“It’s wonderful to see you,” I said, meaning it.
“And you as well,” he said, “particularly on such a happy occasion. I’ve allowed little Clara a few more weeks in your service—until the wedding. She begged me, and of course I could not refuse her. The wife of a merchant should not be a maidservant, especially one who is with child! But you are no ordinary maid to serve.” There was no more time to talk. We all held our breaths as the notary labored to scratch out the receipt.
Once the dowry was duly recorded in the notary’s shaky handwriting, Gabriele and I stood to face each other. The notary’s voice trembled but he got the words out.
“Do you, Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, take this woman, Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, to be your wife?”
“Messer, sì,” Gabriele said.
“And do you, Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, take this man, Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, to be your husband?”
“Messer, sì.”
Gabriele produced the ring I’d tried on that morning.
“I trust this fits your hand, Signora?” Gabriele gently slid it onto my fourth finger. I saw Tommaso draw his arm up and back, as if he were about to throw something, and then he slapped Gabriele on the back, hard enough so that the sound made us all jump. By the time I realized it must be customary, everyone was laughing.
“Mariate,” Umiltà said, and we were, just like that.
* * *
Mariate, but not, as I soon learned, ite: married but not gone forth. That would be the final step, the ductio ad maritum—the installation of the bride in her husband’s home. Umiltà selected an auspicious day at the end of February for the ceremony: just a few weeks away. The Ospedale still had a few drapers and seamstresses at its disposal, and a team went to work to sew me a wedding dress. Within a week I was able to try it on for final adjustments. It was deep blue with a long skirt that reached the ground behind me, and it came with trailing sleeves and an underdress of pale yellow. I wore a linen chemise underneath—the layers rustled against one another when I moved.
“Blue for purity,” Umiltà said, and the blue was embroidered with golden lilies.Umiltà told me she would keep it in her studium for safety. I let it go reluctantly.
* * *
On my next afternoon off, I went to check out the putative Giovanni Battista’s address. I ended up at a dive-y wine shop that reminded me of a few places in New York’s Bowery district before all the drunks had been cleared out to make way for trendy clubs. I got a lot of quizzical looks from both the ragged clientele and the wine seller, who smelled like the floor of a bar at closing time. In the short three minutes I was in the shop I had to escape two gropes and one offer of payment for more than a grope. But it was clearly no one’s residence, and no one there had heard of a Giovanni Battista. Not surprised, I escaped with relief into the fresh air again.
Next I had to pursue the Medici question. Unfortunately my empathic tendency didn’t work like a tracking device, though it would have been convenient if it did. Iacopo must have come at least once to Siena, knowing his father was imprisoned here, and he must have stayed somewhere. I could start asking at local inns, but I didn’t want a repeat of my last attempt, and I needed a trustworthy man whom I could ask for help. Gabriele was off-limits until the wedding, but Provenzano would be perfect. He was big enough to avert trouble, and unsuspecting. Somehow this would have to be done without putting my friends in danger; the best strategy would be to keep them ignorant. When Clara delivered my midday meal, I set my plan in motion.
“Clara, is there a good place nearby with lodging for travelers?”
“Semenzato’s is the best, and best known,” she said, putting down the tray carefully without bending at the waist, since her waist had vanished. “Do you have a guest coming from another town for the wedding?” She looked at me with interest. “I thought you said you had no family.” She’d conveniently provided me with an excellent cover.
“All sorts of family come out of the woodwork when a wedding is announced.” I smiled brightly to match hers. “My late husband’s cousin may come for the festivities.”
“One must ask in advance to be sure of accommodations. There aren’t many rooms, and they are in great demand.”
“Whom shall I send? Ideally someone articulate, well established . . . someone . . .” I paused, pretending to consider the options. “Do you think Provenzano might be able to go?”
“I am sure he’d be delighted! I shall ask him this very moment.” So far, so good.
Clara’s husband was inordinately happy to see me. Our conversation inevitably turned to what had happened to him in Sicily, and from there to what had become of his former employer. I was surprised to see Provenzano’s face turn a deep, embarrassed pink.
“Ah, Monna Trovato, an excellent question, to be sure, an excellent question.” He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow, though it wasn’t at all warm in the room.
“What is so excellent about the question exactly?”
“You may be happy to know that he did survive the Mortalità.”
I didn’t hate anyone enough to wish them death by Plague. “Good news indeed.”
Provenzano was even pinker. I waited for clarification. “Messer Lugani actually sent you a letter, via me.” He trailed off unhappily.
“He sent me a letter?”
Provenzano rummaged in his large bag and handed me the folded parchment with an apologetic look. “I hadn’t wanted to bother you, but since you’ve asked, I can’t very well keep it to myself.” I unfolded the letter and began to read.
Vigil of Epiphany, January, 1349
In the Name of God, Amen.
I have heard the good news from Messer Provenzano, that he has found both excellent employment, and a lovely wife whom, I believe, used to be your faithful servant?
My Messina fondaco, as you must realize, now lacks competent staff to keep its operations running smoothly. I know, from the time you spent in my employ, that you have skills adequate to the task. I would certainly find time to pay frequent visits when you take up the post, and would enjoy resuming our prior acquaintance. Your professional competence is the least of what I would look forward to, in my visits south.
