“Suor Umiltà, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Beatrice, what a welcome respite your arrival has produced from the Biccherna’s calculations of our taxes. Do you need my assistance?” she asked, smiling.
“I think the Ospedale should invest in a rat catcher.”
“What has prompted your interest in the rodent population of the Ospedale? Has the pellegrinaio become infested? If you have been bitten, we must hasten your visit to Dottore Boccanegra, for those bites can fester terribly.” She had given me a perfect opening.
“I don’t need to see the dottore. But I, like you, am concerned about the diseases these rats carry. It is time to take a preventive stance. Immediately.”
“Why now, just as you are preparing for a voyage across land and sea?”
“It’s exactly because I’m leaving—I am concerned for the Ospedale’s welfare in my absence.”
“Why would you be more worried about the Ospedale’s welfare in your absence than when you are still here? I fail to see how your imminent departure might engender such concern.”
I cast about for an answer. When you have to lie, use the available facts. “I learned of the diseases rats can spread from . . . a text I came across when I was preparing the Dante. Can the Ospedale hire a rat catcher?”
“The kitchen staff already puts out traps.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Beatrice, I am quite baffled by your preoccupation with Ospedale vermin. It is a business you know nothing about, and an expensive one at that.”
“I’ll give you everything I’ve saved if you’ll pay someone to kill rats until I get back,” I said. Umiltà looked at me for a long time, as if she were trying to read my soul.
“As ill-founded as your suggestion may be, I can see that it springs from a heart bent toward charity, and charity bestows a smile on God’s countenance. But you must leave yourself something for the voyage. Charity paired with stupidity is a doomed marriage.” I nodded. She was right, of course, about both the specific and the general point. “Very well, Beatrice. Have we settled the matter?” Barely, I thought, but maybe it would make some tiny, marginal difference. Umiltà prompted me again. “Is there anything else? I must return to the Biccherna’s records.”
“There is one other thing. Do you remember that man with the terrible rash, the one we saw that first day you brought me into the pellegrinaio? Whatever happened to him?” Umiltà’s face clouded.
“He died,” she said. “The night you saw him, in a rictus of fever.”
“You knew he was contagious, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, and I told you as much, as I separated him from his fellow pilgrims.”
“But you took care of him anyway.”
“Of course. It is my mission to tend the bodies and souls of those poor lost travelers who have no other recourse, and offer them solace and healing.”
I thought of what she’d done for me. “Didn’t you worry that you might get sick too, being near him all that time?”
“I have lived long, Beatrice, and if I should meet my end in such service, I would count myself among the fortunate.” She meant it too; I could see the radiance of her purpose illuminate her features. I had been thinking of warning her—giving her information that might make her turn from her work, in order to save herself. Clearly, though, there was no point trying to convince Umiltà to leave any patient, current or future, and knowing that brought a strange relief with it.
* * *
Next, I met Lugani’s chief accountant. His brown hair was speckled with gray, and deep lines furrowed his brow. He had most of his teeth, which was unusual in the fourteenth century, and dressed neatly in a dark green tunic belted over a white linen shirt. He leaned close to me as he spoke, closer than I liked. “Monna Trovato, is it not? May God be with you on our upcoming journey, and with us all.”
I signaled my agreement with a nod. “Yes, I am Beatrice Trovato.” I waited for him to introduce himself.
“Ser Orazio Cane.” He bowed his head, but not deferentially. “I hear you will be joining us on the voyage to Messina, and that you were most recently engaged here at the Ospedale Santa Maria della Scala as a scribe. Have you always resided in Siena? The inflection of your speech sounds unfamiliar.” Cane smiled thinly, and I wondered whether my answers would be tested against some template for accuracy. I had an image of him as a bloodhound. His last name, Latin for dog, suited him.
I stuck to my old story, in case he’d already heard it. “I began my travel from Lucca early this summer, in a pilgrimage I took up after my husband’s death.”
“You did not continue on to Roma, then. Was that your goal?”
