The Scribe of Siena

by Melodie Winawer

  “I have a matter of grave import to discuss today.” Iacopo’s voice squeaked, and he paused to collect himself.

  “What graver purpose can we have than to serve God through charitable works?” Ser Acciaioli bore his devotion like a badge as vivid as his family’s crest, spouting a relentless flow of piety to all within earshot.

  “Do you not have an answer for Ser Acciaioli, young Medici?” The objectionable adjective came from Ser Albizzi, a prominent member of the Arte di Lana—the guild of wool cloth-makers.

  “All in God’s name, and with God’s help,” Iacopo intoned. The eight other men nodded, apparently pleased by his answer. But the day’s agenda was long, and Iacopo’s business was postponed until after Ser Acciaioli completed a discussion of a program to supply bread to the urban poor through a subsidy to local bakers. The room was cold, and all the men kept their cloaks drawn about them. A fire in the hearth warmed mostly Ser Acciaioli, who, despite his preoccupation with the afterlife, always managed to sit closest to the earthly source of heat.

  Finally, it was Iacopo’s turn, and he cleared his throat. “I grieve my great father still.” A good beginning, he saw, as several of the Brotherhood nodded gravely.

  “As do we all,” Ser Albizzi said, but Iacopo felt a stab of worry—was Albizzi implying that the son was a poor substitute?

  “His plan should live on.”

  Albizzi’s gaze sharpened. “Ah. So your good father did take you into his confidence before his untimely death?”

  Iacopo swallowed, a lump in his throat. “He did, Ser.” The other members of the confraternity exchanged a shared, knowing glance. They do not trust me as they did my father—not yet.

  Albizzi gestured at the scribe, who was scratching dutifully away at his parchment. “Buonfiglio, you may leave now. Thank you for your service this evening.” The scribe bowed, gathered his papers, and left.

  “Tell us what you know, young Iacopo, and we will see how you might be useful to further our plan,” Acciaioli said, unfolding his long legs and leaning forward. “You are not your father, but perhaps you have enough of him in you to accomplish something of worth.”

  Iacopo wrestled with competing impulses: the desire to prove himself worthy of the Brotherhood’s trust, and rage at the fact that they had relegated him to this position of service, rather than recognizing the leadership he ought to have inherited. Caution, perhaps better called subservience, won out.

  “You will find me dedicated to the cause, as my father was, and capable.”

  Acciaioli’s narrow lips twitched doubtfully. “Your capacity will have to be demonstrated.”

  Iacopo sat as tall as he could in his father’s chair. “My father told me of the gentlemen in Siena who might support our cause against i Noveschi. I alone know the matter of his latest meetings, those which he arranged in the few days before his arrest and death. I joined him at the house of one of our conspirators in Siena, who now trusts me as he did my father, to further our shared cause.” The fact of the meeting with Signoretti was true—though the trust, in truth, had not yet been proven. But it would come. Iacopo saw Acciaioli nod, a hard-won, if subtle, sign of his approval.

  “I see. Do others of the Brotherhood see as well?” The eight concurred. “Then let us turn to the plans we have for Siena, our self-important little neighbor. There are many commune now in Siena’s grasp whose loyalty—and taxes—might be ours. The arable land that Siena holds could feed the citizens of Firenze—that grain could fill the mouths of our children with bread, and those grapes our goblets of wine. Since Montaperti the Sienese have paraded their victory, even now, when those who fought have turned to dust. Now it is time to put Siena in her place.” There was a rumble of aquiescence from around the table. Acciaoli took a deep breath and resumed. “There are, as the young Medici says, men in Siena whose dissatisfaction might make them easy to incite to rise against their own government. Brienne’s plans went astray, but with all we have rebuilt, the next attempt against Siena’s Nine should proceed more smoothly.” Nine, Iacopo thought—our nine pitted against theirs.

  Albizzi nodded. “Perhaps, then, we should begin by hearing what the young Medici has to say.”

