Immacolata had held her husband’s cloak as he prepared his horse and bags. “When will I have the pleasure of welcoming you home again, my husband?”
“Do not presume to delve into matters of my business,” Giovanni had barked, pulling on his boots. “Whenever I return you will be prepared to receive me, or face the consequences.”
Admittedly, Giovanni’s absences provided a certain relief. A bath such as this was a pleasure she reserved for her evenings alone—Giovanni would have found it frivolous and wasteful. This current trip was lasting longer than usual. He had already been gone five days, and only to Siena; the distance certainly did not justify the time elapsed.
Immacolata watched her breasts floating on the surface of the warm water. The stab of distress she still felt looking at her body surprised her; after so many years her failures should have ceased to rankle. After all, she had a child. Though Iacopo was hardly a child now, twenty-eight years old and working at his father’s side—and on this occasion traveling with his father to Siena. She was pleased to see Iacopo taking an interest in the merchant-banking firm, though his absence came, of course, with its attendant worry.
Sighing, Immacolata pulled herself out of the cooling bath. As she lay alone in bed, she allowed herself a moment of pleasure in the solitude afforded by Giovanni’s absence.
*
After I’d spent a week with the ledgers, Fra Bosi finally decided to trust me with a weightier task. Bosi set a wax tablet in front of me.
“Today you shall draw up a contract from this draft provided by our notary,” he said gruffly. “See that you make no mistakes.” He turned away with his usual lack of social niceties, and I sat down to read the words engraved in the wax, marveling at the medieval reusable notepad. I read, translating silently from the Latin.
On this 14th day of July, 1347, in the name of God, amen. I, the rector of the Ospedale della Scala di Siena, with the support of the Nine Governors and Defenders of the commune, hereby contract, with the goal of the beautification of our city through patronage, the commission for a fifth fresco on the facade of the Ospedale to honor and exalt the Blessed Virgin, heavenly protector of Siena. We grant this commission, for the amount of forty lire in gold, to Messer Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, pupil of the late Maestro Simone Martini of Siena.
I dropped the tablet onto the desk, startling Egidio.
“Are you well, Signora?” His face creased in concern.
That’s my Gabriele, and he’s going to paint the facade of this very building. And I’ve been asked to work on his contract.
“I need some air,” I said, and rushed out of the scriptorium, down the steep stone steps, and into the courtyard. I sat on a stone bench and took a few deep breaths. Gabriele was here, no longer a long-dead writer of a medieval diary. It was shocking, the sudden collapse of centuries that had separated us when I’d first read his words.
I shook my head until my thoughts cleared and my breath returned to normal. The courtyard was empty except for myself and a flock of sparrows gathered about the central fountain, and for a moment I watched the birds in the sun. I got up slowly and made my way back into the scriptorium and Gabriele’s waiting contract.
PART III
THE LITTLE OWL
Bartolomeo stood behind the pulpit in the cathedral rehearsing his sermon silently. He’d waited longer than most for his opportunity—one year as an acolyte, another assisting the cathedral elders with preparations for their services, then months chanting the night office before he was allowed his own sermon. Empty your mind. Be a vessel for the Holy Spirit. Distractions were everywhere—the ache in his legs, the rasp in his throat that he feared might silence him when he began to speak today.
The other young priests strove to rise rapidly in the church, but Bartolomeo had dragged his training out as long as he could. Like many of his compatriots, he was the third son in a family of good worth. His eldest brother had inherited the family property while the second had the skill and temperament to train as a knight and was squiring with one of the Sienese contado’s largest landowners.
The clerical path suited Bartolomeo. He had always liked disappearing with a book; even as a child his attempts to play swords and lances had fallen hopelessly flat. As a result, he spent an inordinate amount of his childhood hovering around his mother in the kitchen of the great stone house. His brothers called him “little sister” when their mother was out of hearing, but she did not question his quiet nature. Education in the church was a perfect retreat from all that Bartolomeo found most challenging, with one small exception: public speaking. He had hoped repetition might soften the edges of his fear, but here he was, five minutes before the ringing of the bells, biting his nails to the quick.
“Today on this auspicious day—” No, no, I cannot say day twice in one sentence. “On this auspicious day, before the feast of Santa Maria Magdalena—” TWO days before the feast. Can I not produce a single utterance without error? Oh, help me, Virgin, to survive this sermon. Bartolomeo wiped his palms on his robe, cleared his throat, and started again: “On this auspicious day . . .” The bells began to peal. Bartolomeo said a brief prayer to whatever saint might be near enough to help and mounted the wooden steps to the pulpit.
* * *
Back at my desk, I spread out a sheet of parchment and prepared a fresh batch of red ink for the initial rubrics. I had always been a rule-abiding sort of person, taking written contracts seriously. But now that I was writing one myself, for someone I felt I knew, the words took on even greater weight. When Fra Bosi returned at midday to examine my finished work, he actually gave a complimentary grunt. After some practice, I had learned to distinguish those from the disparaging grunts.
“You are a scribe, you need a signature,” he said. “The mark that identifies the work as originating from your hand, and declares your authenticity, and thereby that of the document you create.” Bosi pulled a chair beside me, lowering his substantial bulk into it. “You must craft one that is uniquely recognizable and true to the path God has ordained for you. Think of the signs that have guided you to this point and marked you for who you are.”