“Siena’s Ospedale offered me a haven from suffering.” I was about to leave that haven, against my will.
Cane nodded briefly. “And a source of income; no small matter for a young widow such as yourself, and alone too.”
“It seems everyone knows my business.”
“Ser Lugani keeps me in his closest confidence.”
“You must be highly respected, to be held in such regard by a man of his stature.” I gave Cane my most genuine smile, but I had the feeling he wasn’t easy to mollify with compliments.
* * *
My opportunity to meet Ser Signoretti in person came from an unexpected direction. In the last few days before my scheduled departure with Lugani’s party, Cane came to the scriptorium to announce that my duties would begin immediately. It turned out that Signoretti had international as well as local interest in art, and wished to contract with Lugani to ship panel paintings to a buyer in Sicily. Lugani and Signoretti were apparently longtime business partners, and Lugani didn’t need to come along to the meeting. So when I went, armed with a sheaf of parchment and a case of pens and ink, I was accompanied only by the officious Cane.
The Signoretti palazzo was an imposing building with high leaded glass windows and a massive wood front door at the top of a wide flight of steps. A guard stood outside, armed with a short but serious-looking sword. After Cane’s introduction, we were quickly granted entry.
Inside the palazzo large tapestries lined the walls, depicting elegantly dressed men and women enjoying themselves in a lush garden against a millefiore background. A manservant led us through the hall to Signoretti’s studium.
Close up, Signoretti looked less like his modern counterpart than he had at the festival of the Assumption. Ben’s scholarly competition was slim and self-aggrandizing, someone who needed to act more important than he actually was. The medieval Signoretti was heavy and sleek with power, an established nobleman with no need to prove anything. His voice was low and certain of its effect.
“Ah, Ser Cane, you look well, as usual. Your employment with Ser Lugani appears to suit you.”
Cane bowed. “Indeed it does. He is an excellent employer, and one whose contacts always benefit from the exchange.” That sounded to me like a biased assessment, but in this setting I supposed it was appropriate. Signoretti seemed to think so too, as he nodded his heavy head in tacit agreement. He wore a complicated red velvet cap decorated with gold brocade that would have weighed me down, but on him it looked dainty.
When Signoretti’s deep-set eyes focused on my face I felt like a specimen ready for dissection. “I presume this lady who joins us today is also in Messer Lugani’s beneficial realm?”
Cane nodded. “This is Monna Beatrice Trovato, our new scribe. We have been fortunate enough to acquire her from the Ospedale, which benefited most richly from her services. I regret to say we lost Ser Migliorotti, her predecessor, to the flux on our voyage here.”
“Regrettable,” Signoretti said, his voice effortlessly shifting into a grave, weighty tone of mourning. “He is with God.” Once introductions and respectful silences were done, we got rapidly down to business, which meant my writing out two copies of every contractual agreement laid out in the meeting. Signoretti had paintings to sell but also wished to invest in other materials overseas. Si
gnoretti’s family, in addition to being patrons of the arts, were gentleman military officers, and the list of weapons and armor Signoretti required was enough to stock a private arsenal. I made a mental note not to get on his bad side.
When we were done, Signoretti stood up to see us out. Even behind his vast desk he looked enormous. He must have been at least six foot four.
“It has been our pleasure and privilege to work with you, and we are honored by your trust in our compagnia,” Cane said, bowing.
“The pleasure is mutual,” Signoretti replied, with a gracious nod. “And it is a privilege to have met Monna Trovato. I look forward to future business dealings graced by her presence.”
A servant saw us out. I did not, of course, hazard a question about Signoretti’s acquaintance with any Medicis, and couldn’t imagine how I’d ever find out the answer. If Signoretti was talking to a Florentine nobleman, he probably wasn’t doing it publicly. Despite the twenty-first-century Signoretti’s nastiness, it seemed a lot more dangerous to pursue the question here and now than it would have been in modern Siena.
* * *
He need not have committed murder to be accused of it. . . .
