The Scribe of Siena

by Melodie Winawer

  I smiled at my medieval husband. “True, but that’s not what I meant. I should have told you all this before, but it’s been kind of busy around here.” I’d only been able to talk to him twice since I’d returned to this century, and once had been our wedding night. But now there was time to talk, and I did. It reminded me of our night on the ship: the flood of words, the relief of putting my thoughts together and pouring them into the ear of a sympathetic, thoughtful listener. Gabriele listened, his head at that falcon’s angle, all attention.

  When I got to the Signoretti-Medici connection, Gabriele suddenly sat up straight, with a sharp intake of breath. “Now I see it,” he said, his voice taut. He took his hands from mine and sat back.

  “See what?”

  “What I ought to have seen before. What I must have seen, many months ago, that made me put the faces of the two men together in my sketches . . . but I did not realize the import of what I’d seen, until now.” A chill came over me, listening to Gabriele describe the drawings that I’d found in my flooded modern Siena kitchen. He continued, not realizing the effect that his words were having on me. “Sometimes the truth is invisible, because it is so far from what can be imagined. The night of Cristoforo’s murder, I stayed late to finish a section of Ser Signoretti’s chapel fresco. As I left, I observed two men leaving Signoretti’s house, later than any honest guests ought to be walking the streets. And, as you well know, that night I witnessed the crime that has set the forces of evil in motion against not only me but against both of us, and our family.” Gabriele stopped to take a breath. “But now, now that you have told me what you know, I believe it was the Florentines I saw leaving Ser Signoretti’s palazzo that night, the same two men who, moments later, threatened and killed Cristoforo Buonaventura.”

  “So Giovanni and Iacopo were visiting Signoretti that night?”

  Gabriele nodded gravely. “I believe so. But I cannot imagine how we might be certain.”

  I stood up out of my chair, my heart pounding. “I can. We can go visit Signoretti ourselves. Right now.”

  * * *

  “At least find a confessor to hear your sins. I shall pray for your deliverance from whatever gnaws your soul. . . .”

  A confessor. Yes, he would seek out a priest, and with the relief that the act might bring, would steel himself for his next and final task. Iacopo donned his cape and hat and followed the winding streets that would lead him to the Duomo.

  The looming cathedral always took him by surprise. The narrow street opened suddenly into the courtyard where Siena’s duomo and ospedale faced off as if for a duel, two forces meeting in a surprisingly small space. The scale felt even more distorted to him than usual, buildings angling sharply against the uncomfortably bright sky. He climbed the long flight of white steps and into the cathedral’s dim interior.

  The confessional was in a small side chapel. He slipped into the narrow wooden seat and bowed his head at the metal grille.

  “Bless me father for I have sinned . . .” He heard the creak of a wooden seat on the other side of the screen as the priest shifted to receive his confession.

  “Speak my son, for God’s ear is open to your prayers.” The intimacy of those words startled him. There was no other ear but God’s now, to hear what he had to say. And in the rush of sudden freedom—the anonymity and promise of absolution—Iacopo began to speak, slowly at first, and then more and more quickly, telling the story from its terrible beginning. He told of his father’s last requests, the hanging, the despair. Then of Baldi’s hire, the scaffolding, the orchestrated ambush, the doctored evidence and new trial, the attempt on Accorsi’s life on his wedding night. He spoke in a headlong rush, the weight lifting from his soul as he gave his sins to God. But when he told the story of meeting with the Becchini, the confraternity’s dark purpose and success, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the invisible priest. He paused, feeling a flush come into his face. Had he told too much? But it was just a breath, nothing more. Iacopo realized he had been pressing his head against the grille, and when he reached a hand up to his forehead, he felt the imprint of the metal grate upon it.

  “Pray with me now,” the priest said, “and with me implore God for absolution.” Iacopo matched his words to the disembodied voice. “As a penance you shall pray as we did today for these departed souls every day that remains of your life. Now go and sin no more.” Iacopo lifted his head for the priest’s last words. “Te absolvo,” the priest intoned at last, and the sound filled Iacopo’s ears, the first balm since his father’s death. He rose stiffly and walked out of the confessional, back toward the cathedral’s great doors, and into the winter sun.

