A sharp crackle of twigs made me look up. A horned deer ran out suddenly in front of us, making Margherita rear. I slid off Margherita’s back, landing hard on the ground. The stag wheeled briefly in his flight to stare at us with huge dark eyes under pale, branched antlers, then abruptly turned and fled, a flash of brown and white disappearing into the woods.
I was still recovering when Lugani’s accountant Cane pulled up alongside me on his horse.
“I hope the stag did not frighten you, Monna Trovato.”
It had, but I didn’t tell him that. I mounted again, sore but fortunately not badly hurt. “It startled Margherita.”
Cane smiled thinly. “A stag’s bolting may suggest other dangers nearby,” he said ominously. I didn’t like the sound of “other dangers.” “In what company did you travel from Lucca, Monna Trovato?”
“Company?”
“I cannot imagine you undertook the journey alone.”
Think, Beatrice, think. “I came with three other pilgrims on their way to Roma.”
“And where are your companions now?”
I hid my hesitation in an adjustment of Margherita’s bridle. One of the nice things about lying is that you can make things up. “When I stopped in Siena, they continued on the road to Roma.”
“Why did you not follow them?”
“Siena made me feel at home.” My explanation unwound itself into the air between us; the first words I’d spoken with the clear ring of truth.
“And your journey from—Lucca, did you say—was it uneventful?”
“Fortunately, yes.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Cane said, smiling thinly. “I do so dislike eventful journeys.” Cane nodded to me to signal the end of our conversation in the same way Lugani had in our interview. It was a technique I found irritating, but I kept my eyes straight ahead on the road as he dropped back in line.
“What did he say?” Clara said, as she drew her horse alongside mine. She did not appear to be accustomed to the invisible maidservant role, and had no qualms declaring her interest in my conversations.
“It’s possible that he was just trying to be friendly,” I said, doubtfully.
Clara nodded happily, not hearing the sarcasm. “It is good to have friends on a long journey.” She was right, but Cane, though he wasn’t clearly an enemy, didn’t strike me as a friend either.
The road began to wind upward along the side of a wooded hill; the land rose steeply to our right and fell dizzyingly down to the left of the narrow path. As we headed up the slope, I could see the front of our party, where Lugani’s scout, Antonio, headed the line. His sweet face was still boyishly plump with an irregular spray of whiskers that looked more like fragments of straw than a real beard.
Suddenly, there was a cracking of twigs and branches, and a band of six men emerged from the gaps between the trees ahead, flashes of metal in their hands. They went first for Antonio’s horse, which let out an ear-splitting cry. The horse’s legs buckled and the animal dropped to the ground, throwing Antonio and pinning him under its heaving flank. There was no room for the other horses to turn, and no room to pass on either side to escape. Margherita came to a sudden stop, rearing and pawing the air with her hooves. This time, I managed to stay on her back. The outlaws swarmed over us, leaping from above onto the guards at the front of the line; to the left was the cliff edge. The only route of escape was back down the one-horse-wide track behind us.
Antonio lay pinned under his injured horse, his leg twisted in an impossible direction. He shielded his face with his hands but his attacker sliced through the boy’s fingers, then his throat. As the brigand bent to cut the saddlebags from the downed horse, one of Lugani’s mounted guards drew his sword and swung the blade at the thief. The blow separated the thief’s head cleanly from his body, spraying everything in its radius with bright red blood. I sat frozen on Margherita’s back as the outlaw’s face blanched, as if his disembodied brain were realizing the awful truth of what had happened. I saw Lugani move next, his cloak a slash of red beneath the low trees as he spun his horse to face the next attacker.
Clara started screaming, picking up where Antonio’s horse had left off. While I’d been watching the attack on the front of our party, a frighteningly large man in leather armor leaped from the sloping hill above the road and landed between my horse and Cane’s, brandishing a glinting knife. Before I could react, Cane drew his own dagger from his waist and drove the blade into the back of the outlaw’s burly neck. Our attacker folded slowly to the ground behind Margherita’s rear hooves, and Clara’s scream abruptly stopped, as if she’d choked on it. Cane motioned quickly to the rear guard, who pulled Clara’s horse backward over the body of the outlaw, prone on the path with Cane’s dagger still protruding from his neck. When the guard came back for me, our horses half ran, half slid down the narrow, curving trail. The guard led us to an outcropping of granite along the cliff wall with an opening large enough to permit a horse and rider to pass, and we entered a surprisingly large cave. The fighting continued on the path above us, muffled by the thick stone.