With Baldi’s words tumbling in his head like a pair of dice, Iacopo dressed and splashed water onto his face from the bowl left by the inn’s maid. It was a plan that would require powerful witnesses to succeed, and Ser Signoretti was the obvious choice. Giovanni had warned Iacopo not to approach Signoretti from a position of weakness, and certainly, so soon after Iacopo’s father’s execution, Signoretti might balk. But now was surely the time to meet with Signoretti again, and assure him that the son was worthy of the same allegiance the father had inspired. Iacopo quickly downed a cup of wine for courage and set out for the nobleman’s palazzo. He rehearsed his words as he walked, keeping his cap low over his face so that none might recognize him. But just as he reached the via on which the palazzo stood with its imposing bulk, he saw two other guests approach the door—a woman with dark hair wrapped in braids around her head, and a man at her side, well dressed, but not nobly—a man of business. Iacopo caught a glimpse of their faces before they were admitted by the guard, and he stood staring at the doors after they closed again. Iacopo ducked into the shadows of an overhanging loggia to think. Perhaps now was not the time after all—not in broad daylight, not without an invitation, not while Signoretti had other visitors, not so soon after his father’s death. The image of Giovanni’s purpled face rose in Iacopo’s memory like a nightmare. He stood a few moments more, until the terrible image faded enough so he could see the street before him again. Not now, but soon. Once I have the Brotherhood’s support behind me I shall return and seal Accorsi’s fate. Signoretti will not refuse me when he knows what we can offer.
* * *
Clara returned triumphant with permission from Umiltà to accompany me to Sicily. I requested a meeting with Lugani to get his approval and I was directed to bring my maidservant to his office for inspection. Clara complied willingly, but I didn’t like the way he looked at her—a cross between examining livestock for good breeding and choosing a girl from a harem. Clara kept her eyes on the ground during the inspection process, even when Lugani walked in a tight circle around her, looking her up and down. At the end of the examination he nodded to me, and waved us out of the room.
The next day, Clara said she’d meet me in the Ospedale kitchens to start packing for the trip. Any misguided visions I’d harbored of sumptuous cruise ship banquets dissipated immediately.
“I have to bring my own food?”
Clara was industriously organizing supplies from the Ospedale pantry in neat piles on the table. “Lugani’s assistants assured me that I will be allowed access to the ship’s galley. How is it that you know so little about travel, despite your pilgrimage and your advanced age?”
I thought Clara might be joking about my “advanced age,” but her face looked no less earnest than usual.
“I’m not that old,” I said, grumpily, “and in any case, travel from Lucca to Siena doesn’t require a boat.” I’d maintained the fiction of my origins and widowhood with everyone but Gabriele. “What makes you an expert? I thought you’d never left Siena.”
“I have informed myself of the details from excellent sources,” Clara said, haughtily. I suppressed a smile, knowing she’d want to be taken seriously. Across the centuries adolescents seem to share that tendency to excessive gravity and self-importance. She proudly relieved me of my ignorance while helping me pack an impossibly heavy chest of supplies.
“Does it need to be kept in this? I can’t even drag the thing.”
“We must guard against rats,” Clara said ominously, “or worse.” I tried not to think of what could be worse than rats. Together we packed dried fruits and nuts, salted meats, onions, and heads of garlic in their papery skins.
“I hope there will be enough to drink on board.” I was half joking, but Clara didn’t smile.
“So do I,” she said. Her head was bent as she worked, her face hidden by the wings of the coif that covered her pale hair. I swallowed, my mouth feeling suddenly dry. The last long trip I’d taken had been the flight to twenty-first-century Siena, and the greatest hardship I’d endured on that trip had been a nine-dollar wilted airport Caesar salad.
Clara added a jug of wine and two metal cups with curved handles. I tried to imagine how long it would last us if there were nothing else to drink.
