“What, now?”
“The Museo opens at eleven on Saturdays.” Donata called Ilario to alert him to her plans, and at my insistence, we left without washing the dishes.
We walked to the Museo. After a week of nasty weather the sun had finally emerged, and everyone was outside, enjoying the break from winter. In my head I was in the tiny chapel of Messina’s Ospedale again, walking through the slanting beams of sunlight. Donata read my mood and didn’t break the silence. I was aware of her at my side, matching my pace, and was happy to have the quiet company.
After consulting the museum floor plan we went straight to the right gallery. I saw the altarpiece right away, hanging on the far wall of the room. I crossed the length of the gallery slowly, as if I were walking through water. As I stood in front of the painting, I started to cry.
“Beatrice, what’s the matter?” Donata put her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not finished.”
“Is that such a tragedy, cara?”
I looked at the painting through my tears—four saints in the panels above: Christopher, Luke, Placidus, Nicholas—and the predella below, recounting the life of the Virgin. And there was Paola-Mary with her fearful face and outstretched hand, still warding off the news of the Annunciation. But as hard as I stared, I saw nothing that had not been there before. If he’d finished it I would have known he’d lived. I was crying too hard to look any longer, and I felt Donata lead me by the hand to a padded bench in the center of the gallery. I sat there with my head bent, sobbing steadily.
“You must care quite deeply about this painter to be moved so by his work.” Donata spoke quietly.
“Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I’m glad you’re an art historian,” I said finally, my throat aching. It must have struck her as bizarre that I was sitting here in anguish over an unfinished altarpiece.
“You mean so that I can understand your grief?”
That made me start crying again. I took a deep breath. “Donata?”
“Carissima?”
“If I can’t finish this book of Ben’s, do you think you might be able to help finish it, and get it published?”
“Post-Plague recovery isn’t really my area of expertise, Beatrice.”
“It wasn’t mine either, until recently. But what if you had all my notes, could you do it?”
“Is there something that might keep you from finishing? I hope not an illness, God forbid.”
“No, nothing like that.” I took a deep breath. “If I disappear again, please don’t worry about me.”
She pulled back and looked closely at my face. “What are you planning? You can’t be suggesting you want to end your life because of an unfinished painting.”
That made me laugh, even through tears. “No, I’m not that theatrical, but if it happens, don’t worry about me.”
She sat silently for a moment. “You want me to accept this without understanding why?”
“Please,” I said. “I can’t explain.”
She nodded once, looking troubled. “I’ll try.”
I hugged her then, the warmth and solidity of her body rooting me, at least for that moment, in the present.
* * *
My Gabriele-inspired gallantry to the archivist paid off; the phone rang just as I was walking into the house. Emilio said he’d found another Medici document from the period, and perhaps I’d want to take a look? I hadn’t even taken off my coat, so I turned around and walked back out the door.
The crypt felt colder today—maybe my imagination, since it was probably climate controlled to within a nano-degree. Emilio welcomed me with new warmth; we were drinking buddies now. He went to fetch the document, encased in the usual archival swaddling. It was a ledger, and as I extracted it carefully my ears hummed. Emilio’s voice came to me muffled, as if from a distance.
“I thought I might look through Siena’s records for any other mention of fourteenth-century Medicis. As I’m sure you know, the family did not rise to prominence until the sixteenth century and there is relatively little from this earlier period. I went through the transcribed proceedings of the Biccherna, Siena’s financial governing body. It’s mostly ledgers, the sort of thing one might not look at . . . unless one had a particular interest.” With the emphasis on his last words he smiled a conspiratorial smile. “This ledger is interesting because it’s not Sienese at all; I think it was misfiled—it is not from the Biccherna. The accounting is more typically Florentine, as are the names. And there are a few mentions of the Medicis.”