  Iacopo told the Brotherhood of the plans his father had made, of Signoretti, and other men of noble families in Siena who might be used to overthrow the Nine, and thereby unwittingly deliver their own commune into Florentine waiting hands. As he spoke, he searched the faces regarding him from around the long table—some speculative, some withholding judgment, some opaque. It was not a ringing victory, but at least they all listened until he was done.

  The men were rising to leave when Iacopo lifted his hand again to speak. “One more thing, good Sers.”

  The scraping of chairs stopped as the men turned to face him again.

  “I have found the informer who brought my father to the hangman’s noose.”

  Ridolfi di Borgo raised one eyebrow. He held an influential position in the Arte di Calimala, the cloth-finisher’s guild. “Have you, Iacopo? Well then, do tell us what you have done with him.”

  “Done with him?”

  “Now that he has been found.”

  He is mocking me now. “I know his name, and his identity.”

  “And his whereabouts?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “How inconvenient. And what will you do when you find him again? Strangle the offender with your own hands and get yourself strung up by the same hangman who took your father’s life?”

  “I have a trustworthy man who is willing, for a reasonable fee, to bring this informer to justice.”

  “And do you know his whereabouts, this trustworthy man?”

  Iacopo’s vision swam, distorted by a spray of bright lights and an arc of geometric lines. Soon, he knew, the nausea and headache would follow. “He resides in Siena.”

  Ser Ridolfi grunted. “Indeed. Why don’t you start by telling us the informer’s name, and how you managed to lose him? Siena is not such a great city that a man can hide in it for . . . what has it been now? Six months? A full winter of disappearance.”

  Iacopo winced, recalling the failure of the sabotaged scaffolding, and then the months lost before he discovered the painter had left Siena on commission. He had spent the hard winter in Firenze struggling to take the reins of his father’s business, sifting through papers he could hardly understand, meeting with bankers who realized that the son was a poor substitute for the father. But as the winter’s hold began to break, a letter had arrived from Baldi, who had at last managed to discover where Accorsi was headed when he’d left Siena the previous fall. “His name is Gabriele Accorsi, a painter of no particular renown, one Siena would not be likely to mourn, or defend.”

  Ridolfi made a guttural sound.

  “My man discovered Accorsi’s departure from Siena just before the leaves began to turn. He was headed to Pisa,” Iacopo added.

  “And is he still in Pisa?” Ridolfi scowled. “That would be a manageable distance.”

  Iacopo’s head was throbbing; even the wavering candlelight pained his eyes. “I believe he followed a commission to Messina.”

  Ser Ridolfi laughed unpleasantly. “Messina. I see. So are you proposing that we pursue this third-rate painter across land and sea in an attempt to bring him to justice? And for what crime?”

  Iacopo flinched. “With his last words my father commended me to our confraternity’s good grace and support. My man in Siena has a plan to denounce Accorsi, and whatever crime he is accused of, I shall find witnesses, my father’s allies, who will testify against him.”

  “A denunciation for an invented crime, and calling false witnesses to trial? Iacopo, this is revenge, not justice, and with a criminal bent. Give it the name it deserves.” That was Albizzi now, his face grave.

  “Revenge and justice are here intertwined,” Iacopo insisted.

  Ser Ridolfi leaned back in his chair. “Your head is too small, Iacopo, for the grand thoughts within it.”


  “I have prayed fervently these past months for a manner in which to serve my father’s dying wishes. I appeal to you all to join me in my prayers.”

  Albizzi spoke, his voice soft but forceful. His wisdom and clear judgment lent him unofficial authority within the group. “Prayers we can promise. We value your filial piety, Iacopo, and your words are eloquent. However . . .”

  There was always a however.

  “. . . your plan is as yet ill-formed. You know the informant’s identity but he is too far from Firenze to pursue, and his whereabouts are not confirmed. In faith, I have heard news of a pestilence that has landed in Messina, borne from Caffa on merchant ships. For any of us, the dangers of travel to Messina are too great. In all likelihood, this informant of yours has already succumbed to the illness.” Iacopo swallowed, his saliva sour in his mouth. Albizzi was clearly not finished with his summary. “You plan to indict this Accorsi for some unnamed crime he has not committed, and bring him to trial. This might succeed were he in Siena, but his absence prevents any forthright action. Your proposal is too vague to merit further discussion.”

