“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.”