“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?”