  Albizzi rubbed his hands together slowly, as if he were molding his thought between his fingers. “I propose that we adjourn for today. Iacopo, should the whereabouts of your Accorsi become clear, we will hear your plans in greater detail.” The seven remaining elders of the confraternity variously expressed their agreement, some in words, some with nods, Ridolfi with a grumble.

  Albizzi stood, the dark blue of his overmantle falling straight around him. All the rest rose in turn, bowing to one another and making their way up the stone steps and out of the palazzo, leaving Iacopo alone in the chair that dwarfed him. If they will not support me in my pursuit of Accorsi, then I must act alone. He sat silently, watching the fire burn down until it was only a faint orange glow of ashes in the hearth.

  * * *

  After the meeting of the confraternity, Iacopo penned a letter to Baldi in Siena, demanding news of the painter. Baldi’s response took nearly a month to arrive, coming at the beginning of March, and he reported neither word nor sign of Accorsi. Was a bit more gold forthcoming? He was certain that would advance his search. The Duomo was being enlarged—did Ser Medici wish to know? A crew of workers had been hired to make Siena’s cathedral greater than Firenze’s own duomo. Perhaps Accorsi would be called back with a commission to decorate the new transept? Iacopo saw the offhand news for what it was—a Sienese barb directed at his Florentine pride. He composed a letter in response:

  When I return to Siena, we will discuss your fee. In the interim seek out the Accorsi household, to find word of the painter’s whereabouts. If he should set foot in Siena again, proceed to set the wheels of justice against him, in the manner that we have discussed. You will denounce him, and I will procure witnesses to testify against the painter. I will send word when I arrive.

  Iacopo found reason to return to Siena in mid-March; the confraternity had agreed it was time to revisit the Signoretti household, and determine whether the casati gentleman’s collaboration could be assured. “See how you manage this meeting,” Ser Acciaioli had said, loud enough so that the confraternity could all hear that the mission was a test of his capacity. “And if you deport yourself well, perhaps other responsibilities will be forthcoming.” Iacopo felt like a lone pawn on a chessboard, weak and easy to sacrifice. Though a pawn could, if it advanced far enough, rise higher than its origins—even to become a queen.

  Ser Signoretti received Iacopo, if not with warmth, then at least with acquiescence. In Signoretti’s studium where Iacopo had once proudly accompanied his father, now he entered alone, and the room that had been warm that previous summer now was drafty, dark, and cold. Iacopo stood in front of Ser Signoretti’s desk, feeling the nobleman’s scrutiny like a knife scraping across his skin. At last, after an unbearably long silence, Signoretti spoke.

  “You have come, I assume, to resume where we left off? You must know many things have changed since then.”

  Iacopo had rehearsed this moment a hundred times on the journey to Siena, and the words, he was relieved to find, came smoothly.

  “Ser Signoretti, times change like the weather, but those with a firm purpose stay the course despite storms, with a strong hand on the tiller. Our purpose is as strong as it ever was; perhaps stronger. And the benefit you stand to gain remains just as desired.”

  Signoretti made a guttural sound. “I would like to trust that the son who stands before me can promise what the father offered—the father who was hanged as a criminal by our own courts—and I would like to be as certain as possible that no taint of that crime should stain our family name, which we guard, as we well should, with great care and pride.”

  Iacopo nodded gravely. He felt, at that moment, his father’s mission weighing on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. “My father died for this cause, and I am his successor. He sent me to meet you with that aim in mind. I come with the strong support of the Brotherhood of San Giovanni, and we shall, of course, do all we can to keep your family’s position secure in this time of change.” Iacopo knew, by the set of the nobleman’s head, that he had spoken well this time. Now there was one more item to be discussed: Accorsi.

  “In return for our support, Ser Signoretti, both political and financial”—Iacopo with some deliberateness adjusted the pouch of gold coins at his waist, letting them clink audibly—“in return for our support, I would ask one small favor in return. . . .” Ser Signoretti leaned forward to listen, seduced by the promise of power and gold. I have him now, Iacopo thought exultantly, I have him now.

