The two guards behind her talked quietly. Every now and then she could identify a word, usually something off-color. She did not care to comment on their deportment. They were armed and would keep her safe; that was sufficient.
She had leaned into the tasks left behind in Giovanni’s absence, finding a rhythmic satisfaction in accounts she managed when he was away. That was the pleasure men spoke of when they disappeared into their work, compelled as if by a secret mistress. As the horses plodded, Immacolata watched the scenery along the road: dense woods with an occasional inn or small town.
Since the arrival of Iacopo’s last letter, she had felt detached, as if looking down at herself from a height.
Father is still in prison in Siena, and it is said they will hang him. Do you know of an Accorsi in Siena? He may have been an informant, I am looking for him. I will stay in Siena until the trial. Come if you must.
On this 5th day before the Feast of the Assumption
Your son, Iacopo de’ Medici
The summary of Iacopo’s plan chilled her. He is planning something, something that reeks of violence, she thought. A dutiful son should surely avenge his father’s death. But what if Iacopo plans to follow in his father’s bloody footsteps, weighting his eternal soul with the evil of murder? I know not what he plots—but even if I did, how could I hope to stop him?
*
The courtroom was packed with spectators but eerily silent as Giovanni de’ Medici was led, arms manacled behind his back, into the Sala della Pace. From my scribe’s seat next to the judge, I watched until he was close enough for me to see the haze of stubble on his unshaven chin, the taut sinews of his neck, the beading of moisture along his brow. When the court official began to speak, I forced myself to look away, dipped my pen in ink, and began to write.
Record of the Trial of Giovanni de’ Medici
Commune di Siena
Kalendae Augustus 1347
Giovanni de’ Medici, from Florence but traveling for business in Siena, knowingly mortally wounded with a knife a night watchman of Siena, Cristoforo Buonaventura, in the belly. The encounter was witnessed by a citizen of Siena, Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, who attempted to save the life of Cristoforo without success, and subsequently informed the Podestà of what he had seen and heard. Messer de’ Medici was brought before the Podestà, a good man of great prowess and fairness. There being but one witness to the crime, special consideration was made. As the deed was committed late into the night and in secrecy, only one witness was required to testify to the truth of the events that transpired, Ne crimina remaneant impunita—lest the crimes go unpunished. The defendant called upon one procurator, Messer Nicolai di Coppo of Bologna, to represent his case. Objection was raised to holding the suspect in prison for more than one week. Messer di Coppo then denied the existence of adequate incriminating evidence, but this was dismissed by the court. Finally argument was made that the defendant acted in self-defense. Consilia were requested by the Podestà, the most Honorable Guerra Sambonifacio, to establish,through the writings of the most respected jurists, whether it truly met the definition of homicide by legal statute.
After a prolonged discussion, the nature of the evidence proved to be sufficient to establish the crime as homicide with malicious intent, perpetrated by Giovanni de’ Medici. The act of violence was deemed most grave not only because of its mortal consequences, but also the nature of the victim, who was acting in his rightful role to protect the Sienese citizens.
On this day, Messer Giovanni de’ Medici was thus condemned to death by hanging at the hands of the Podestà and jurists acting on the Podestà’s behalf.
Signed by my hand and no other,
Beatrice Alessandra Trovato
August 21, 1347
On the morning of the execution Bartolomeo knelt on the hard floor of his chamber. He wished that this day had not arrived, wished that he had not been assigned to accompany the Florentine to his death on the scaffold. His prayers buzzed in his head like a swarm of hornets, insistent and ominous.
Dear God of Mercy and Redemption, let me do your will in leading this prisoner to his end
Help me guide him to a good and penitent death
Give my feet strength as I walk the path of the condemned
Let my prayers guide the soul from his tortured body.
He paused to make a more personal appeal, hoping the Virgin might be more amenable to the private worries of a young priest lacking confidence:
Please, Holiest Virgin, when it comes time for me to speak, do not let my voice falter.
Bartolomeo closed his eyes, allowing the figure of the Virgin to blossom in his vision. He often imagined her as Duccio’s Maestà, mysterious and magnificent. Bartolomeo had looked upon that painting so many times that he was able to call up every detail from memory, and the image often calmed him. But today the face of the Queen of Heaven blurred and he could not make out her features, and the more he struggled, the less clear her face became. As Bartolomeo donned his robes he could not tell what unnerved him more: the task before him or the way in which the Virgin eluded him on this day. He hoped it did not presage disaster.
* * *
I could have stayed away from Giovanni de’ Medici’s execution. But the hours I’d spent in the courtroom bound me inextricably to the fate of the criminal whose condemnation I had recorded. I had seen many people die horrible deaths in the twenty-first century—from gunshots to the head, massive cerebral hemorrhages—but I had never seen a scheduled, state-sanctioned, heavily attended execution.
I kept hearing Gabriele’s testimony in my head. His lack of visible distress was so familiar to me that I’d found it almost as poignant as outright emotion. Our eyes met as he’d left the Sala, and I saw the gravity in his face, the knowledge of what might happen as a result of the evidence he had provided. On the evening before the execution, Clara came to my room with a cup of wine and a bowl of soup. I motioned her to join me, not wanting to be left alone with my thoughts.
“Do you want some of this food? I’m not hungry tonight.” Clara’s face fell. “I’m just anxious about tomorrow.” I didn’t want to say I’d never seen a hanging.
“You have seen the Florentine? I have heard he is the size of a lion with a mane of golden hair and a savage temper. They say Ser Medici bit a prison guard on the arm, and the wound festered so that the guard nearly died.” Clara told the tale with alternating breathless horror and relish.
I had seen him, of course. His features were burned in my brain, eyes seething with barely suppressed rage. His elegant clothes and fine grooming proclaimed his nobility—but he had the soul of a murderer. “I’ve seen quite a lot of him. I can’t imagine him biting anyone, but you never know.” Clara took the information in, satisfied. I suspected she’d repeat it as soon as she left me. “I assume you’ve seen hangings before?”