You will be happy to know as well that Messer Cane has survived, and he has promised to supervise you as you learn what is required of the post. I feel certain, given your meager salary and lack of family ties, that this offer of employment will appeal to you.
I look forward to your acquiescence.
Messer Girolamo Lugani, Genoa
The man was truly unbelievable. I looked up at Provenzano, who was cringing, waiting for my response. I folded the letter back in thirds and handed it to him calmly.
“You can tell him I’m otherwise engaged,” I said, “in more ways than one.” And with that out of the way, we turned to discussion of the local inn.
Provenzano, fortunately, was as unsuspicious as Clara. I shifted the story slightly—my cousin was considering places to stay in Siena, could he ask about availability at Semenzato’s? And while there, it would be of particular interest to find out what other visitors were staying at the tavern—and where they came from. This cousin had a peculiarity about Florentines, I said, embellishing—his grandfather had died at Montaperti and he’d detested the commune after that.
Provenzano took my request without question. “Any family of Monna Trovato is a friend to me,” he said, a smile on his plump face.
Provenzano came back the following day with his regrets: the inn was fully occupied by a group of wine merchants from Poggibonsi who were in Siena for a long stay. “Perhaps it’s just as well your cousin avoid the place. It seems Florentines do frequent his establishment, at least one does. Messer Semenzato said there was one Florentine fellow—thin and ill-looking, who kept odd hours and stayed for a while. The man has come several times, the first more than a year ago—just before the Medici trial. He’s gone again now, but your cousin would be better off finding a place less likely
to house such people, given his concerns.”
“Thank you so much, Provenzano,” I said. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Not at all, not at all. Semenzato’s wine was certainly very good, particularly with the eel tart that came with it.” He patted his belly happily, remembering. As we parted, I wondered how this new information might help me. Could the repeat visitor at Semenzato’s be Iacopo de’ Medici? If so, he was gone now. It still wasn’t enough to go on.
* * *
Iacopo planned his immediate return to Siena, with the knowledge that the Brotherhood lay in wait for him. Now when he walked the streets he once called home, every sound made him start and look over his shoulder for an imagined assassin hired to assure his silence. So this is how they repay my loyalty, these men whom my father called brothers.
Would that it had been only in his imagination. As Iacopo walked back to the Medici palazzo after a late meeting, he turned into a long narrow street—a short route rather than a populated one. His choice proved nearly deadly. At the far end of the via, a hooded figure appeared from a dark doorway and began to move quickly toward him. When a second joined the first, Iacopo’s heart began to pound in his ears, drowning out the sound of the men’s feet on the stones. He turned and ran with his breath like a knife in his chest until he reached his family palazzo. Firenze, once home, was no longer a haven.
The morning Iacopo left for Siena, Immacolata took her son into the chapel, where they knelt and prayed together as they had not since his boyhood.
“Iacopo, I know your father’s business troubles you.”
The way his mother looked at him made Iacopo fear she knew more than he had said. “Business is best kept out of the home,” Iacopo answered, attempting to keep his voice steady.
“Not if the business endangers the home, and those who live in it. Your father died in the pursuit of this same business.” Iacopo shook his head and did not answer. If I am quiet, she will stop asking.
His mother sighed. “I fear this business has gone beyond accounts and ledgers, and weighs now upon your conscience. If you will not speak with me, at least speak with God. Will you promise me that?” He nodded, and only half to placate his mother, for he longed for relief from the terrible things he had seen and done. When she took his hand in hers he willed himself not to melt into her familiar embrace.
“I must return to Siena,” he said finally, and she could get no more from him. When he left on horseback, his mother watched gravely from the palazzo’s entrance.
Semenzato’s was full of merchants, requiring him to seek other accommodations. It was inconvenient, but perhaps for the best; it would keep his movements difficult to trace. He met with Baldi in the small tavern on the ground floor of the new inn he’d chosen.
Baldi’s face shone with sweat in the flickering light from the inn’s hearth. “The painter and his wench are getting married. The Ospedale is busy with preparations and no one will expect anything. It will be as easy as taking a rattle from an infant.”
“A wedding means many witnesses,” Iacopo said, scowling.
“A wedding means no one will see me coming,” Baldi replied, “and the painter will be so busy taking his new wife to bed he won’t know what hit him. When I hit him, that is. And I’ll throw his new wife in, for the same price.” Baldi laughed at his own humor, too loud. Patrons a few tables away raised their heads at the sound.
“I told you to keep quiet,” Iacopo hissed angrily.
“They are too drunk to care. Now show me those lovely florins you promised. I know where the painter lives and the house is otherwise all women and girls now. He’ll be between his new wife’s legs and the rest will put up no obstacle.”
“See that you get it right this time,” Iacopo said grimly, “or you will pay for your mistake.” Baldi laughed again, and picked up the florins in one thick-fingered hand.
* * *
The night before the wedding was cold and bright. Clara came to find me staring out the unshuttered window of my room at a cluster of brilliant stars. How much would it change in the centuries between now and the time I used to inhabit—how many stars might be born or die, and in dying, give rise to new stars?
