The Scribe of Siena

by Melodie Winawer

  “Beatrice—be careful in your travels today.”

  “You too. Maybe you could ask Tommaso to go with you?”

  Gabriele smiled. “He would be most amused to know that I was afraid to meet alone with a potential patron.” I took that as a polite rejection of my advice. Gabriele kissed my cheek softly, then released my arm. I turned and made my way to the Ospedale.

  After accepting Umiltà’s good wishes on my marriage, which she delivered with a probing look that made me blush, I gave her an abridged version of the story—that Baldi had broken into the house, and had confessed to being sent by Giovanni de’ Medici’s son.

  “Revenge,” Umiltà said, her expression darkening. “I shall call upon the communal police to find Baldi and throw him in prison.”

  When I explained to her how we’d promised Baldi freedom in return for information, I was afraid Umiltà might actually explode with suppressed fury. I managed to convince her to leave Baldi alone, but she insisted on sending a team of Ospedale guards to search the city for Iacopo. “And since you are here,” Umiltà added, as if she’d been in the middle of a sentence, “you can write out a letter of direction to the guards, describing the man they seek and authorizing his detainment under the Ospedale’s writ.”

  The warrant required several versions before it met Umiltà’s approval, but eventually the guards fanned out on their errand with my warrant in hand and I headed out into the Piazza del Duomo. I hadn’t been back inside the cathedral since my return to the fourteenth century. Looking at its striped facade made me nervous, though now I knew a visit wasn’t likely to fling me through time against my will. The person is the portal, not the place. As the words popped into my head I remembered the little priest with the head injury. Had Father Bartolomeo survived the Plague? I walked up the marble steps and inside.

  A group of priests had gathered in the oratory to chant the hour, and I was relieved to recognize Bartolomeo among them. I sat in a pew until the chanting stopped, and Bartolomeo came down the nave in my direction.

  “Father.” He turned toward me with a look of apprehension. “It’s Beatrice Trovato, the Ospedale scribe. I’m glad to see you’re alive and well.” Since Bartolomeo was extremely unlikely to have heard about my recent wedding, I didn’t have to deal with the decision of whether to call myself Accorsi yet. I wasn’t sure of the medieval position on newlywed wives keeping their names, but I guessed it wasn’t favorable.

  His deer-in-the-headlights look faded only slightly. “God be with you, Monna Trovato,” he said. Bartolomeo was thinner than when I’d last seen him, and his eyes seemed larger than before. His close-cut hair looked downy, like the fuzz on a baby chick.

  “And with you also,” I said reflexively. Bartolomeo was the most porous person I’d ever met; the emotion streamed out around him like a shimmering psychic halo. Today I felt a current of uneasiness in his presence. He didn’t look well. His skin was ashen, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He swayed on his feet, and I guided him to a pew. The other priests had disappeared.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I sat down next to him.

  “None can help but God.”

  “I have some knowledge as a healer,” I said. “Maybe I can move God’s intent along?”

  “The silence of the confessional is absolute,” he said, I thought irrelevantly. “Absolute,” he said again, and then, suddenly, I was inside his head. I heard a voice—a thin, wavering voice that grew louder and more insistent as it went on. It was like listening to a recording of an old radio program, blurry and full of static. The words wormed their message through Bartolomeo’s head and into mine.

  . . . I made a man fall to his death, but, though the bolts on the scaffold gave way, the man was unhurt. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I brought an innocent man to trial, but he was acquitted. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I sent an armed man to kill another, and I hoped for its success. Forgive me Father for I have sinned . . .

  Bartolomeo was moaning, a counterpoint to the words inside his head.

  Bent on Siena’s destruction, I hired the Becchini to do my bidding . . . The last confession was magnified a thousandfold by Bartolomeo’s own terror, the penitent’s voice distorted to a demonic howl.

  Then I was back, my heart hammering as if I’d run a flight of stairs. “Father, tell me what you’ve seen.”

