With a final surge of effort, Gabriele managed to climb down, carrying the woman draped over his shoulder; later he could not imagine how. His knees buckled and he folded slowly onto the ground where he rested for a moment to catch his breath. He lay there, seeing the Duomo sideways, stripes flipped to vertical and changing color from green to black to green again as he watched.
A small army of young wards raced out of the Ospedale door carrying buckets, heading for the nearest fountain. Gabriele felt he might lie there forever, as if he were merely enjoying a languorous moment in bed, rather than lying on the ground outside a burning building. The sound of a ragged cough followed by a sharp intake of breath brought him back to the present, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked into the scribe’s face.
Gabriele held his breath and stared. He did not think to question why the vision that had haunted his dreams and populated his paintings should be a flesh-and-blood scribe in the Ospedale, now lying before him on the pavement. The woman’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire, but not a single hair was singed, nor the fabric of her green dress—somehow she had escaped the flames. And, he thought somewhat irrelevantly, he had guessed right by choosing a green gown for the bystander in his painting of Saint Christopher. Dante’s verses rang in his head, and he spoke the name of the poet’s muse aloud.
“Beatrice.”
* * *
Through layers of sleep I heard a voice say my name in that marvelous Italian way, the way Dante might have said it. The sound made me open my eyes, and I found myself lying on the pavement outside the Ospedale, looking into the face of a stranger.
“What am I doing out here?” My throat was raw and painful, and my lungs burned. The man moved back and I was able to focus on his face. His hair curled silver-gray almost to his shoulders, and his eyes were gray too, fringed with long dark lashes, and angled slightly upward at the corners, irises flecked blue-black.
His mystified look made me realize I’d spoken in English.
“Mea scusi? May I help you sit up, Signora?”
Switching quickly back to Italian, I responded. “I think I can do it myself.” He watched me patiently as I struggled in my twisted gown, managing to get myself upright. I could hear a commotion going on inside the Ospedale. “How did I get here?”
“I found you in the scriptorium, my lady, and as it was engulfed in flames, I removed you from the building.”
I stared at him. “I’m sorry if I was impolite.”
“Not at all, Signora.” He inclined his head gently in a graceful gesture. I still wasn’t sure how he had known my name. Our interchange was interrupted by a horde of running Ospedale wards carrying buckets of water that splashed onto the paving stones. The yells of “Fuoco, fuoco!” drifted out from a shattered upstairs window along with tendrils of smoke.
“I suppose I can’t go back to work now,” I said blankly. Throngs of people were now rushing out of the open doors of the Ospedale. “But I should go help.” My words trailed off into a fit of coughing. I was clearly in no condition to help with anything.
“I would be happy to escort you to your home and family, or to a physician.”
“I live there. Or at least I used to.” I pointed toward the Pellegrinaio delle Donne. I was relieved to see Umiltà on the other side of a crowd of people, giving orders to everyone in sight. Clara stood beside her, staring upward. I hoped Egidio was still away on his errand.
“I hope you will accept an invitation to the home of my uncle where you can recover in greater safety and comfort. His home is not far, and if you find yourself unable to walk, I can carry you again.”
“No thank you, I think I can walk,” I said, but when I tried to stand my legs shook. “I need to tell Suor Umiltà where I’m going.” Billows of gray smoke wafted toward us, starting me on another spasm of coughing.
The thought of pushing through the crowd back toward the burning building was overwhelming. My rescuer stopped one of the wards heading back out to the fountain with an empty bucket.
“Young man, please tell Suor Umiltà and the master of the scriptorium that the scribe is safe, and gone to the baker Martellino Accorsi’s home in the Civetta contrada. I will return her when she is well and the danger passed.” The ward nodded and took off with his bucket.
Accorsi, I thought, that’s interesting. How common was the name in fourteenth-century Siena? I supposed I should have thought twice before leaving the Ospedale with a stranger, but I didn’t. The last thing I saw as I looked back over my shoulder was Fra Bosi standing to one side of the Ospedale entryway with tears coursing down his ample cheeks.
Since my rescue from Stozzi’s clutches I had rarely ventured beyond the Piazza del Duomo. I wasn’t in the best condition to enjoy my first real excursion, but I couldn’t help noticing the hum of Siena’s life around us as we walked. Two young boys in parti-colored tunics and hose—half red and half yellow—juggled before a crowd of cheering spectators. They competed with a young peddler calling out her wares—a tray of buttons of different sizes and colors, some glinting metal, some whitish ivory or bone, others the brown of wood or leather. We passed a bookseller’s shop crowded with gowned and hatted gentlemen who looked as if they might be university professors. I stopped, thinking of the last visit I’d made to the university—in my old time. Then I realized I knew the route we were walking very well, and I felt my skin prickle. When we passed under a curved archway and stopped in front of a three-story house made from stuccoed stone with an inviting bakery storefront, I knew exactly where I was—standing in front of Ben’s house, my house. And, uncannily, it seemed to be my rescuer’s home too. I stared at the open door, the door I had once opened with my own key. The front hall was dominated by a huge brick oven. Despite its dislocation in time, this house was a place I knew, and a place I had begun to love. It was the first thing I had found in this century that felt familiar, and it made my knees weak with relief.