This book is a particular sort of historical fiction—an invented narrative embedded in a real place and time. Historical fiction demands accuracy, and that requires research—research to answer not only large questions about major historical events and conflicts—such as the centuries-old bitter rivalry between Siena and Florence—but also smaller questions about daily life. Does a medieval Italian child drink milk? What language was spoken in what would eventually become Tuscany in the 1340s, and would it sound like Italian? Was intellectual life and literacy possible or likely for women in fourteenth-century Italy? And how were criminals denounced and tried?
But research, though it provided the necessary scaffolding for this story, wasn’t enough. Because this isn’t history, it is fiction. And fiction, by definition, goes between and beyond the facts. That is the privilege, and the heady pleasure, of the novelist.
Where do the facts end and where does this fiction begin? Medieval Siena did fall from its economic, cultural, and political prominence after—and partially as a result of—the great Plague. And it fared worse during and after the Plague than other Tuscan cities that were its contemporaries and rivals. A number of Medici ancestors were tried for capital crimes in the fourteenth century, but sources vary as to whether one was executed for his crimes, and when that might have occurred. There was a failed plot backed by Florence’s Walter of Brienne to unseat the Sienese regime, and powerful Florentine families appear to have been involved—but the specifics of the Medici family in this plot are my own fabrication, and there was no well-known Signoretti family in Siena in the fourteenth century. There was a Giovanni de’ Medici born a few years after the one in this book; I did not intend to portray him, but his existence planted the seed of an idea. Immacolata and Iacopo are invented, too. There is also no mysterious conspiratorial text written by a plotter against Siena in “real” history. And, as far as I know, there is no painter named Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi who trained with the very real Simone Martini. There is, however, uncertainty about the creator of the Ospedale of Siena’s fifth fresco, which has proved to be a useful foundation for invention. Uncertainty is inherently interesting, and it has allowed me to create people and events. You won’t find them in primary sources. At least, I don’t think you will.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It was a delight to write this book, but readers made the words take flight. I owe enormous gratitude to the dedicated people who gave comments and encouragement: Hannah Stein, Alex Bassuk, Heidi Hoover, Christine Leahy, Paul Josephs, Loren Levinson, Michael Rose, Jason Wexler, Julia Stein, Helaina Stein, Adam Grupper, and Carol Higgins-Lawrence. Some emailed me at 2 a.m. pleading for the next installment, some spent vacations buried in my book, some copy-edited on a buggy Google doc across time zones, and some, solo parenting heroically, put their children in front of a screen for hours so they could keep reading.
I am indebted to two scholars—Jane Tylus at New York University and Neslihan ?enocak at Columbia University—whose generosity and expertise helped me bring the fourteenth century to life. Rita Charon, head of the Narrative Medicine Program at Columbia, in the hallways of the medical center and over wine and oysters, illuminated the delicate balance of the physician/novelist’s existence. Heartfelt thanks to my eleventh-grade English teacher and poet, Harry Bauld, who, decades after he’d last taught me, helped my book find a home.
I had the good fortune to work with three skillful editors—Judy Sternlight, Julie Mosow, and Tara Parsons—who made the challenges of editing exhilarating and genuinely fun. I am deeply grateful to my publisher, Susan Moldow, president of the Scribner group, who championed my book, and to my assiduous and insightful copy editor, Shelley Perron. I am indebted to Richard Mayeux, Chair, Department of Neurology, Columbia University, who provided an academic second home and unflagging support of my career as a physician, scientist, and author. I also owe special thanks to the MTA of New York City for providing and maintaining the subway trains where I wrote most of this book.
The manuscript would still be languishing on my laptop without my wonderful agent, Marly Rusoff. Her belief in my story, intellectual companionship, and unflagging emotional support are more than I could ever hope for. Michael Radulescu, unflappable master of foreign sales, provided constant good humor and enthusiasm while guiding me through incomprehensible international paperwork.
Finally, thanks to my mother, Bonnie Josephs, who was my first editor, a devoted reader, and much more than that; to my father, Herb Winawer, who died while I was writing this book but who knew it would be published someday; and to my children, Ariana, Chiara, and Leo, who listened to me tell the story, gave me courage and good ideas, and followed me to the top of Siena’s Torre del Mangia during a terrifying thunderstorm. And I could not have done it without Susanna Stein, who told me the book was good in my gravest moments of doubt, read and commented and criticized and complimented, played medieval music and cooked medieval dinners, and did everything I couldn’t do because I was (and still am) writing.