  “Absolute, absolute,” Bartolomeo said, putting his head in his hands.

  “This is not a secret anyone should keep.”

  “I saw nothing,” he said, miserably.

  “Then what did you hear, if you saw nothing?”

  Bartolomeo began to rock back and forth on the bench. “The sanctity of the confessional is absolute. Bless me Father for I have sinned . . . te absolvo . . . te absolvo . . .”

  “Bartolomeo, if you are a witness to a crime, you are required to speak.” Bartolomeo looked up from his hands, tears streaming down his face.

  He did not need to tell me everything he knew, because I saw it then, with awful vivid clarity, blooming in his mind. I’d found Ben’s anti-Siena conspirator, and I knew now exactly what he had done, and how.

  * * *

  I left Bartolomeo in the hands of a solicitous older priest and walked home in a daze. Ysabella embraced me at the door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Beatrice. Has something happened?” Something had certainly happened, but it was hard to believe, and harder to explain—this story from a priest who’d heard the anonymous confession of a mass murderer.

  “Too many hours staring at a contract,” I said. She looked at me sideways but did not press me further. Bianca was upstairs with Gabriella, who was teething and grumpy; Gabriele was out at his afternoon meeting. I cannot live my life in fear, Beatrice, Gabriele would have said. But it was hard not to.

  I’d barely hung up my robe when there was a knock on the door; Ysabella and I both jumped at the sound. A woman stood outside whom I’d never seen before.

  “I am Immacolata de’ Medici,” she said in a low voice. “Is this the Accorsi household?”

  Her name was like a thunderbolt.

  Ysabella stepped forward, never liking to be on the periphery of anything. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit, Signora?”

  “It regards my son,” Immacolata said. My vision grayed, and for a moment I saw a receding figure in a rowboat, moving without rowing. Then I was looking into Immacolata’s face again. “His name is Iacopo de’ Medici.” So she is his mother.

  “Signora,” I said, “will you sit down?”

  Immacolata remained standing. “My son was searching for a Messer Accorsi. I was told the painter lived here, with his wife.”

  “I’m his wife. But Messer Accorsi is not here.”

  “Do you expect him this evening? I would prefer to stay until he returns.”

  I might be the wife, but Ysabella was still the mistress of the house. “Please sit,” Ysabella said, guiding our visitor to a chair and fetching a cup of wine. When Immacolata brought the cup to her lips, her hand trembled, and she spilled several drops into her lap. The dark liquid pearled on the wool of her cloak.

  “I thank you.” She emptied the cup but did not put it down. Ysabella leaned forward and gently took it from her hands.

  “May I ask why your son was looking for my husband?” It was the first time I’d said my husband. I wished it had been under happier circumstances.

  “I fear my son plans Messer Accorsi’s death,” Immacolata said, “even as we speak. And I wish to prevent him from succeeding.” The only sound in the room was the cup falling out of Ysabella’s hand to shatter on the stone floor.

  PART XV

  FEAR OF HEIGHTS

  Iacopo paced in the inn’s small bedroom, rehearsing the words he’d planned. Ser, I have heard much of your artistic prowess, and would be delighted to have one of your works in my collection. Too frivolous. Honored? Too deferential. I would welcome one of your works in my collection. Better. The discarded versi
ons of the letter now lay crumpled in the grate where a low fire burned. He reached the wall and turned back again. The hidden knife moved against his thigh. Never mind that Iacopo had never killed a man—flesh must give way to steel.

  Iacopo could not stay here with his intended victim—there would be too many witnesses. He would suggest somewhere secluded, a point from which an excellent view of Siena might be had, a view that could find its way into a painting. He would convince Accorsi to follow him, so that they might discuss the vantage point from which the commission might be painted.

  Iacopo wished he had some confidant now, someone to shore up his strength for what was coming. But there was no one left. Just as that thought came into his head, Iacopo heard a familiar voice, as real as if the speaker stood beside him.

  -Iacopo.

  Father?

