“Time does stretch when we wish it would shrink, and the reverse,” she said, sagely. “Will you accompany me to the calzoleria, where we may speak in greater comfort? I have a pair of repaired shoes to collect.” We entered the shop, which was warmed by a fire in its hearth.
“Bianca’s shoes were worn nearly through,” Ysabella told me as she greeted the shopkeeper. He disappeared into a back room. “I am the only source of income in the house, with my father and brother gone, and it has not been easy to feed three mouths on the earnings of a new midwife. Gabriele, once he has a commission again, will help, though an artist is no baker.” She passed a few coins to the cobbler when he returned and tucked the shoes into a basket. “Ser, may we speak for a time in the warmth of your shop? My cousin is blue with cold.” It was nice to hear her call me cousin. He nodded, and Ysabella motioned me to join her on a bench along the calzoleria’s wall.
“Beatrice, I’ve wanted to talk to you about something. Not as happy a matter as your betrothal, I’m afraid.”
“Please. If you need money I can certainly help.”
“No, thank you for your offer, but we are managing thus far.” She dropped her voice. “We had a strange visitor last spring while you and Gabriele were away. He called himself Giovanni Battista, but when he said he was the Ospedale scribe I knew he was lying. He said he was Gabriele’s friend too, but I didn’t believe him.”
“What did the man want?”
“He was looking for Gabriele,” she said. “I didn’t like it at all.”
“Did you tell him anything?”
“I told him Gabriele was not home—at that time we had no idea whether he’d survived the Mortalità in Messina—and I turned the man away. But when Gabriele was accused of murder, I began to wonder whether this visitor had some evil purpose.”
Giovanni Battista—neither Umiltà nor Egidio had mentioned a Battista scribing at the Ospedale since I’d left. “It does sound suspicious. Did you see him again?”
“No, never. You don’t know anyone by that name?”
“I don’t. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I certainly would—a more unpleasant-looking man would be hard to imagine.” Ysabella made a face. “He did give me an address, though it may have been as false as his name.”
“That’s as good as any other piece of information I’ve got.” Ysabella nodded and told me the street name and landmarks. It was in a part of the city I didn’t know well.
“Please be careful, Beatrice. The visitor looked like trouble.”
I nodded, not wanting trouble either. But I suspected, as Ysabella did, that any man bent on making trouble for Gabriele would probably not have given his real name and address.
The Torre bells rang, marking the hour. “I must be off, Beatrice. I promised milk for little Gabriella.” Ysabella embraced me before we left the calzoleria. “Welcome, cousin,” she said into my ear. Her words warmed me as I made my way back to the Ospedale. But the thought of the visitor who’d claimed to be a scribe lodged itself uneasily at the back of my mind.
PART XII
DUCTIO AD MARITUM
I wrote my own marriage contract.Umiltà dictated and Gabriele watched silently.
On this ninth day of January, in the year 1349, I, Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, pledge to take Beatrice Alessandra Trovato as my wife, under oath and in the presence of God and witnesses. And I, Beatrice Alessandra Trovato . . .
Once the ink was dry, Gabriele and I signed. At the threshold Gabriele paused to look at me. In this atmosphere of medieval restraint, meeting his gaze directly felt shockingly intimate. He bowed his head and then let Umiltà lead him out. I’m not the first person to feel the weight of two names paired on a marriage contract, but seeing our oaths documented so clearly under the date did more than cement my connection to Gabriele. The numbers embedded me firmly, inescapably, in this place and time.
*
You bade me seek news of your quarry. He has returned from Messina. The denunciation did not stick, despite our witness. That upstart bitch of a scribe saved her painter from the gallows—the Podestà’s court has granted him his freedom. And now Accorsi will marry the object of his lust, for their betrothal was announced in the Campo a few days ago.
I am still at liberty to forward your cause, at the right price. Shall I call upon you tomorrow? I did like the wine you got last time so find me more of the same.
Guido Baldi
After the failed trial, Iacopo stayed up into the night transcribing lists of Siena’s dead. His belly churned with nausea, and his head buzzed. Now that the Brotherhood can see my dedication to the cause, and my capacity, I will rise to lead them, as my birthright demands. I have carried out the first of your commands, Father: Siena, weakened by the Pestilence, is ripe for the taking. Are you not proud of your only son?
There was, of course, no answer.
But Iacopo’s success was hollow, for Accorsi had eluded him again. This persistent failure was a torment, keeping Iacopo awake night after night in his solitary room. Desperate for sleep, Iacopo visited an apothecary for a draught to make the nights endurable. With the bitter taste of poppy in his mouth he slept at last, and then for days awoke only to take a bit more mixed with watered wine. He resurfaced once the vial had been drained to its dregs, with foul breath and a gnawing hunger in his belly. Finally, he penned a response to Baldi, his hands shaking.
Messer Baldi,
I have grown weary of your schemes that fail so unerringly. Gather all the information you can about the painter, those he lives with, the hours they keep. This will assure greater success in achieving my aims. On this occasion I shall plan and you will execute my wishes. I expect to hear from you in several days—see that you are well prepared the next time.
In the name of God, Amen.
While he waited for Baldi’s response, Iacopo visited the Brotherhood’s allies in Siena to assure their continued allegiance. There were still casati families in Siena who harbored hope that with Florentine help, i Noveschi might soon be overthrown. Siena, a shadow of her former self, should fall easily to a well-laid plot from within her gates. He avoided Ser Signoretti, once his father’s strongest supporter in Siena, fearing the outcome of the trial had turned the man against him. He had not told the Brotherhood of the failed trial, nor his use of Signoretti as a key witness. God willing they would not learn what he had done and blame him for the loss of this crucial ally.