I opened to the first page and read:
Monies owed to Giovanni de’ Medici for safe transport of luxury goods on behalf of a client with interests in Avignon—70 fiori in gold—
And the date was right—1347. I slowly went through the entries on the next few pages, struggling to read the faded lines. Then I found a familiar name—Signoretti. A lot of money went to Signoretti—first in 1347, but more in 1348 and 1349. And not only Signoretti—I recognized other names of noble Sienese families listed in this Medici ledger, with big numbers next to them—now that I understood medieval currency I knew how big they were. I looked up at Emilio, who was smiling strangely at me.
“I hope the mention of your late brother won’t upset you, Dottoressa, but it seems Signor Trovato was quite interested in the same book you have in your hand. I found his name in the call records.”
It was upsetting, but exhilarating too. I was on the right track. And my hands were touching a book Ben had probably held just before he died. “Thank you for letting me know,” I said. “I’m proud to be following in his footsteps.” It sounded trite, but I meant it.
“Why don’t I leave you alone with it for a while,” Emilio said gently, and moved away between the shelves. I looked back down at the little book. “Ben,” I whispered, “help me out here. What am I supposed to be seeing?” I don’t really believe in communicating with the dead, but there was something eerie about the way the book fell open to a new page. The handwriting here looked driven by some extreme emotion or pressing need. On the page were more payments, this time in fiorini d’oro—gold florins—to a man with only one name: Angelo. The payments went on for many dates, exorbitantly high amounts, but the reason for the payments wasn’t noted. Then, on the next page, a list started, and it didn’t look like a ledger anymore. It was a list of names, all in that pressured, tense handwriting. I read through the names, recognizing some, including Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, the famous Siena brothers who painted the Sala della Pace. Emilio came back as I was puzzling over the rest, and I showed him the list. He read through it silently.
“I would have to check to be certain,” he said, frowning. I held my breath. “Some of the names on this list include those lost to the 1348 to 1349 plague in Siena. Though it might be something else entirely that links them, of course.”
What on earth was a list of Siena’s most prominent dead citizens doing in a Medici ledger? I felt suddenly cold, thinking of some Florentine nobleman bent over the names, gloating.
“I need a lot more time to get through this book,” I said, hoarsely. Perhaps assuming I was overcome by sisterly emotion, which was only partially true, Emilio nodded kindly. He wrapped the ledger carefully for me, and I tucked it into my bag and apologized silently for yet again taking advantage of the archivist’s trust. I headed out of the library, my mind reeling.
* * *
I had a voice mail from the Duomo visitors’ center waiting for me when I got home. They had a book that matched my description, found in early July. I could come in tomorrow to retrieve it.
I sat down at my kitchen table, feeling shaky. I closed my eyes and imagined the scriptorium at the Ospedale, the feel of fresh parchment under my hand, the scent of Egidio’s paper-making rising in the steam from a kettle in the corner. I heard the sounds of morning prayer and the pealing of the Prime bells. Did Clara and Provenzano escape the Plague? Did Ysabella become a full-fledged healer? Had she ev
en survived? The Black Death would have torn its way through Siena by now. By then. I opened my eyes again to the cream-colored walls of the little kitchen.
I remembered the ledger from the crypt and went to retrieve it from my bag. It was clearly the Medici family’s, with Giovanni’s name earlier, and Iacopo’s in some of the later entries. I scanned a page tallying shipping tariffs, and as I turned to the next set of entries two loose pieces of parchment fell from the book and drifted to the floor. They were letters—two different letters—and the handwriting on both pages matched the earlier ledger entries.
I am being held in a cell awaiting trial for the dispatch of that night watchman who presumed foolishly to block our way. If he had known that it is wiser to let a businessman go about his business undisturbed, he might still be alive today. . . .
I turned to the next page, my heart skittering.
I find that the unexpected Confinement and restriction of my Liberty has made me long for the company of my Family, those in whom love and loyalty for the commune runs as deep as the blood that links us. . . . I bid you to come with the Greatest Haste . . . to stand at my side so that I may have some Reminder of a life outside these walls. Keep this letter to yourself, my son, a silent knowledge between us.