“If you die of cold, your bridegroom will never forgive me,” Clara exclaimed, sealing the window. “Now come, it’s time for your bath.” On our wedding eve, Gabriele and I were each to take baths, separately of course, and then bathe with childhood friends. But I had none—not here. I wondered whom Gabriele would be bathing with. Tommaso? It was hard to imagine. As Clara unlaced my dress, I felt her hands pause.
“Clara?”
“Signora, I’m sorry. I was . . . thinking.”
I turned to look at her. “Thinking?”
She blushed faintly. “Well, perhaps wondering is more the word.”
“Wondering what?”
“Whether we would see each other often, once you are in your new home, and now that I am wed. Provenzano will keep me as befits my new station, but I don’t like to leave you.”
“My new home.” My mind had wandered in a direction she couldn’t follow, in which my new home meant my new century.
“I would be happy to find you another maid to take my place.” Clara took a deep breath and started to talk quickly, as if to comfort herself. “Of course it would make more sense for you to have someone unencumbered, for I have a babe nearly born, and a husband as well. Will you allow me the honor of choosing a worthy replacement?”
“Clara, we’ll still see each other.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Of course. I’ll be miserable to lose you.”
“Oh, Signora, you are the most wonderful mistress imaginable,” Clara exclaimed, and she embraced me, her bulk awkward between us.
As she pulled away I caught a glimpse of the steam rising invitingly from the bath into the chilly air. A small fire was lit in the hearth but could only do so much to temper the February wind seeping through the shutters.
“Will you bathe with me, Clara? I hate to waste all that hot water on only myself.”
“Me? You want to bathe with me?”
“Yes, please.” She smiled broadly, and didn’t argue.
When we undressed together in the cold room I couldn’t help staring at her. Her swollen belly and breasts gathered the candlelight, shining as if they had light of their own.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you for saying so,” she said, dipping her head shyly. “My Provenzano tells me the same, but I don’t see the beauty in all this bigness.”
“Your beauty is in the bigness,” I said, and held her hand to steady her while she stepped into the high-sided tub. We both sank into the warm water, sighing in unison as the scent of thyme and verbena rose into the steam. I closed my eyes and into the silent warmth came an unexpected sound, the sound of a beating heart, and with it a rush of foreign consciousness—bright, quivering, and alert. It must be coming from Clara, I realized, as my head spun with the knowledge that I was sensing a life nearly ready to emerge into the world. We sat and bathed, two of us luxuriating in the warmth of the water and the third in the warmth of its mother-to-be, preparing for the days ahead.
* * *
On the day of the ductio ad maritum, I woke up feeling not entirely normal—as if I were looking through a kaleidoscope, the images fractured and glittering. The chitter of a winter sparrow outside my window made my throat catch, and the smell of oranges filled the air like a hallucination. I felt I was everywhere at once, still in the bath with the sound of a heart beating in my ears, looking through an open window at the spinning stars, and living through this day in Siena, in late February of 1349. After saying our vows in the Ospedale chapel, Gabriele and I walked out into the courtyard to the sound of trumpets, the horns fluttering with forked pennants in Siena’s black and white.
“Sono onorato di presentarvi Beatrice Alessandra Trovato è Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi . . .”
>
I imagined the words spinning far and fast through the city, to the walls that should have kept us safe, past the gates to the winter gray and brown of Siena’s contado, and beyond—to the wild continent that would one day become the home I used to call mine. But Siena was my home now.
It was warm enough to celebrate outside, one of those perfect days that happen in late February, a promise of relief from winter. The Ospedale’s courtyard streamed with colored ribbons; banners and tapestries hung from the windows and high stone walls. Everything moved around me except Gabriele himself, steady at my side, his hair bright against the deep blue and red of his tunic and robe. When the horns stopped, there was music—pipes and a drum—and dancing. Across the circle I spotted Bianca, and in her arms a little girl with a head of brown curls—little Gabriella, I thought, remembering her harrowing entrance into the world—she looked old enough to walk but maybe not to dance, so her mother held her, laughing, as we moved across the flagstones.
Someone handed me a cup of clarée and I drank the spiced white wine, feeling the heat of cloves and ginger. I sat at a table with Gabriele at my side again, tall and straight in his chair. A servant passed us a bowl of tiny oranges; the sections burst sweet and tart in my mouth, and Gabriele leaned over to brush a drop from my chin. Trays of roast pheasant appeared, decorated as if still alive with their magnificent plumage, and acrobats in red and black made everyone gasp. We began dancing again to the music of lutes and singers rising in the darkening air.
We headed out of the courtyard. The guests followed behind, cheering and singing, holding torches and candles against the gathering night. We stopped at the doorway of Martellino’s house; the house that had once been Ben’s—and mine—would be my home again. The missing scent of baking bread was a void of sorrow where there used to be a sweet, yeasty comfort. But we crossed the threshold, arm in arm. When the crowds followed us through the bakery and up the stairs, I gripped Gabriele’s arm and put my mouth to his ear.
The Scribe of Siena Page 38