reluctantly. I am certain Suor Umiltà would have sung your praises more enthusiastically had she not feared she’d lose you to my company.”
It was nice to know Umiltà valued me, but I didn’t like the source of the information. “The flattery is lovely, but doesn’t answer my question.”
“I will arrange return passage for you at the end of your contracted time in my employ.”
“What exactly does the job of scribe entail?”
“You will keep a record of all the materials we carry with us, each item that we sell or purchase, its origin, and its cost. In addition, I expect a daily written log. You will compose any letters that I require, taking dictation from me. The ledgers will be handled by my other staff.”
“What if I prefer not to accept your offer of employment?”
“I regret that refusing is not an option.”
“What do you mean by ‘not an option’? I’m not a slave.” I could feel my face getting hot.
“You are, of course, a free woman. However, I have arranged that continuing in your present job depends upon this service in my employ. I’m sure you realize the best outcome will be achieved for all involved if we agree.” Free will notwithstanding, I didn’t appear to have a choice.
“When do we leave?”
“In one week. I trust you will be able to ready your affairs in time.” I waited. “We are bound for Sicily,” he said, finally telling me our destination. “I have business with a silk trader from Messina whose goods cannot be matched on the continent.”
Sicily. Almost five hundred miles. If Siena held the key to my return home, I’d be leaving it here, along with a life that had begun to feel compelling enough to make leaving hard to imagine. Lugani motioned for me to sit at the table. A contract lay on it, with a space for my signature, and all the terms we’d discussed. Cursing silently I signed my name, and after a brief hesitation, the marker of my scribal identity. That’s what I was being hired as, after all.
* * *
I had a peculiar dream that night—a fragment without an obvious narrative. A man who looked like Lugani, but dressed in a dark gray pinstriped business suit and black wing-tip shoes, stood outside the Ospedale, staring up at the dark-haired angel. He did not blink, and a small smile played over his lips. Gabriele was painting high on the facade, oblivious to the spectator, putting the finishing touches on my likeness. In the dream I stood on the ground, so close to Lugani I could feel the heat emanating from his body, and I could not move or speak. I woke up sweating. It took me a long time to fall asleep again.
I opened my eyes to see Clara next to my bed, smiling.
“Suor Umiltà has sent me to assist you with your preparations for the voyage. I cannot imagine how marvelous it must be to travel in a great merchant ship! Loaded with gold and exotic spices, armor, dyes . . . wool, of course, since Ser Lugani is a wool merchant. And he’s quite a dashing figure, is he not? I have often dreamed of travel but I have lived within these gates all my life. I have never even seen the sea.” Clara began cleaning up in a desultory way, as if to keep her hands busy. It was patently unnecessary, as I had almost no possessions. While I got out of bed and dressed, she busied herself with lifting a few objects, dusting them off on her skirt, then replacing them again.
I had a brilliant thought. “Clara, would you like to come with me?”
“Signora, how would that even be possible?”
“I’ll tell Lugani I need a personal assistant.”
“I cannot read or write! How can I assist a scribe? Perhaps you had better invite Egidio.” Her voice trailed off unhappily.
“It would be reasonable to say I needed a servant for the voyage.” I was unaccustomed to the idea of having a servant, but it was the norm here.
“Do you really wish it?” Clara’s eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them.
“It would be a pleasure to have your company, and your help. I should be able to pay you something from the salary I’ve been promised. We’ll have to ask Suor Umiltà, of course, and the Ospedale cook should have a say as well, before you abandon her kitchens.”
“May I have your leave to ask Suor Umiltà this instant? I cannot bear to wait!”
I nodded, smiling at her enthusiasm. Clara hugged herself and squealed with delight before running out of the room. She’d forgotten the task she’d been sent to do, but I didn’t really want her looking through my things anyway. The safety pins had made enough trouble.
Once Clara was gone and I had a moment to think, it hit me. Messina, Sicily: the first landing place of the Plague in Italy. The city where twelve Genoese galleys returning from Caffa, the medieval Ukraine, would enter the harbor with their deadly, microscopic cargo. I remembered the book in which I’d read about the Plague’s arrival, could see the cramped words on the page. But when had it arrived? If it had been early in 1348, the year that had brought the Plague to Siena by May, then I still had time—a few months at least. Time to do what? That was the bigger problem I still hadn’t solved. I had a vision of that paper chart I’d made. But, of course, I didn’t have the diagram with me for reference anymore—it was still pinned to a bulletin board over Ben’s kitchen table back in modern Siena. I strained at the memory, trying to bring it into focus, but the image grew fuzzier the more effort I made. Memory is like a cat. It comes and wraps itself around you when you least desire it, and the moment you seek it out, it disappears.
* * *
Iacopo found Baldi in the same corner he’d occupied at their first meeting, rolling dice while downing a goblet of Messer Semenzato’s best wine.
“If we keep going off in private, Ser, someone will think I’ve taken a liking to men.”
Baldi burst into gales of laughter while Iacopo squirmed with disgust.
“Our business is no one else’s,” Iacopo snapped as they mounted the narrow stairs. Once behind the closed door of his chamber, he turned to face Baldi. “Accorsi is not dead. He is not even hurt.”
“Oh no? Too bad. But I’ve enjoyed your money.” Baldi lifted the wine goblet in appre
ciation.
Iacopo grabbed Baldi’s meaty arm. “You have not earned it yet. A little fall and a fright do not do justice to what Accorsi has wrought.”
“You want me to try again? I could use a few more coins to line my pouch.”
“This time I will pay you only if you succeed.”
“Is death by my hand the only outcome you are willing to pay for?”
Iacopo narrowed his eyes. “State your meaning clearly.”
“What if your target were to meet an unfortunate end by virtue of the law?”
“I was not aware Accorsi had done anything that merited imprisonment.”
“He need not have committed murder to be accused of it.” Baldi grinned. “Or to be convicted of it, for that matter.”
* * *
When Lugani announced his intent to remove me from Siena, I felt I had suddenly run out of time. I’d had a silent countdown to the Plague in my head (September now, eight months left), but until then, I believed I would be able to return to my old life before it was too late. Lugani’s arrival heightened my predicament: whatever I intended to do here had to happen fast.
I spent several sleepless nights trying to come up with a plan. There was no use evacuating the city or warning people to leave, since I knew the Plague would go everywhere. Preaching doom? Useless, since I was more likely to be imprisoned as a witch than believed. On the morning after my second sleepless night I had a glimmer of an idea, sparked by my own carelessness. The night before, I’d brought a fruit tart to my chamber. Just before dawn I heard a scratching sound, and saw a substantial brown rat making off with what was left of my neglected late-night snack. Then I remembered: rats. Fleas bite plague-infected rats, then bite humans. What if there were fewer rats?
As soon as the sun rose I headed straight to Umiltà’s studium to talk about pest control. She was sitting at her desk, poring over a ledger and frowning.
The Scribe of Siena Page 19