  * * *

  Bartolomeo sat immobile in the confessional, filled with the horror of what he had heard. God give me strength, for your succor will comfort us all, those who serve you in truth. But his prayer provided scant comfort. The stranger’s confession burned in his ear. Three attempts at murder, one false witness. Alone that would have been too much, but then came the worst: the dispatch of an army of Plague-ridden criminals to sweep through Siena, ensuring her doom. No penance could ever atone for such a sin. The sanctity of the confessional is absolute. . . . Father Lupini had said innumerable times. But for this? No other sinners came to confess that day, but Bartolomeo remained in the little booth behind its heavy curtain until the bells rang for Vespers, paralyzed by the sins he had heard in God’s holy name.

  * * *

  Immacolata did not go back to Firenze. You may be your father’s heir, Iacopo, but you are not my master, not in this. Iacopo had looked like a puppet animated by his father’s invisible hand. He had been twisted by the forces that pushed his father into acts of violence, and then to his grave. Immacolata feared those forces now drove Iacopo toward the same fates: murder, and death. God, please hear this mother’s prayer, and keep my son from damnation. But she would go beyond this maternal plea for divine intervention—she must oppose her son’s plan on this mortal earth.

  * * *

  When we got to the Signoretti palazzo, the huge wooden doors at the top of the stairs loomed over us, an ominous symbol of the threshold we intended to cross. I looked at Gabriele. “Are we crazy?”

  “Bravery must be fueled by a bit of madness, else we should all stay huddled in our beds rather than face adversity.”

  We headed up the stairs to knock. The manservant who opened the door knew us both—me from my visit with Cane, and Gabriele from his time spent painting Signoretti’s chapel—which helped us past the first hurdle. He led us into an audience room where we waited, standing, for Signoretti to descend. It took an uncomfortably long time; by the time I heard Signoretti’s heavy, measured tread on the stairs, I was sweating.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?” I got a closer look at Signoretti than I had during the trial, and now I saw the signs of age in his face. Only a year and a half had passed, but his face was more deeply lined, his thick hair grayer. The Mortalità left its mark on those lucky enough to survive.

  “We are sorry to disturb you at this hour, but Ser Accorsi and I have a matter of grave importance to discuss.”

  Signoretti’s eyes flickered from my face to Gabriele’s, then back again. “I was not aware that you two were so well acquainted.”

  “I am fortunate to call this good lady my wife,” Gabriele said.

  Signoretti raised one eyebrow. “Indeed you are. Now, let us put pleasantries aside, for I am certain that it is not to announce your betrothal that you have sought me out. Will you sit?”

  Behind his enormous desk, Signoretti looked as if he were in a fortress, while Gabriele and I huddled unprotected on stools outside the fortified walls. Gabriele spoke first.

  “Let me begin by saying that I do not begrudge your honest testimony at my trial, Ser Signoretti. I am a free man now, with the law on my side. We may put the matter of the trial behind us.” Bold move, I thought, but it seemed to have dealt with the huge gorilla in the room effectively
.

  Signoretti nodded once. “I am happy to see justice served. Is this the reason for your visit? If so, good day, and enjoy your well-deserved freedom.”

  Not yet Signoretti; we’ve got more for you. “Thank you for your wishes on my husband’s behalf; I am glad to see no animosity remains between us. But there is another reason we’ve come. We are looking for a Florentine gentleman, a Ser Iacopo de’ Medici. Perhaps your wide-ranging business interests put you in a position to know his whereabouts?”

  There was a long, awful silence. As we sat there, I realized how ridiculous it was, that Gabriele and I, powerless and totally unimportant, might expect this nobleman to worry about anything we had to say. In fact, we were probably risking our lives—he could easily wipe us both out for making trouble. I saw him reach for the bell on his desk to call his servant; now we were either going to be dismissed, or worse. I searched my mind for a backup strategy, ideally one that would get each of us out of his palazzo in one piece. My brilliant idea came just in time.

