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 versions 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.
* * *