“Stay here,” the guard barked unnecessarily and disappeared. I looked around at my companions—the back end of Lugani’s party. There were two other women besides me and Clara, probably servants judging by their dress, two elderly gentlemen who I thought might be accountants, and two young office apprentices. The last was Messer Cane, who had dismounted and was trying to calm his horse by whispering into her ear. I dismounted too, sending my legs into a painful spasm, but after a minute, I managed to stand again.
I leaned against Margherita’s warm flank to steady myself. Clara stumbled as she slid down from her pony, and when I reached out to help, she folded against my chest, burying her face in my neck. I could feel her heart beating fast like a little bird’s. Finally our guard came back looking grimly satisfied. He had blood on his cheek, but it did not appear to be his own; I couldn’t see a wound on him anywhere.
“The fighting is finished. You may all mount once you are back out on the road.”
As we made our way up the hill again I could see two of our guards tying Antonio’s slender body onto a pack horse’s back. One of Antonio’s arms swung with that terrible absence of tone that cannot be imitated by the living.
Lugani’s voice was harsh, stripped of its usual finish. “Have respect for the youth—his mother would not want to see him treated like a sack of barley flour.” Lugani bent and with surprising gentleness closed Antonio’s eyes with one hand, then covered his body with a canvas tarpaulin. Lugani’s lips moved silently. I imagined it might be a prayer, but I could feel, with a shiver, that Lugani’s intent held more emotion than simple ritual would require. It was the first brush with Lugani’s heart I’d had; until now his head had dominated all our interactions. I shook myself out of the unexpected connection and watched him with new appreciation as he remounted his horse.
We passed two bodies by the side of the road as our party resumed its upward path—the outlaws unlucky enough to be in the vanguard of their own band. Their corpses had been stripped of weapons and anything else of value. Cane drew his horse up next to mine.
“How curious that the first journey that includes our new scribe is fraught with danger, though her own pilgrimage along the same road was strangely uneventful.”
“Messer Cane, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I take special care to send out notice of false routes and times of departure, to avoid potential difficulties. It would be a great shame if any acquaintances of yours should come to know our plans and cause further trouble.”
“I have no troublesome acquaintances, Ser.”
“I should hope not, but I will be watching you, Signora.” I supposed he saw something was slightly off with me, but couldn’t know what it was. But perhaps Cane was right—did I have troublesome acquaintances? Could I have made an enemy already after just a few innocent months in the fourteenth century? The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but every bir
d’s flight or rustle of wind in the trees made me catch my breath.
* * *
Gabriele arrived at the Ospedale when the sun was already high and found Suor Umiltà standing grimly outside the entrance. He addressed her cautiously, anticipating an outburst about his late arrival. “Is something amiss?”
“Other than the fact that we have lost a scribe and an assistant cook in one calamitous moment?” Umiltà inhaled hugely and seemed to grow larger before Gabriele’s eyes as her outrage spewed forth. “Our little Clara left with a face that looked as if she would welcome any threat to her virginity, should it come from that red-cloaked adder, and I have grave doubts that our lambs will be returned to us safely, if at all. Other than that, nothing is amiss, Messer Accorsi, nothing whatsoever.”
“Will he not return them to their rightful home after their work is complete?”
“I would not trust Lugani with a sack of grain, let alone a virgin and a grieving widow.”
“How long ago did they depart?”
“Too long ago to follow,” Umiltà said, looking at Gabriele with narrowed eyes. They stood in a moment of shared distress, listening to the bell tower pealing the midday hour. In his mind, Gabriele began to draw the thin outlines of a plan, like sinopia on fresh plaster.