  -Do you not know my voice?

  The man I hired to carry out our mission informed upon me.

  -He was ill-chosen.

  The Brotherhood has discarded me, though I served them well.

  -They would have followed a leader strong enough to move them to action.

  Even in Iacopo’s imagination, the words still stung.

  What have I left, Father?

  -You will avenge my death, and bring Accorsi to justice. That will have to serve.

  Iacopo stopped in front of the fire, watching the flames writhe like molten snakes.

  And if I do not?

  This last question went unanswered. Iacopo wondered whether his father’s spirit truly spoke from beyond the grave, or whether the voice was the product of Iacopo’s own tortured soul. Then there was no time to ponder, for the visitor had arrived at last.

  * * *

  Gabriele had still not come back from his meeting. Ysabella stayed to wait for him and I left with Immacolata, my unexpected guide. She led me to the tavern where Iacopo was lodging. It was, as I suspected, a place we’d visited on our hunt the day before.

  I tried the handle of his room, and the door, unexpectedly, swung open. It was an ordinary room—a small bed, a scratched desk and rickety chair, a low fire burning in the hearth. But no one was there. A discarded letter lay on the desk, crumpled and spotted with ink. As I read it my hand began to shake.

  Ser Accorsi:

  I have heard much of your artistic prowess, and would be delighted to have one of your works in my collection. . . . It is said the Torre del Mangia has a view from which Siena can be seen in all her great beauty, a view worthy of painting. There, high above the city, we will also find a private place to talk undisturbed.

  I had not feared the worst, but I should have.

  * * *

  I tore out of the inn, running as hard as I could. Immacolata, surprisingly fast, followed me. I burst out into the milling crowds of the Campo, and scanned the sea of people for Gabriele. A troupe of theatrical performers suddenly blocked my view, bright in yellow and red; I pushed through them and kept running. As I pounded down the slope of the Piazza del Campo the wind picked up, the sky darkened, and there was a sudden flash of lightning, followed by an ominous rumble of thunder. I reached the doorway of the Torre and stepped inside just as the rain hit.

  * * *

  There are heights and then there are heights—some so extreme that they unnerve all but the most extreme thrill seeker. The last time I’d been in the Torre I’d been a tourist, and I remembered the narrow stone spiral staircase and the dizzying view. But this time there were no electric lights or security rails. It was a menacing tower with a dangerous ascent, at the top of which Gabriele might be about to die, or perhaps already lay dead. Immacolata was a few steps behind me, breathing in short gasps. I kept climbing, my legs and lungs burning, looking only at the few feet of stone ahead of me.

  I reached the level of the Torre’s great bell, with the harrowing open view I remembered. The wind was blowing hard, making a high whining sound. But there was one more set of steps, the steepest and most frightening of all, leading to the very top.

  * * *

  Iacopo had been surprised by Accorsi: his height, the unnatural color of his hair, his low quiet voice, which made Iacopo’s own seem overly high by contrast. The painter did not appear to suspect danger, nor could he hear the violent pounding of Iacopo’s heart. Iacopo strained to keep up with Gabriele’s long strides as they walked.

  The first few flights of the Torre were bearable, closed in and dark. But as the view appeared through the window slits, Iacopo’s head spun and he had to press one hand against the wall. By the time they reached the bell, Iacopo was drenched with sweat from exertion and fear. Accorsi walked ahead, showing no sign of fatigue. But of course—he has been climbing scaffolding most of his life; an artisan, not a nobleman. Iacopo’s reasoning gave him little comfort.

  Accorsi moved to the tower’s edge, putting one hand on the waist-high wall and looking out across the city. “I have always longed to paint this angel’s view of our beautiful city, kept safe within her encircling walls.”

  Now, it must be now. While he is lost in his precious view. Just there, beneath his ribs—one hard thrust of the dagger. Iacopo willed his feet to climb the last two steps. The dizzying spread of the Campo fanned out below them, red-bricked and impossibly far down. A flash illuminated the sky, and the thunder that rolled behind it made Iacopo jump and stumble, until he was just behind the painter. Now, it must be now.

