The Scribe of Siena
Page 34
“Beatrice, whatever happened to you? It is more than a year since you left with that scoundrel Lugani.” She went on before I could formulate a response: “We all worried terribly after you left. First that you might have fallen prey to the evils of the road, second that Messer Lugani might have kept you from leaving his employ, and third, once we heard of the devastation emanating from the south, that you had succumbed to the Mortalità. Beatrice, in truth, to see you whole and well on this bitter January morning is truly a miracle.”
It was, though she couldn’t know the extent of the miracle that had saved me. More than a year, she’d said, and nicely provided me with the month. So it was January 1349.
“I was so afraid that everyone had died. It must have been awful here, from what I saw in Messina.”
“The Great Death struck Siena with a ferocity that knew no equal,” Umiltà said, pounding a fist into her open palm. “I shall never forget the terrible scenes I witnessed. The images come back to me at all hours of the day, visions of death and decay, and the wails of those who remained to mourn their losses haunt my dreams. Our own Fra Bosi, who kept the Ospedale alight with the fire of the written word, is gone. The Mortalità took him before the first frost, along with half of Siena’s souls. Those of us who remain have so many to mourn we have no space left—neither in our graves, nor in our hearts.”
My former boss, the irascible but generous guardian of the Ospedale library, was gone. I remembered Bosi sitting on the Ospedale steps weeping for the fate of his burning books, and I felt the tears start in my own eyes.
“Beatrice, I have asked God many times why some were taken while others were left to witness what felt like the end of the world. We lost the Lorenzetti brothers—their brushes halted forever—and countless others whose souls gave life to Siena. Those who planned the enlargement of the Duomo also fell prey to the Mortalità, leaving us with the shell of our hopes for the great new nave that would proclaim our devotion throughout Christendom. Many have suffered across many lands, but at times it has seemed to us here in Siena as if someone aimed directly at our heart, our art, our aspirations, and our beliefs, and tried to snuff us out not just by death but by despair, with great and evil deliberation.”
I felt cold. What if she was right and someone did have it in for Siena? Was that what Ben had been on the verge of discovering, with his letter from a grieving Medici wife about her troubled son? With ledgers listing payments to Sienese noblemen and someone mysteriously named only Angelo? Did it have anything to do with the connections I’d discovered between the Signoretti and Medici families? Was there a nefarious reason why a Medici ledger would have a list of Siena’s plague deaths tucked inside it, and that the modern Signoretti would try to stop me from finding out more? The pieces of the puzzle shuffled themselves in my head but failed to make a coherent picture. Even if a conspiracy had existed—how could conspiracy translate into pestilence? People conspired, but diseases didn’t.
While my mind raced, Umiltà continued. “You must tell me your story at length, Beatrice, but there is little time now. The painter Accorsi is called to trial today, for homicide. Are you prepared to testify? The Ospedale is assembling witnesses on his behalf.”
“Homicide?” Gabriele was alive, but accused of murder? “How could he have killed anyone? The last time I saw him he was dying in a chapel in Messina.”
Umiltà raised her eyebrows so high they disappeared under her wimple. “Indeed? You left him dying in a chapel? How uncharitable. The Pestilence has brought its share of regretful behavior in its wake, but I would not have imagined it from you. This trial is your opportunity to atone for your callousness—praise God who allows us to repent. And all this happened more than a year ago? Whatever have you been doing since? Were you in Messer Lugani’s employ all this time? Egidio feared you had died, as did we all.” It sounded like Egidio was okay then, or at least alive. I opened my mouth to answer, but Umiltà held up her hand to stop me. It was just as well, since I hadn’t come up with anything sensible to say.
“Beatrice, we shall have to leave these troubling questions for another occasion. I will tell you what you need to know for the trial, and you will vouch for the painter’s character. The defamation is surely false, but we must convince the court so that the case will be dismissed. I would hate to see Ser Accorsi hang.” Umiltà ushered me out of her studium.