  “I’m sure you know Suor Umiltà?” Signoretti’s hand withdrew from the bell and returned to his lap.

  “Indeed, I am well acquainted with the good sister,” he said carefully.

  “She is also looking for Iacopo de’Medici. In fact . . . she sent us here to ask for your help. And she has your best interests in mind . . . yours as well as ours.”

  It looked like the lie was working, because Signoretti’s bell hand stayed down. “Suor Umiltà is involved in the matter?”

  “Quite involved.” I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for my words to sink in.

  After another agonizingly long silence, Signoretti spoke, his voice low. “And if I should have dealings with this Iacopo de’ Medici, why might you seek him out at such an unusual hour? Surely a routine business matter could wait.”

  I looked at Gabriele, and he gave a small acquiescent nod. “Ser de’Medici sent a killer to our house last night, whose deadly aim was, fortunately, foiled. From the would-be killer’s confession, we learned of his master’s intent. I mean in no way to implicate you in this crime, but I hoped that you might have information that could lead us to him. Our lives, we believe, depend upon it.”

  “And may I ask what had led you to hope for such information from me? Other than my ‘wide-ranging business interests,’ of course.” He was being careful, I saw, not to give us any information, while acquiring as much as he could.

  “Perhaps you have had business with this man without realizing his criminal intent,” Gabriele began, “but as I was leaving your chapel late, on the fateful night about which you testified, I saw two men leaving your palazzo. Only moments later, those two men, it appears, were stopped by Cristoforo Buonaventura, an act which hastened his departure from this world.” Gabriele was treading carefully through a minefield here—somehow not directly accusing Signoretti of perjury, harboring a criminal, maybe even conspiring with one. “In the event, perhaps, that you were deciding whether to continue to do business with the young Medici, in the aftermath of his father’s death, I hope this information will help your decision. And if, in return, you might be able to inform us of his whereabouts, we would be in your debt.”

  My heartbeat sounded like a drum in my ears. “It seems,” Signoretti said after another long, tense silence, “that if I should be in a position to encounter Iacopo de’ Medici in the future, it might be wise to avoid further entanglement. Do I take your meaning well?”

  “Wise, indeed,” Gabriele said.

  “Your information is well received. But, I am afraid, I have no knowledge of the man’s whereabouts. I wish you God’s help with your search.” With that, Signoretti bowed to signal the end of our meeting, and called his servant to usher us out.

  “He didn’t exactly confess,” I said to Gabriele. I had a flashback, as I stood outside the Signoretti palazzo, of my unpleasant brushes with the modern Signoretti, this man’s descendant. Now I saw why the future Signoretti would want to suppress, and even steal, the documents Ben had been working on. Beyond being a competing scholar hungry for his own academic credit, the modern Signoretti would not likely enjoy seeing his noble family implicated in a conspiracy with Florence to overthrow Siena’s government. Even a seven-hundred-year-old conspiracy.

  “He did not have to confess,” Gabriele answered, bringing me back to the medieval present. “But perhaps we have foiled one aspect of the Medici plan through our efforts.”

  I hoped it was true. “But we still don’t know where Iacopo is.”

  * * *

  With the relief that confession had brought, Iacopo steeled himself for his next effort—a visit to the Signoretti palazzo to establish the certainty of that alliance. He had not seen his father’s co-conspirator since the failed trial. Ser Signoretti received Iacopo in the small chamber rather than the large one made for his most esteemed guests: not a good sign. The meeting did not go as Iacopo had hoped.

  “Ser Signoretti,” Iacopo began, “I am here to forward my good father’s cause, and reassure you of my continued dedication.”

  “Messer de’ Medici,” Ser Signoretti replied, but with a raised eyebrow that implied the “Messer” was not deserved. “The trial was a disaster. Were you not aware of the witness, the Ospedale scribe with her documents?”

  “Ser Signoretti, the scribe was certainly a surprise but—”

  “There should be no surprises. Particularly not when I take the stand in court.”

  “Yes, Messer, of course. But the Brotherhood of San Giovanni remains committed to the alliance, as do others of the confraternity. Our plans for Siena, and your role in particular, should not be altered by the outcome of the trial.”