“The rector will want to see you. He is pleased with your work and payment is forthcoming.” Umiltà had turned toward the fresco over the Ospedale entry and was gesturing broadly with one cloaked arm. “Your painting is exceptionally beautiful, Messer Accorsi. Have you found a patron for your next commission?”
“The fresco season in Siena is coming to an end, but there is panel work to be found during the colder months.”
Umiltà stared up at the wall over the doorway for an inordinately long time before she turned her gaze back to Gabriele. “The dark angel is quite different from the other three. She seems almost mortal, juxtaposed against the heavenly demeanor of her companions. And there is something curiously familiar about her face.” The dangerous direction of their interchange was conveniently rerouted by the arrival of a boisterous juggling troupe in parti-colored red and white, accompanied by two musicians playing a flute and small drum. By the time they had finished their performance, Umiltà had either lost her train of thought or deliberately chosen to abandon it.
Umiltà paused to inspect a loose thread at the edge of her sleeve. “The rector of the Ospedale of Santa Maria Alemanna in Messina is seeking to commission a set of altar panels for the chapel. Messina’s Ospedale is not equal to ours in scale or grandeur, but perhaps that opportunity might be of interest. You are almost finished with the Assumption, are you not?”
Gabriele felt the heat rise to his face. “I shall complete this fresco within the next two days, with God’s help, and I would be honored to be considered for the Messina commission.”
“That is excellent news. I have, in fact, already suggested to our rector that he bend his considerable influence toward your candidacy. A letter praising your work is on its way to Messina. It is an excellent time of year for travel south.” Umiltà smiled briefly and turned to enter the Ospedale. Gabriele lagged slightly behind to stare up at his painting. He had never spent much time examining it from below, and the novel perspective made it look unfamiliar. As he watched, his focus blurred, and he saw the fourth angel incline her head slightly to meet his gaze, her hair streaming out behind her like a dark flame.
PART VI
THE CONFIDANT
It took three days of steady riding to get to Pisa, but we had no more unpleasant surprises along the way. We traveled north to reach the Arno, then west toward the coast where Lugani’s ship would be waiting. At the first nightfall, we stopped at a roadside inn. There I made the unhappy discovery that Clara snored. I could stop the noise by kicking her under the covers of the bed we shared. She’d snort once and resume breathing more quietly for a while. I’d try to fall asleep before she started snoring again, but I rarely succeeded.
Along the road we passed a few imposing abbeys and castles that made me stare—I had seen photos in guidebooks, but instead of ruins they were alive and active. Imposing soldiers guarded the castle gates, and turrets bristled with brightly colored pennants. Abbeys were surrounded by fenced gardens or pens of livestock tended by robed monks. Lugani insisted we avoid the major towns, including San Gimignano and Poggibonsi, and after the first night in the inn, we found lodging with contado landholders. Apparently the wealth of Lugani’s party softened our arrival—several gold pieces exchanged hands to mutual satisfaction. The armed guards probably helped too. And each night of the trip, a guard kept watch outside our door.
We rode into Pisa as the Terce bells were sounding. Two guards at the gate lowered their weapons to let our party enter the walled city. A street lined with bustling shops ran along the gleaming curve of the Arno, and flags fluttered in the early fall breeze, displaying a white cross on a red ground. I could see two curved bridges spanning the water in the distance; one was an arcade, lined with small businesses. The broad walkways along the river teemed with pedestrians. As we crossed the Ponte Nuovo and faced north across the river, the great bell tower appeared, not yet finished but clearly already leaning. I suppressed a laugh at the tower that would become one of the most well-recognized buildings in history because of an architect’s mistake. Cane pulled up beside me after we crossed the bridge.
“Is there something you find amusing, Monna Trovato?”
He caught me off guard. “Oh, just the tower. It’s funny to see it in person finally, leaning already. One little error can make an architect famous—or infamous.”
“Have you seen paintings of the tower before?” Cane looked at me sharply and I realized I’d made a dangerous slip. “Or perhaps you have been here on an earlier occasion? Meeting your companions, the ones you said ‘moved on without you’ when you chose to stay in Siena? Ones who might, for example, be inclined to accost travelers en route to Pisa, and divide the spoils of the attack with you?” Now I saw what he suspected me of. It wasn’t anywhere near the truth, but it was a dangerous suspicion.