So would I, I thought, trying not to panic.
“Thanks be to God we are not governed like France, where two citizens speaking ill of a person is enough to prove guilt. This fama must be put to rest for what it is: rumor, or worse, deliberate lies.” I too was glad Siena wasn’t like France. “Messer Accorsi had just returned from Messina when the Podestà’s police force paid him a visit. He was brought up on charges and imprisoned until the matter could be brought to trial.”
Why didn’t he finish the painting? How did he get back? Did his family survive? I envisioned Gabriele pushing open the front door of his uncle’s house to meet the untended corpses of his relatives, the fragrance of Martellino’s baking bread replaced by the stench of death. But it was just fear, not empathic vision. More than half of Siena’s inhabitants had died in the Plague of 1348—what was the chance that Martellino, Bianca, Ysabella, Rinaldo, and little Gabriella had all survived? And Clara? Umiltà hadn’t mentioned her, but she might have died in Messina where I’d left her.
“Ser Accorsi was denounced by an informant,” Umiltà continued grimly as we stepped from a narrow street into the thin winter sun of the Campo, “an anonymous informant. The painter was accused of killing Cristoforo Buonaventura, of the night watch.”
This was blatantly outrageous. “Giovanni de’ Medici killed him! I was at the trial when he was convicted and hanged.”
“The informant seeks to overturn the verdict and clear the Medici name. He avers that Ser Accorsi made his accusation to deflect suspicion from himself.”
“And one anonymous letter to the Podestà is enough to throw the whole process of justice on its head? That’s ridiculous!” Fear laced my indignation.
“I have heard there is a witness prepared to confirm that Ser Accorsi brought Ser Buonaventura to his death.” A witness. What witness? I saw the net drawing tight, with Gabriele at the center. And here I was, heading straight into it.
Umiltà put a hand on my shoulder to calm my obvious anxiety. “I am certain it is a false charge; our painter is no murderer. The details will be revealed at the trial, and there, you will testify and, God willing, all will be well again and Accorsi released from prison.” All I could do was nod. It was a relief to be back in Umiltà’s presence again, where things always got taken care of. Maybe this is what it would have been like to have a mother.
“Well, then, your arrival is well timed,” Umiltà said briskly. It was surprisingly difficult to keep up with her. I couldn’t see her legs beneath her gown and robe, but I imagined them spinning around in a blur, like the Road Runner’s in old cartoons from my childhood.
“Where are we going?” I panted as we headed out of the Ospedale.
“The Iudex Maleficiorum likes to hear the most serious crimes—treason, homicide, blasphemy—before dinner. He leaves the minor offenses—petty thievery, defamation, and such—for later in the day.”
That’s a nice orderly approach to the administration of justice. I always preferred to have my most complicated OR cases early in the morning too. We were out in the Piazza del Duomo now, and turning onto the street that led to the Campo. Something from my bag was digging into my back but I couldn’t stop to readjust.
“What is the Iudex Maleficiorum?” It sounded nasty in Latin.
“The criminal judge appointed by the Podestà. Is Lucca’s system of justice really so different from ours here in Siena?”
“Oh . . . we just have a different word for it.” Umiltà accepted my explanation.
“Now, Beatrice,” she said, steering me by my elbow, “are you well enough acquainted with the painter to speak in
his defense?”
I floundered, not knowing how much to reveal. “He did save me from the fire, you know that, of course. We met periodically after that. Accidentally, of course, when he was painting the Ospedale fresco. It was right outside the scriptorium windows.”
Umiltà stopped walking, and I stopped next to her. She was looking at me with a penetrating stare.
I felt my face get hot. “Messer Accorsi and I also happened to be on the same ship to Messina. You know he had a commission there?”
“I helped him secure that commission,” Umiltà said.
“Oh, really? That was nice of you.” Clearly it was best not to underestimate Umiltà. “I was certainly happy to find him on board. I mean, his presence was most welcome, since he took it upon himself to protect me. Messer Accorsi is quite chivalrous.”