  When Iacopo returned to Firenze with a letter signed by Ser Signoretti’s hand confirming his allegiance against i Noveschi, even Ser Ridolfi acknowledged Iacopo’s success. The winter cold subsided and the trees began to bud. And with the spring came the weapon the Brotherhood could use to strike Siena at her heart.

  * * *

  This time, Ridolfi and Acciaioli met with Iacopo at night, and alone. The fire was lit but the corners of the cavernous chamber were dark and seemed to Iacopo to be filled with malevolent shadows.

  “You have shown your dedication to the cause,” Ser Acciaioli said, showing his teeth in a cold imitation of what might have been a smile on someone else, “and competence in dealing with a man your father called an ally. He would be pleased.”

  The praise made Iacopo uneasy, coming from Acciaioli.

  “Ser, I welcome the opportunity to serve my commune, and bring my father’s plans to fruition.”

  Ser Acciaioli’s teeth flashed white in the firelight. “It is good to hear such a renewal of your purpose, Iacopo, particularly now, when loyalties are tested, and success depends on the devotion of men who do not waver from the path. Would you not agree, Ser Ridolfi?”

  “Indeed. These are trying times.” Ridolfi had positioned himself so that Iacopo could not look at both men at the same moment, but had to turn his head from one to the other as they addressed him. “It seems our Iacopo might rise to the challenge, given the chance. Would you concur, Ser Acciaioli?”

  Acciaioli nodded gravely. “It does appear so. I am encouraged that in the young Medici we have found our man.”

  At last, my time has come. They will acknowledge my birthright, and my contribution to the plan against Siena. Iacopo sat up straighter in his chair.“You shall not regret any task you set me.”

  Ridolfi’s next question was a surprise. “How fares the search for your painter—Accorsi, did you call him?”

  Why do they ask me this now? Is this some test, and if so, what must I do to pass it? Iacopo felt his face flush and welcomed the dark of the room. “I have not found him yet. But I know now where he lives, and the house is watched. And Ser Signoretti has vowed to stand against him in the Podestà’s court. I am well positioned to achieve my father’s aims.”

  Ridolfi’s eyes flickered toward Acciaioli before settling on Iacopo’s face again. “Iacopo, we have a plan that would bring your father’s informant to justice,
and also serve the larger purpose—to bring Siena under Florentine control.”

  “Certainly I would be proud to be its instrument.” Instrument, I should not have used that word. Instrument is a word they would use. But Ridolfi and Acciaioli both nodded gravely, cementing his pledge.

  “That is excellent news, most excellent news, Iacopo de’ Medici.” Thus, Iacopo swore fealty to the cause before he knew the extent of what he would be required to do. And once he had heard, once the two members of his father’s confraternity set out the plan before him in its chilling detail, it was too late to refuse.

  * * *

  Iacopo had heard news of the malady, brought by traders from the Orient, newly arrived in Firenze. Those infected died an agonizing death, bulging with purulent buboes at the groin and under the arms, and drowning in their own bloody vomitus. When it began to spread from one member of a household to the next, then to the doctors who came to minister to the sick, and finally to the priests who gave the dying their last rites, word spread faster than the disease itself of its rare, rapid contagion. The Mortalità, men began to call it, the great death, for with it came a certainty of destruction far beyond any illness known. Ser Acciaioli, righteous in the pursuit of the piety he declared was his shield against contagion, addressed the full meeting of the Brotherhood in the chamber beneath the Medici palazzo. “Our efforts to raise a rebellion among Siena’s casati have been too small, and too slow.” There, he announced the plan that he and Ser Ridolfi had formed against Siena. And Iacopo, Acciaioli said with a grim smile, would be the one to carry it out. “God has provided us with a weapon, in this Mortalità,” he said. “Iacopo, having proven his dedication, and his worth, shall be the one to wield it.” Iacopo watched the faces around the table mouth their assent, but he could not hear the words for the roaring in his ears.