I was holding letters Giovanni de’ Medici had sent to his son in the few weeks before his execution. His son, Iacopo, of uncertain birth. I put the ledger aside but not what I’d discovered hidden in it—that I was going to keep, at least for a while. I silently apologized to Emilio in my head.
Next I dove into Ben’s collection of books; it might be my last opportunity to learn about Siena’s past through modern eyes. I skimmed through titles and opened a few, not knowing exactly what I was looking for. I reminded myself of the Plague’s timeline and I read quickly through several texts, trying to memorize as many useful facts as I could.
I left Ben’s bedroom for last. Books were still piled on the bed table and the floor, all covered with a layer of dust. I’d looked through them on my first visit, but this time I found something I’d missed. At the bottom of one pile, hidden in the pages of a dog-eared copy of Asterix the Gaul, was a nondescript-looking manila envelope. Inside that was another envelope, unmistakably archival. Ben must have hidden it here, maybe because he was suspicious of his rival scholars. Having had my own experiences with their willingness to go as far as was necessary to achieve their aims, I was not surprised.
The document inside was a fragment of a single letter. The recipient’s name and the signature were both missing, but the text made my skin prickle with fear.
Conception of the Blessed Virgin, 1348
Now that Accorsi is back in Siena, you must seek him out and go forward with the plan we have discussed. The painter must pay the price for his testimony. Send me word when it is done.
And so I learned two things, in one wonderful and awful moment. Gabriele had survived the Plague, and someone was planning to kill him. I could not continue to read crumbling documents in my own ineffectual century for a minute longer. I took the papers with me and closed the door on Ben’s dusty room.
* * *
It was time to pack. Assuming I could get back, I needed a lot more than I’d come with the first time. First, I dumped the contents of my medicine cabinet into a bag, including my new self-prescribed antibiotics. Then I moved on to clothing. The blue dress I’d come home in had been destroyed during my hospitalization for fear of infected fleas, but I found a nice medieval replica in a historical reenactment boutique, along with a warm wool cloak with a hood. I added two pairs of wool tights and then assembled a pile of bras and underwear. It wasn’t as crucial as antibiotics, but I’d missed modern lingerie on my last trip. In Ben’s closet I found an old camping canteen that looked vaguely medieval. I searched in the pantry: a package of whole wheat crackers, dried currants, almonds. What else? I still had the necklace from my mother and added whatever jewelry I could wear; I wasn’t certain the bag would come with me. I’d return Fabbri’s ledger but I kept the papers I’d found inside it.
I still had the letter from Donata inviting me for coffee, the one that had brought me home. I found it in a drawer of my desk, creased and grubby but still legible. I folded it carefully and packed it too. The person is the portal, not the place . . . maybe I would need it again someday.
I put my last letter to Nathaniel in an envelope, addressed it, and added a stamp. I left it on the kitchen table, then brushed my teeth and went to bed. I needed sleep before my appointment early the next morning with a 650-year-old journal.
* * *
It was Gabriele’s book, looking old again, the way it had when I’d first seen it. My hands shook when the docent handed it to me. I thanked her, and she looked at me oddly, probably wondering what kind of idiot would leave something so obviously important, then wait six months to retrieve it. Fortunately, no one seemed to have opened it and discovered what it really was. I curtsied by mistake, a medieval habit, and fled before I could make any more errors.
I wanted to be in the Ospedale to read the journal this time, someplace that felt like home. I followed the route I’d learned in two different centuries until I was looking at the blank space over the entryway where Gabriele’s Assumption had once been.
Instead of entering through the front door, I headed for the Cappella delle Fanciulle—Young Women’s Chapel—that led into the Pellegrinaio delle Donne, my first medieval home. Inside I hardly recognized it—the chapel was decorated with fifteenth-century frescoes—the Trinity, a scene of women praying at Christ’s tomb, the Crucifixion, and a fourth labeled the Madonna of Mercy. I moved closer to see the angels holding the Virgin’s mantle, and the worshippers at her feet, praying for protection. I imagined myself among them, looking up into the Virgin’s radiant face. There was no one else in the room. I opened the journal to the last page of writing, and began to read.