  * * *

  As I stepped out from the dark stairwell onto the Torre’s top, I saw the Duomo stark against the looming clouds, outlined by the storm’s electric light. Around the cathedral spread the red roofs of Siena’s buildings, then, beyond the curve of the city walls, the contado’s brown hills rolled on until they met the sky. Framed by that view were Iacopo and Gabriele, both still standing. I was not too late. Iacopo stood with his back to me, dark hair whipping in the wind. Even from behind, I recognized the man I’d seen watching Gabriele paint months before. I remembered the strange, out-of-focus gaze, the silently moving mouth. A patron of the arts, he’d called himself, when in fact he was a killer. Iacopo’s long cloak reached nearly to the ground, dwarfing him. But his clothing was not what caught my eye—it was the knife in his hand, that triangle of bare iron aimed at Gabriele’s back. Gabriele leaned against the parapet, looking out at the breathtaking view, oblivious to the danger behind him. There was no way I could get from the stairway in time to stop the knife’s descent. But something else did.

  Immacolata burst out of the stairwell and screamed her son’s name. Once in my modern life I saw a toddler step off a curb into a busy intersection. His mother, too far away to use her body to save his life, let out a bloodcurdling yell that not only stopped her son, but also brought traffic to a grinding halt, and along with it a thirty-foot radius of adults responding to that primal parental imperative. Immacolata’s voice stopped the dagger in midflight.

  Iacopo half turned toward his mother’s voice but kept his grip on the knife, pointing at his target. Gabriele turned too, and saw what he had failed to before in his absorption with the view.

  “Sheath your dagger, Iacopo,” Immacolata said.

  “This is the informant who caused my father’s death.” Iacopo had the incongruously high voice of a child.

  “I know what he has done,” Immacolata said, “but what have you done?”

  “I have done my father’s bidding.” Iacopo advanced a step, moving the blade to point at Gabriele’s throat. He held the knife awkwardly, as if he’d never held one before.

  My mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “I know what you have done, Iacopo.”

  “She knows nothing!” Iacopo’s voice edged toward panic.

  “I know that you used the Mortalità as a weapon against Siena, Iacopo de’Medici.”

  Immacolata’s face shifted. How must it be to be a mother of a son who has murdered thousands? “Is this true?”

  “Two informants have confirmed it.” I thought of my sources: Bartolomeo and Ben.

  “Iacopo, do y
ou deny this charge?”

  “You would trust this painter’s wife over your own son?”

  “I would, if she told the truth and you did not. You have lied to me for months. Do not lie to me again now.”

  Iacopo flinched. “I did as I was told,” he said, but now his voice wavered. Still, he did not drop the knife.

  “Then it is true?”

  “I hired the Becchini to come to Siena, bringing contagion in their wake. I brought the commune to her knees, as the Brotherhood bid me do, and as my father would have done, had he lived. And it was well done—it was well done!” Iacopo’s voice rose, shrill and desperate.

  As the Brotherhood bid me do. Even if Iacopo were stopped, there were others out there, still plotting. Was this the conspiracy Ben had discovered? The fall of Siena’s Nine was only six years away, the beginning of the weakening of the great regime, and Siena’s independence would end under Florentine rule more than a hundred years from now. Would this Brotherhood, whoever they were, have a hand in it? What if the meeting with Signoretti had been part of the plan? What if the Plague’s devastation was only the beginning?

  While my mind was racing, Gabriele spoke quietly to Iacopo, as if he were trying to calm a frightened horse. “If it was my death you sought, you should have left my fellow citizens alone.”

  “I saved your death for last, Accorsi.”

  Immacolata’s words were edged with steel. “Iacopo, you have used a weapon no man should wield. And if you kill this honest man who stands before you, this man who did his duty to his commune, I shall not pray to save your soul.”