“Well, then, speak.”
“Only that your mother seeks you, Ser. She is waiting outside. But she called you Medici. Have you two surnames? I knew it was you by her description.”
My mother. “Water first, before I receive my guest,” Iacopo said, leaving the maid’s dangerous questions unanswered. The girl left the room without another word, returning silently with water and then leaving again. Iacopo managed to wash his face and dress himself in clean clothes before his mother arrived.
Iacopo felt strange looking at her, his sight unnaturally vivid and bright. The fur edging of Immacolata’s hood shone white against its dark red wool. Iacopo stared into his mother’s face in a way he could not remember doing since he’d become a man. Her eyes were brown and large, with thick dark lashes, and her hair had been braided and coiled beside her ears, entwined with a ribbon of dark red. She must have been very beautiful once, in the bloom of her youth. But his words came out harsher than his thoughts, words his father might have said.
“You are too late.” Iacopo saw his mother flinch and felt his stomach curl in a mirror of her distress.
“Your father is dead?”
“The crows have come for him, I saw them myself.”
“And did he repent before his death?”
“He damned Siena with his last breath.”
Immacolata’s hands flew to her heart. “Iacopo, I fear for your safety here, now that Siena’s citizens may be inflamed to violence. Come back with me to Firenze where our name is celebrated rather than scorned. I have lost my husband, and would not lose my only child.”
Iacopo shook his head. “I am no longer the boy I used to be. My father has instructed me to assume his business dealings here, as befits my inheritance. I will fulfill that trust.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince even himself.
“Of course, Iacopo.” She made an effort not to call him little Iacopo, though at that moment he looked smaller to her than ever. Perhaps now he might grow into his father’s power—though, God willing, leaving a measure of his father’s cruelty behind. At that moment, the image of crows attacking Giovanni’s golden head came into her mind unbidden.
“What was he like in his last days, Iacopo? Did he despair? Did he send a message to those he left behind?”
Iacopo listened to his mother’s appeal, and a longing to comfort her rose up in him, like flames coaxed from a fire banked for the night. He could still hear Giovanni’s words in his head, and feel the power of his father’s arms about him. That power was his now.
“He spoke of his family.” Iacopo focused his gaze on the hem of his mother’s gown. The cloth was embroidered with an intricate border of leaves and flowers, but caked with dirt from the road. “He charged me to uphold the Medici name after he was gone.”
The hem of the dress undulated with Immacolata’s movement. “He called you his son, in those last hours of his life?”
“Why would he not?”
“Of course; you are his son. It seems Giovanni learned grace and mercy before he left this world, thanks to the Eternal God we all serve.”
Iacopo embraced his mother, breathing in the musky scent she wore, as familiar to him as his own skin. Immacolata departed that afternoon for Firenze, leaving her son to the Medici business in Siena, whatever that might be.
* * *
After his mother had left, Iacopo donned a clean robe and round black biretta, and descended the creaking stairs to the great room of the tavern. He had no appetite, but thirst propelled him to seek a pitcher of wine. Iacopo ordered and sat, awaiting his drink. He scanned the room, though he did not expect to find anyone he would wish to speak with. He had made no acquaintances in his week here, but the tasks his father had set him would require some human interaction. His head ached dully and his mouth tasted bitter.
The wine was dark red with a faint scent of blackberries. As he sipped he noticed a group of men against the rear wall of the tavern, heads bent together over the clicking of dice. Iacopo had played a few times in his adolescent years, until his father found him at the game. Iacopo still recalled the sound of Giovanni’s voice in his ear:
“What amusements are you pursuing to spend my good money, Iacopo?”
“I thought you were at work, Father.”
“I see. So when I am at work, you feel free to go to the devil, taking my soldi with you?” Giovanni had beaten him so fiercely that day that he could barely stand, nor ride, for a week. It was then that his headaches had begun. He had not gambled since.
My father is dead and there is no one to stop me from joining the game now, he thought numbly. He rose and went to the gaming table. One player had a doughy face like an uncooked loaf, and greasy black curls tucked under a felt hat adorned with a bedraggled feather.
“Well, look at the fine gentleman come to watch our game. Friends, is he not pretty in his cap and robes? Perhaps he has some money to lose.” When the man smiled, Iacopo could see the gaps of missing teeth behind his fleshy lips.
“May I join you, gentlemen?” Iacopo returned the title, though nothing would have convinced him that these men merited it.
“You can if you’re willing to lose.” The pale man pulled out an empty stool.
The next speaker was as unpleasantly thin as his companion was heavy with flesh, and spittle flew from his mouth when he spoke. “P’raps we should have a round of introductions. I like to know the names of the people I’m about to beat.”
“Matteo di Giunta. I am a wine merchant from Milan, in Siena for trade,” Iacopo said. Wine seemed a common enough business to arouse no particular interest. Milan too would not be questioned, known for its superior vintages.
“Guido Baldi,” the pale man said, “a great lover of wine.” He laughed and slapped his protuberant stomach, making the flesh wobble. He turned to his companion. “And this here is my good friend Fanti. He’s too thin for more than one name.” The dice players burst into appreciative laughter.
When the guffaws died down, Baldi spoke again. “Your turn then, but let us see your money first.”
Iacopo played several rounds, making sure he lost enough to keep the men from changing their mind about his presence at the table. After a particularly bad loss, he feigned distress and slapped his legs appreciatively. “I’ve met my match among you fellows.”
Fanti grinned broadly, but Baldi was a harder man to amuse. “Are you done with us?”
“In fact, I wondered whether you might be of some help. I am searching for a man who’s cheated me of a good profit, and if any of you might be able to direct me to him, there will be some money in it.”
Baldi grabbed Iacopo’s shoulder with his meaty hand. “What’s your man’s name? Perhaps I can assist you.”