I cannot paint now, as I am too weak to stand, and I can barely wield a pen. I have taken the last of your bitter tablets, Beatrice. The bitterness reminds me, by contrast, of the sweetness of your face. After you left me, I felt a sudden tear in the fabric of my knowledge of you, as if you had gone a great distance, beyond the reach of my soul. I pray that this is not a sign of your departure from the world of mortal men—and women.
I know now, because of what you have told me, that this book will survive me. It may therefore serve as a medium through which I can speak with you in your own time. With that knowledge I write now, imagining that your eyes might gaze upon this page, and through it, know my thoughts. I hope, for both our sakes, that you have gone far enough to be free from the grip of the dark beast that claws now at my lungs and burns my skin with fever. Perhaps you have found a path back to your own century, and if so, and if it is a haven for you, I bid you stay, free of danger. But if I survive this terrible ailment, and the way for you is safe, I pray, with all the strength that remains in my body, that you will come back to me, and to our Siena, where we may intertwine our lives before my family and in God’s name.
With all my love and prayers for your safety, and your return,
Your Gabriele
Messina 1347
It was the last entry. I felt the little book slip from my hands, but I never heard the sound I expected—there was no thump of the journal as it met the ground. Instead it fell soundlessly, endlessly, as if it were traveling a great distance, into a chasm rather than to the marble floor beneath my feet.
PART X
TESTIMONY
It was much worse this time: maybe because I knew how far I might be going, and how much I was leaving behind. As I fell, I imagined the ties to those I loved stretching to the breaking point. I saw Donata stirring risotto, Nathaniel smiling at me over a dusty book jacket, Linney pulling off her blue surgical cap on the way out of the operating room. I could hear a high-pitched whine, and felt a thump of pressure in my ears.
I don’t know if I could bear to do this again, I thought as the pain in my head reach
ed an agonizing peak. When the pain stopped, I stood in a candlelit room staring at blank plaster; the painting of the Madonna was gone. That meant I’d arrived before 1500. It struck me, too late, that I had no certainty that I’d landed in the right century. The chapel had a small wooden altar, and a few unadorned benches lined up in rows. Fat wax candles in iron sconces were spaced around the walls, their flames flickering in the darkness. It was cold—an unremitting medieval cold with nothing but a banked hearth to warm the room.
My bag had made it through with me, but not the journal. Maybe that was a sign that I’d come into the time when it belonged to a living Gabriele? It could also mean the journal didn’t exist yet because I’d come too early. I heard footsteps outside the chapel; they stopped just short of the door, giving me time to think. If it were someone I knew, that would confirm the time I’d come into. If it were someone I didn’t know, I’d have more problems than just not knowing the date. A light flared outside the doorway. I could see a shadow thrown by the newly lit lamp, but not the shadow’s owner. The footsteps receded and I breathed again. As I made my way toward Umiltà’s studium, the city bells began to ring for Prime.
Church bells ring all the time in New York City, but their impact is weakened by all the other noise competing for attention—cell phones, car horns, sirens. Here the campanile’s bells spoke with undiluted power, and for me the call to prayer sounded both a welcome and a warning: Siena holds you tightly in her arms now, and this time you will stay.
As the last peal faded, I knocked at the door of Umiltà’s studium. Even if it was the right year, I didn’t know whether Umiltà, or anyone else I knew, had survived the Plague. When the door swung open, revealing Umiltà herself, I almost burst out crying with relief.
“God be praised, and the angels in heaven above us, thanks be to Saint Christopher patron of travelers, holy Maurus and Placidus who brought you forth unharmed from far-off Messina, Ansanus, Savinus, Crescentius, and Victor, who protect the devoted citizens of Siena, and Santa Maria herself, who must in truth hold you in the palm of her hand.” Umiltà, bless her, hadn’t changed a bit. I threw myself into her tiny, wiry embrace and stayed there, my face buried against her wool-covered shoulder.
The Scribe of Siena Page 33