“Indeed, I can see the painter has made an impression upon you.” I wasn’t sure whether Umiltà looked amused or disapproving.
The Palazzo Pubblico occupied the low point of the sloping piazza; it felt like we were succumbing to the pull of its gravity as we approached. I remembered Giovanni de’ Medici’s face, his features leonine and merciless. He’d been hanged for a murder Gabriele was now accused of committing. A murder to which Gabriele had once been the sole witness, though now another witness had appeared for the second round. Someone wanted revenge for Giovanni’s death.
. . . The painter must pay the price for his testimony. Send me word when it is done.
Back in modern Siena this was an absorbing academic question worthy of publication; now it meant Gabriele’s survival. Which of the surviving Medicis wanted revenge—his wife, Immacolata? His putative son, Iacopo, absent birth records notwithstanding? I was thinking so hard I didn’t hear Umiltà’s question.
“Can you speak on his behalf? You have not answered me.” Umiltà stopped at the main entrance of the Palazzo. The white stone of the building’s first story was bright against the red brick above, and the castle-like crenellations on the top of the Palazzo looked like they were moving, silhouetted against shifting clouds. I pulled my eyes away to look at Umiltà.
“Of course. But what sort of questions will I be expected to answer?”
“If you knew the facts you might be asked to provide them, but in this case you will simply vouch for the painter’s character.”
Character I could do. But I had more than character. If the documents I’d brought from the twenty-first century had made the trip through time with me, then I had hard evidence too. And I’d have to figure out how to use it, fast.
* * *
The Sala del Mappamondo, the Council Hall of the Palazzo Pubblico, was jammed with people. I scanned the room but couldn’t find Gabriele. A massive wooden wheel attached to the far wall of the sala was painted with a map that had given the room its name, and that I knew wouldn’t survive the centuries. On the opposite wall a fresco depicted a Madonna enthroned, surrounded by angels and saints. Donata would know the artist, I thought, but I had someone else to ask now. I leaned down to the level of Umiltà’s ear.
“That Maestà, who painted it?”
“Why, Simone Martini, of course, our own departed master, and Accorsi’s teacher. I hope the Maestro’s work above him will give him strength in his own defense.”
“Where is Ser Accorsi?”
“He will be kept under guard until his name can be cleared.” Umiltà’s voice dropped a few decibels. “Do not despair, Beatrice. He will not be harmed in any way before the trial. Afterward, depending on the outcome, I may not be able to protect him. But I will do everything in my power to see him acquitted.” I wanted to believe her power would be sufficient.
* * *
Back in my own time, I had often tried to remember Gabriele’s face. But I’d always failed, and the further I got from my break with the past, the harder it had become. I’d stored a shorthand description of his features, but those made a catalog of details, not a coherent picture. So when I saw Gabriele again in person, I was not at all prepared.
He was escorted by two menacing armed guards wearing parti-colored tunics of Siena’s black and white. I saw him from behind, but even that view of him cut through me with an intensity that was almost painful. I took in the way his arms rested against his sides, the measured grace of his steps. There were no jeers from the crowd, or even whispered comments; the assembled citizens felt his gravity, and respected it. As Gabriele entered the sala, he lifted his head and tilted it to the side in that gesture I knew, like a falcon listening. I could see part of his face now, his right ear, the slope of one cheek with several days’ growth of beard, the straight profile of his nose, and in seconds, the real Gabriele took the place of months of inadequate imagination.
A court official began the proceedings with a bow to the judge. “Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, a citizen of the Commune of Siena, has been accused of the murder of Cristoforo Buonaventura, a guard of the night watch. We are assembled to hear the testimony of witnesses, and to resolve the question of his guilt.”
I shot a look at Umiltà, whose eyes were narrow with anger. “Someone has accused him of the selfsame crime for which he bore witness. It reeks of vendetta, Beatrice,” she hissed. Vendetta. The word sounded just like what it meant—vengeful and dangerous.
