He wishes my return, despite my missteps, Iacopo thought, and as the wind rose he felt it lift the hair from his forehead like a gentle hand.
The demon rain came on a caroccio of unholy wind, unnatural for the month of July. The drops began to fall just after Matins, at first tapping quietly on the awning outside Iacopo’s window, then becoming more insistent, like the pattering of a hundred feet on the courtyard paving stones. A flash of blinding light, then a crack from the heavens heralded a deluge that cascaded off the tiled roof of the palazzo.
The streets had turned into streams by the time Iacopo left the following morning, and refuse overflowing from the alley cesspits made the air rank. Iacopo’s fear for the condition of the road was well founded; as nightfall approached he had only reached a hamlet outside Arezzo, where he was forced to spend the night at an inn, along with other travelers who had failed to reach their destinations. Iacopo shared a bed with a corpulent and gassy wine merchant who talked endlessly until the Matins bells, then fell promptly asleep in the center of the bed, leaving Iacopo clinging to the edge of the mattress for the rest of the night.
The following morning, Iacopo struggled into his damp clothing and mounted Pellegrino with reluctance. The rain had slowed but the clouds stayed low and dense, dripping monotonously for the entire journey. Iacopo arrived at the prison mud-spattered, hungry, and short of sleep. The headache still lurked behind his eyes, waiting for the slightest provocation to worsen.
Iacopo secured his mount and entered the guardroom, greeted by suspicious looks when he announced his purpose.
“You’re the Medici boy? You don’t look a bit like him. Perhaps your mother looked elsewhere for a moment, during one of her husband’s business trips.” The guards guffawed loudly, patting their crotches. “You’re a scrawny fellow. Is the bull proud of the little calf he’s made?” Iacopo’s vision swam with fury and he grabbed the pouch from his waist, slamming it on the table.
“I will see that my father and I receive the good treatment our station deserves. This should pay for your respect.” The guards looked approvingly at the pouch from which two lily-stamped gold coins had spilled out.
“You may not be much to look at, but your money’s handsome. Gerardo, show the gentleman to his father’s cell.”
Iacopo looked down at himself as he trailed the second guard through the prison corridors. The hose sagged on his slender legs and were streaked with mud. The wool of his cloak was damp and smelled like dirty sheep. He had no glass to see his face, but he knew his own flaws well enough. His long chin and narrow-set eyes attracted little admiration, though he suspected some feigned it because of his family’s power and wealth. He had come of age without managing to elicit respect for his accumulating years—remaining always his father’s underwhelming only son.
The guard stopped in front of a wooden door. His keys jangled as he opened the padlock and pushed the bolt back with a grunt.
“I shall be outside, lest you think to try any tricks, little calf.”
Iacopo prayed that Giovanni did not hear the insult, nor the quiet “moo” and laughter that followed him into his father’s cell. The guard shut the heavy door behind him.
The light from a slit of window illuminated Giovanni from behind, haloing his mane of hair but leaving his features in darkness.
“Late, as I might have expected, and looking more like a ditch digger than the son of a nobleman.”
“The rain detained me, Father.”
“I have no interest in your musings on the weather. I have a task for you that will require all the resources you can muster.” Giovanni turned so that his features were lit from the high window, and Iacopo saw unfamiliar signs of strain lining his father’s face. Iacopo searched for a sign of the spirit that had given rise to his father’s last letter, but was not sure what to look for.
“Will they release you?”
“I thought promise of additional payment might afford me greater liberty, but I have not been allowed to leave this cell, even to take my meals.” Iacopo produced the almonds and fruit his mother had packed the night before, holding them out to his father. Giovanni took a handful of dried figs, eating them rapidly. Iacopo tried not to stare as he watched his father devour the fruit, putting more into his mouth before he had finished the first handful. Iacopo had never seen his father in a position to want or need anything. “They have told me nothing. I intend to vouch I acted in defense of my life.”
Giovanni had finished the figs and reached for the almonds, eating them quickly one after the next. “You look as if you’ve been rolling in a pen, and smell worse.”
Iacopo did not contradict him. After a few seconds, his father sighed, as if resigned to make the best of the material he had been provided, however unsatisfactory.
“Now—the matter I alluded to in my letter. My arrest has resulted from the work of an informant who denounced me in writing. The guard told me the man’s name—such information can be bought, for a good price: Accorsi. Now you must find him.”
Iacopo swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry. “And if I find him?”
“You will do what must be done. Call upon the members of our confraternity; there are men in the Brotherhood of San Giovanni who will follow your lead if I am indisposed.” Giovanni did not speak for some time. From deep within the prison a man began screaming shrilly. The silence after the screams lasted a long time, and when Giovanni spoke his voice was quieter than before. “I may never leave this prison, Iacopo.”
“Certainly the judges will accept the argument of self-defense?”
“In Firenze, where all respect the Medici name, my arguments would not have met with any question. But our power is worthless here. This place has robbed me of my certainty.” Giovanni looked into his son’s eyes, and Iacopo could not tear his gaze away. “In the event that I am not allowed to return to the life I once enjoyed, if the worst should transpire and I am hanged for my acts, you must avenge my death. I speak of the coward Accorsi who spoke against me, but also the city that dares to punish a nobleman of Florence for defending himself. A city whose pretentions to greatness we men of Florence have long had occasion to despise.”
We men of Florence. Iacopo leaned in closer to hear Giovanni’s words, close enough to feel the warmth of his father’s breath, smelling of figs and the fear of death.
*
July 28, 1347