  “I have had enough of your plans, Iacopo. You may be Giovanni de’ Medici’s son, but I am afraid that legacy is no longer sufficient.”

  “But Ser, I—”

  “You are dismissed.” Before Iacopo could consider any response, a manservant appeared from the shadows against the sala’s wall and took his arm firmly. Iacopo found himself on the marble lintel of the palazzo, the great double doors closed behind him.

  * * *

  Gabriele and I had no luck finding Iacopo at the inns—and we tried them all. Some innkeepers might have been lying, and many were tight-lipped, protecting their patrons. But my empathic efforts did not ferret out any particular crucial lie.

  “I can’t imagine that none of these places has a small dark Florentine staying in it,” I said indignantly—we had gotten a minimally helpful description from Baldi to fuel our search.

  “It seems we shall not find out from asking,” Gabriele said.

  “We can’t just sit around waiting for him to hire someone else to kill you.”

  But neither of us had a better idea. We headed home as the bells were ringing for Vespers.

  We all slept together in Gabriele’s and my room with a heavy trunk pushed against the loggia doors from the inside. I fell asleep to the sound of my new family breathing around me.

  The next morning as I prepared to go to the Ospedale, there was a knock on the front door. Bianca was seated at the kitchen’s trestle table, showing little Gabriella how to pick stones from a bowl of dried lentils. Ysabella turned from the stove with a frown.

  Gabriele appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his hair still ruffled from sleep. “I am not expecting visitors—might you be?” I shook my head. Whoever was at the door knocked again, and Gabriele’s face changed, alert and wary. He looked through the front door’s grilled window. “Whom do you seek?”

  “Is this the Accorsi household? I have a message for Ser Gabriele Accorsi, from Ser Luciano Datini di Padova.”

  “I do not know this Datini,” Gabriele said, his hand on the door. I noticed he did not move to open it.

  “He is a well-established merchant in Padova who seeks a commission from a Sienese artist. You came highly recommended by the rector, Ser.” After a moment’s hesitation, Gabriele unlatched the door and swung it open. The messenger stood
on the doorstep with the letter in his hand, and Gabriele reached out to take it.

  “Does Messer Datini require an immediate response?”

  “He is eager for an answer.”

  Gabriele hesitated before inviting the messenger in. He broke the letter’s seal. “Messer Datini seeks to commission a panel painting for his collection. He says he watched me paint the Ospedale fresco, in the last days before its completion, and knows the quality of my work.”

  “Of course he sought you out,” Ysabella said, her tension softening into a smile.

  “Perhaps because so many of our finest masters have died,” Gabriele responded modestly. “I am certainly in need of work; I have had none since Messina and we have many mouths to feed.” He looked back at the messenger, who was still standing in the doorway.

  “When does Messer Datini wish to meet?”

  “He hopes you will be able to meet today at Nones. This trip to Siena is brief.”

  Gabriele read through the letter carefully again. “You can tell Messer Datini I will meet him at the appointed time and place.” Gabriele let the messenger out.

  “I think I met Datini before I left for Pisa,” I said. “He was admiring your fresco outside the Ospedale.” It was nice to have good news, but I didn’t like the timing. “You’re going to trust him?”

  “Would you have me ignore the commission? Long-standing interest in my work seems adequate proof of his intent.” I frowned; in a normal situation it would have made sense, but this was not a normal situation. “Beatrice—my art is my livelihood, and my life. If I ignore commissions, I will soon be out of work.”

  “I could support us for a little while.” I wasn’t sure whether I’d just introduced an idea that could result in our first public marital argument.

  “Of course you could,” Gabriele said without a trace of anger, “but for now we have more immediate worries.” He pointed at Gabriella, who had pulled a chair over to the hearth and was trying to stir Ysabella’s pot of soup. Bianca rescued her, and the soup, with a gasp. With that domestic crisis settled, I decided to head to the Ospedale, where I could talk to Umiltà about finding Iacopo de’ Medici. Gabriele followed me out, stopping me with a hand on my arm.