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 you 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.