“I’ve been told about the tower,” I said, “that’s all.” It wasn’t clear he believed me.
Our first stop was Pisa’s Romanesque cathedral, where Lugani, with the same compassion he had shown at Antonio’s death, arranged the burial with the cathedral canons. He had me write a letter to the family Antonio left behind.
“Young Antonio was a short distance from home when he lost his life,” Lugani said quietly. “But the brief time he spent in our company proved his worth. We must express our gratitude to his family, along with the sad news. Would that we had instead news of his success.” He sighed as I transcribed his words onto parchment. I couldn’t figure the man out—so brusque but also unexpectedly sympathetic. The combination was strangely compelling.
It took almost a week to arrange our passage. Lugani had wanted to find a modern carrack to charter, faster and more efficiently rigged than the nave we eventually acquired—a flat-bottomed, but stable cargo vessel.
“Old-fashioned tub,” he said, with obvious irritation, but there was no other vessel of appropriate size available. At least it was watertight.
I knew Latin and Italian, but now I had to learn medieval nautical language; my head hurt from all the new vocabulary. Fore, aft, lateen sails, rigging . . . pyxis.
“Pyxis, isn’t that the round container used for Communion wafers? Will we be giving Mass on board?”
Lugani’s laughter was genuine. “Your questions never cease to amuse me. Your value in that regard far exceeds that of your predecessor. And he was considerably less attractive.”
“I would do an even better job if you would answer my questions directly,” I replied.
Lugani looked into my face with the surprise often engendered by my straightforward approach, but answered without comment this time. “Pyxis is a compass, named for the small round box which houses it, similar to the Host’s receptacle. We will all be as glad t
o have the direction afforded by that instrument on this voyage as we would be from the guidance of our Lord himself.”
I nodded. “Ideally we will have both.”
Lugani laughed and put his hand briefly on my shoulder. “We’ve work to do, though I do enjoy the exchange of wit, Signora. Back to writing.”
After the ship’s charter had been arranged, Lugani kept me busy writing contracts with local and distant merchants. The medieval wool trade included every part of the process, from the raw materials required—sheep’s wool, dyes, alum for fixing the dye—to finished woven cloth. I loved the names of the dyes—tintore di guado, indigo, madder, robbia, burnet, saffron, oricello. Strung together, they rang like an incantation of color. The most extraordinary was grana, a vivid and particularly long-lasting red made from the Coccus ilicis insect. It was used to color the bright and elegant scarlet cloth from which Lugani’s cloak was fashioned, appropriate to his power and wealth. The thought of making a dye by crushing thousands of Mediterranean insects was daunting.
I also recorded transactions for the purchase or transport of silk, medicinal herbs, olive oil, wine, leather, wax, armor, weapons, and some of the veined marble unique to Siena. Some contracts promised goods sent “salvi in terra”—delivery guaranteed, but at a price. A cheaper option was “at risicum et fortunam Dei, et gentium,” freeing the transporting merchant of responsibility for any unforeseen acts of God or men. It reminded me of the modern insurance business.
We were ready to sail before the end of the first week of October. By then we’d eaten all our perishables, and I decided I wanted to visit the city’s marketplace to restock. The day was cool, but the sunshine softened the autumnal edge in the air. I’d have to find a cloak before long. I bought a small woven basket and wandered through the stalls. I succumbed to piles of hazelnuts and earthy mushrooms, and a few fragrant bundles of the herbs that still grew outside at this time of year. The last of the season’s pears beckoned golden brown; I chose a few as a treat. I eyed some black and white hens squawking in wood-slatted pens, considering how nice fresh eggs would be. But then one let out a loud squawk and a spurt of avian excrement that made me reconsider. Instead I bought two dozen eggs, without the hens. Fish wouldn’t keep for a long voyage, but I stopped for a moment to watch their undulating bodies and flicking fins, letting the fall sunshine warm the back of my neck.
The Scribe of Siena Page 22