When she spoke, it surprised me. “How old are you, Signora, if you do not mind my asking?” My response shocked her. “Three and thirty years? And no children yet? What a terrible tragedy to be widowed and elderly with no family of your own. How will you find a new husband so far from home, with no father to provide a dowry?” A memory swept through me: holding little Sebastian in my arms, his indefinably delicious scent, and the pricking I’d felt in my breasts when I’d entered Donata’s head, months ago. “I have heard of women bearing babes into their fourth decade,” she continued. “It may not be too late for you.”
“But I haven’t got anyone to have children with. That’s a bit of an obstacle.” I’d not considered thirty-three to be an obstacle either, but clearly Clara did.
“I cannot wait until the day I hold my own babe in my arms,” Clara said, her voice filled with longing. “I turned fourteen years this past month. And my cycles have just begun; Umiltà says I’m a woman now.” She looked younger, and despite her responsibilities, her innocence made her act younger too.
“What did Umiltà say when you asked to accompany me?” Silence. Clara went on packing methodically—a bag of sugar, a flask of vinegar, and a collection of spices in small wooden boxes. “Clara, look at me.”
She looked up, smiled blandly, and resumed her efforts to squeeze a small box of salt into an even smaller space remaining in the trunk.
“You did ask her, didn’t you?”
“Of course I asked her!” Clara looked horrified at the thought that she might waltz out of the Ospedale without talking to the lioness guarding its gates. “We will have to pack the loaves and eggs closer to the start of our voyage.”
“What did she say to you?”
“I wonder whether Umiltà will let us take one of the lambs.”
“Clara!”
Clara smiled as if she’d just heard my question. “Yes, Signora. She was pleased that you would have my assistance and company.” She paused, uncomfortably. “But that I’d best be cautious traveling across the oceans in a ship run by a . . . a . . . lasi, lusci . . .” She was struggling with the word but finally got it. “Lascivious, venal, power-hungry viper of a man.” Her face reddened. “What does lascivious mean?”
“It means lustful,” I said, carefully.
Clara didn’t seem troubled. “Oh, that’s what I thought. Lugani is clearly driven by carnal urges.”
The smile on Clara’s face worried me. “He hasn’t spoken to you, has he?”
“No, not at all!” Clara dropped the salt pork she was holding.
“Clara, you look like you’ve been caught cheating at dice.” I wasn’t sure whether in the medieval hierarchy of immorality cheating at dice might be a worse offense than having clandestine meetings with a Genoese merchant who was old enough to be her father. It turned out not to be the best choice.
“I have never even touched dice! How could you think that of me?” Clara burst into tears. I put my arm around her narrow shoulders and murmured what I hoped were comforting blandishments until she stopped sobbing.
“Please, Clara, I didn’t mean to insult you. You must know how highly I think of you, or I wouldn’t have invited you to join me.”
Clara wiped her nose on her sleeve and blinked at me with moist eyes. “I would hope never to lead you to suspect me of any dishonesty.”
“I’m sure I’ll never have a reason to.” I patted her arm comfortingly. I didn’t think she was a gambler, but she was more entranced by Lugani than I would have liked. I hoped, for her sake, that her interest was not reciprocated.
The week passed quickly. I spent hours bent over the copy of Paradiso that Lugani had requested, and in my limited free time assembled a collection of items to take with me. Bosi reminded me that I would have to bring my scribal tools—pens, wax, seals, and inks—adding darkly that Lugani had better spend his own money on parchment.
“Taking you from us was bad enough,” he said, gruffly.
I packed the supplies in a velvet-lined box, feeling affection for the tools of my new trade as I nestled them in their traveling case. Other than the obvious problem of being stranded in 1347 with the Plague approaching, I was actually enjoying my job. The peaceful absorption suited me, and the process of recording what transpired had reawakened the historian that my neurosurgical career had effectively put to sleep. I am Ben’s sister, after all. I imagined telling my twenty-first-century friends what I was doing for a living now and giggled.
“Is there something humorous that I have failed to notice?” Bosi’s eyebrows lowered over his eyes, making him look a bit like a Neanderthal.
The Scribe of Siena Page 20