“Yes, Father.” Iacopo didn’t reveal what he was thinking—that the trip to Bologna and back could barely be accomplished in time. Experience with his father had taught him such protestations were useless, if not dangerous.“Would Ser Signoretti testify on your behalf?”
Giovanni looked at Iacopo as if he were a thick-headed schoolchild who could not learn the simplest lessons. “Iacopo—do you seriously imagine that our co-conspirator, who is contemplating rising up against his government with the assistance of an enemy commune, would take this moment, when I have been imprisoned by that same government and may possibly be convicted of murder, to reveal his allegiance to me by defending my case?” Iacopo winced, hearing his own foolish thoughts taken to their even more foolish conclusion. “Now is not the time. Later, when the matter of my trial has passed, you should approach him to continue what we have begun. You will have the Brotherhood of San Giovanni behind you in this regard, if I should fail in my attempts to defend my innocence.” Iacopo knew of his father’s meetings with the Brotherhood, dedicated, or so he had thought, to charitable works. Giovanni had not seen fit to involve him before.
Giovanni sighed. His brief flash of anger had subsided, and he looked weary. “Iacopo, I do not expect to leave Siena alive.” Iacopo swallowed with effort, tasting bile. “Since your last visit, the guards allowed me no others until today, and the solitude eats at my soul. I try to pray but find my mind racing with unwelcome thoughts. It surprises me to say this, but I have faith that you will carry our name forward and serve Florence.” Iacopo held his breath, afraid to break the spell of his father’s words.
“You were named Iacopo—the rival, the one who comes after. Now you must grow into that name—as my successor, as Siena’s enemy, and as the destroyer of the man who has brought me to this ignominious end. You must take up my cause where I have been forced to leave it. I regret that you were born with neither brilliance nor physical strength, neither beauty nor the gift of eloquence. You have not inspired passion in women, nor trust from my clients, and I have doubted your abilities on many occasions.”
Iacopo flinched with each cool statement of his deficiencies but made every effort to keep his gaze steady. In contrast to the harsh words, Giovanni extended his broad hand toward his son, a gesture so powerfully seductive and unfamiliar that Iacopo could not resist. He put his hand into his father’s for the first time he could remember since he had played with wooden wheeled toys in the palazzo courtyard.
“Now, my son, I entrust this task to you because I know that despite your failings you have the will to succeed, and this will fuel your efforts. You are the bearer of our family name, and I charge you to carry that name into the future, should I be forced to leave this world before my appointed time. Swear to me now: you will dedicate yourself to the cause, and may God give you strength when I am gone.”
“I accept this charge, Father.”
“Very well, then, Iacopo. You must meet with the Brotherhood, and tell them that I have placed you in my confidence. Here in Siena there are still powerful men whose discontent with their own government can be turned toward sedition, with Florentine backing behind them. The weakened Sienese regime will be easy picking for Florence when that work is done.” Giovanni motioned for Iacopo to come near, so near that he could feel his father’s breath upon his cheek.
“If I am hanged for homicide, see to it that you avenge my death, bring this Accorsi to justice, and drive Siena to her knees. I will be beside you, even from the grave, my voice in your ear to urge you on. You will not stop until you have achieved these aims, or die in the attempt. I will go to my death knowing you walk my path after I am gone, and take comfort in that as they put the noose around my neck.”
“I swear it, my father, and let God be my witness.”
Giovanni’s embrace came as a surprise. At first, Iacopo stiffened, but then he threw his arms about Giovanni’s back and felt the beating of his father’s heart.
*
On the day after the festival Umiltà knocked on the door of my chamber. She found me sitting on the chest next to my bed, strapping on my sandals. I would have to find other footwear if I didn’t manage to get back to my world before the end of summer.
“Monna Trovato, you have been with us for over a month, and you have proven yourself as a trustworthy and skilled scribe. Fra Bosi speaks well of you, and that is no minor miracle, as he almost never praises his assistants. God in all his wisdom has seen fit to provide us with your industry and dedication, and to provide you with all that you sought: balm to your soul, a source of livelihood, a safe home, and a trade to keep your hands at work.” I had the feeling I was being buttered up for some particular purpose. “We have also had the good fortune to welcome into our midst a painter of extraordinary dedication and talent, who, inspired by his love and devotion to the Blessed Virgin, has been granted a commission to paint the Assumption on this great institution’s facade.” Of course she knew that I’d been there at her request for funds toward that painter’s commission, and had written his contract myself.
She took a deep breath. “Messer Accorsi has been called by our Podestà to speak as a witness in a criminal trial two days hence.” That thunderbolt brought me abruptly to attention. “The court’s own scribe has taken ill. The Podestà has asked that the Ospedale provide a scribe in his place, and Fra Bosi and I have determined that you should be that replacement.” This must have been the summons Gabriele had received.
“I would be honored to provide any help I can.”
“Fra Bosi will explain your task at greater length tomorrow to prepare you for your role. I assume you have no prior experience in the courts?”
I assured her that my past did not include any brushes with the criminal justice system other than the time she’d rescued me from the grasp of Stozzi, the sumptuary officer who’d challenged my inappropriate neckline. She nodded to signal the discussion had come to an end, and exited my room with a dramatic sweep of her robes.
*
On the road to Siena, Immacolata considered the prospect of her husband’s death. She was surprised to discover that she felt neither grief nor fear. Instead, her mind slid sideways to other matters—the discomfort of the journey, the flies buzzing about her horse’s head, and the appearance of the guard who rode in front of her, wide buttocks and thighs spread across the leather, the flesh shaking like aspic under his leggings. Such mundane thoughts in the face of Giovanni’s upcoming trial were reprehensible, but her mind continued to produce them with uncanny perversity.