As the first witness was called my heart sank: Ser Vitalis Signoretti. He wore a belted red velvet tunic embroidered with an intricate pattern of diamonds in gold, and over that, a dark blue cloak lined with fur. Was I really going to go to bat against this powerful nobleman with only a scrap of time-traveling parchment to support Gabriele’s defense? And if I won, what would Gabriele’s and my future be like with Signoretti as an enemy, in addition to a vengeful Florentine?
As Signoretti was led to the witness stand, my head went in another direction. Why was Signoretti testifying now, against an innocent man? Did Signoretti actually think he had information linking Gabriele to the crime, or had he been bought? I thought of the Medici ledger, with its columns of payments to this member of Siena’s casati. Gabriele’s denunciation of Giovanni would have made him a Medici target, and it was possible that some remaining Medici was using Signoretti as a weapon.
“On the night in question, I overheard an argument through a window facing the street—of course my family and I were well inside by curfew.” He spoke with the infuriating confidence that comes with being born into privilege. “I opened the shutters and saw Ser Accorsi, who stands before you today, in conversation with the much-mourned Ser Buonaventura. I overheard Ser Buonaventura demanding an explanation for Ser Accorsi’s late-night wanderings. Their words became heated, and the crime for which he has been detained followed.” It was all going to rest on the force of one witness against another, one a marginally solvent fatherless painter and the other a powerful member of the aristocracy. Unless I could tip the scales.
I leaned over to open my bag. A clerk was reading the denunciation verbatim now. I felt the desperation that comes when you suddenly realize, at your doorstep, that you might have lost your keys. Was it still here?
There, squeezed between my jewelry case and five bras, was the envelope I was looking for. I said a silent prayer to the god of primary sources and time travel as I pulled out the letters from Giovanni to Iacopo, written during Giovanni’s imprisonment. They looked new again, back in the century where they had been written.
The Iudex Malificiorum, a big-jowled, appropriately ominous-looking administrator of justice, spoke from his great wooden chair. His low voice rumbled out over the crowd. “As there are no further witnesses to corroborate the accusation, we will now hear from Messer Accorsi himself, in defense of his position. This is an unusual matter, since to indict the accused would require overturning a prior conviction of a man executed at the hands of the Commune.”
Gabriele stepped up to speak, and I finally saw the rest of his face. He had lost weight, and his skin was paler than it had been when I’d met him in the summer of 1347. But his eyes were the same, and today, ta
king on the color of an angry sea. He spoke briefly.
“I confirm my prior testimony. I witnessed the murder of Cristoforo Buonaventura by Giovanni de’ Medici. I am innocent of the crime in question.” His voice wasn’t loud but I could hear every word.
“Messer Accorsi, have you nothing further to add in your defense?” The judge leaned forward.
“Nothing, Your Honor. It has been said before, and recorded. I will not trouble the court with repetition of the truth.”
“Very well, then. Are there further witnesses who would speak on behalf of the accused?”
Umiltà’s piercing voice rang out into the room. “To Your Honor I recommend the witness Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, chief scribe of the Ospedale. Monna Trovato transcribed the trial in which the Medici murderer was convicted, and was thereby privy to the original account of that fateful night’s events. Furthermore, she is a grieving widow and a pilgrim, holy in God’s sight, and Ser Accorsi’s intended. Her word is to be trusted on matters of character, and fact.”
Chief scribe and Gabriele’s intended? A job promotion and an engagement, all in one sentence. I would have to speak to Umiltà later on these two points.
“Monna Trovato, step forward to give your testimony.”
I moved through the crowd, which parted to let me pass. Everything around me took on a strange distorted quality, like an image seen through a kaleidoscope—faceted and flecked with color. At the end of the path through the assembled people Gabriele faced me. Even across the room, and despite his obvious efforts at composure, I could see the shock register on his face. A force emanated from him like heat from a furnace. I stopped at the spot directed by the judge’s clerk and held up the letter.