On the day after Ysabella announced the Ospedale commission, Gabriele failed to finish his work on the Signoretti Chapel by nightfall. He had timed the day’s section poorly, and as the light dimmed, he stared grimly at the infant Maria’s unfinished face. Hoping he would not regret the decision to stay late, Gabriele lit a candle and pressed onward until the baby’s features materialized on the quickly drying plaster, her rounded cheeks flushed with rose.
Exultant, he extinguished his candle and descended the scaffolding in the near-dark. As he left the chapel, Gabriele saw a figure emerge from the Signoretti palazzo, cloaked and hooded despite the warm night. A second figure followed the first as he watched. It was late to be entertaining visitors, and most would have stayed the night rather than depart at this hour. Once he was certain that the men had gone, Gabriele crossed the courtyard and came out onto the street, staying in the buildings’ shadows to avoid the night patrol. A fine for being out past curfew would be costly, and other dangers posed by walking the city streets at night might have even graver consequences.
Gabriele had walked only a few moments before he heard the watchman’s voice; Cristoforo’s rasping breath would mark him anywhere. Gabriele had seen Cristoforo the week before in the mercato, one arm proudly draped about his new wife’s shoulders. Despite their acquaintance, tonight Cristoforo might have to charge Gabriele for violating curfew. Gabriele stayed hidden and listened.
“Halt, strangers, what keeps you out so late?”
“Our business is none of yours.” This second voice was unfamiliar: low and ominous.
“Declare your purpose, and your identity, or you will find yourself in prison.”
“A gentleman of Florence does not bow to Sienese enforcers,” the stranger said. “I suggest you let me pass.”
“You will give me your name, and recount your doings in detail, if not here, then before the Podestà himself. I am sure our chief magistrate would have great interest in your story.”
The next voice was higher-pitched, wavering. “This is Messer Giovanni de’ Medici of Florence, a city whose beauty makes Siena a cesspit by comparison. The purpose of our visit is no concern of yours, son of a whore.”
Gabriele bit his lip, trying to remain silent.
“Florentine filth pollute our city. I will see that you are brought up before the Podestà for violation of curfew and insult of a city official. You can both spend tonight in a cell, and explain your late-night business to the Podestà in the morning.”
“I regret you will not have the opportunity to see me safely to the Podestà’s office.” The first stranger’s voice, which Gabriele now knew must belong to Giovanni de’ Medici, was filled with malice but the sounds that followed were worse: the scrape of a blade unsheathed, Cristoforo’s scream, then the pounding of running feet. Gabriele stood frozen for a few seconds, then he reached for a plaster trowel from his bag and leaped from his hiding place. The street was faintly lit by a votive candle in a wall niche before an image of Saint Ansanus staring sadly downward, and the light flickered on a tangle of black-and-white cloth on the ground. Cristoforo lay on the pavement, gazing up at Gabriele with wide eyes. His attackers had fled.
Blood seeped rapidly through two rents in Cristoforo’s tunic and he patted them softly with his hands, as if he were simply looking for his spectacles, rather than trying to hold on to his life as it left him. “Gabriele Accorsi?”
Gabriele nodded, wrapping his arms around Cristoforo’s body and lifting him to stand.
“Cristoforo, a surgeon lives nearby who once tended my uncle. Can you take a step?”
“Your efforts are wasted on me, but I’ll spare you the curfew fine for your good intentions.” He coughed raggedly. Gabriele hefted the watchman over his shoulder and stumbled toward the surgeon’s house. Cristoforo’s blood flowed down Gabriele’s neck and shoulders and his weight made Gabriele’s knees buckle as he walked.
“You’d best put me down,” Cristoforo rasped, before they’d reached the surgeon’s house. Gabriele let his burden slide slowly to the ground. “Denounce the Florentines,” Cristoforo whispered, “and tell my wife that I love her with all my heart.” He closed his eyes.
“My good man,” Gabriele began, but Cristoforo had drawn his last breath.
Gabreiele covered his friend’s body with the man’s own cloak, and closed the staring eyes with one hand. Gabriele made his way home quickly, but once in bed could not rest, remembering what he had heard and seen—the harsh threats, and the look in Cristoforo’s eyes as his life bled away. I have been a witness to a murder, Gabriele thought, and I must act. But what would it mean to act? To denounce a powerful nobleman from the rival commune whose force was a threat to Siena? Would that I had not stayed late, this one night . . . but he had stayed. Perhaps God willed that he be a witness, and bring the murderer to justice. Gabriele knew of the informers’ boxes outside the office of the Podestà. Rinaldo never tired of recounting how he had once informed on a sodomite, penning his secret accusation on a sheet of parchment. The information had led to the man’s trial, and death. Gabriele wondered whether Rinaldo would have been so proud to do his part to protect his commune without the shield of anonymity. Enough witnesses had stepped forward to allow Rinaldo to remain a silent informer setting the machine of the Iudex Maleficiorum in motion. Gabriele had tried to imagine how he might rise to the service of his commune, but knew that he would not find such pleasure as Rinaldo in the retelling.
* * *
The night after he had witnessed Cristoforo’s murder, Gabriele again found himself unable to sleep. With the weight of what he knew bearing down on him, he penned a letter on parchment and quietly left the house, making his way toward the office of the Podestà. The words he had written hummed in his head:
I have witnessed the brutal murder of Cristoforo da Silvano in his course of duty to protect Siena, by the violent hand of Giovanni de’ Medici of Florence. Written this day by my hand, I do bear witness to the crime, and would swear before the Podestà and judges should this murderer be brought to trial. —Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi
The note dropped through the slot in the large wooden box outside the palazzo. Gabriele disappeared into the shadow of the shuttered buildings, quickly making his way home.
*
One of the disadvantages of having such an angry husband, Immacolata de’ Medici considered as she lowered herself slowly into her bath, was raising an equally angry son. Immacolata’s maidservant stood behind her, pouring warm water into the wooden tub until the water lapped around Immacolata’s shoulders. Rose petals floated on the surface of the bath, filling the room with their scent. The maid turned her eyes away, appearing not to notice the spray of bruises across Immacolata’s back before they disappeared under the surface. Giovanni had been in an evil temper when he left for this most recent business journey.