Cane nodded. “This is Monna Beatrice Trovato, our new scribe. We have been fortunate enough to acquire her from the Ospedale, which benefited most richly from her services. I regret to say we lost Ser Migliorotti, her predecessor, to the flux on our voyage here.”
“Regrettable,” Signoretti said, his voice effortlessly shifting into a grave, weighty tone of mourning. “He is with God.” Once introductions and respectful silences were done, we got rapidly down to business, which meant my writing out two copies of every contractual agreement laid out in the meeting. Signoretti had paintings to sell but also wished to invest in other materials overseas. Signoretti’s family, in addition to being patrons of the arts, were gentleman military officers, and the list of weapons and armor Signoretti required was enough to stock a private arsenal. I made a mental note not to get on his bad side.
When we were done, Signoretti stood up to see us out. Even behind his vast desk he looked enormous. He must have been at least six foot four.
“It has been our pleasure and privilege to work with you, and we are honored by your trust in our compagnia,” Cane said, bowing.
“The pleasure is mutual,” Signoretti replied, with a gracious nod. “And it is a privilege to have met Monna Trovato. I look forward to future business dealings graced by her presence.”
A servant saw us out. I did not, of course, hazard a question about Signoretti’s acquaintance with any Medicis, and couldn’t imagine how I’d ever find out the answer. If Signoretti was talking to a Florentine nobleman, he probably wasn’t doing it publicly. Despite the twenty-first-century Signoretti’s nastiness, it seemed a lot more dangerous to pursue the question here and now than it would have been in modern Siena.
*
He need not have committed murder to be accused of it. . . .
With Baldi’s words tumbling in his head like a pair of dice, Iacopo dressed and splashed water onto his face from the bowl left by the inn’s maid. It was a plan that would require powerful witnesses to succeed, and Ser Signoretti was the obvious choice. Giovanni had warned Iacopo not to approach Signoretti from a position of weakness, and certainly, so soon after Iacopo’s father’s execution, Signoretti might balk. But now was surely the time to meet with Signoretti again, and assure him that the son was worthy of the same allegiance the father had inspired. Iacopo quickly downed a cup of wine for courage and set out for the nobleman’s palazzo. He rehearsed his words as he walked, keeping his cap low over his face so that none might recognize him. But just as he reached the via on which the palazzo stood with its imposing bulk, he saw two other guests approach the door—a woman with dark hair wrapped in braids around her head, and a man at her side, well dressed, but not nobly—a man of business. Iacopo caught a glimpse of their faces before they were admitted by the guard, and he stood staring at the doors after they closed again. Iacopo ducked into the shadows of an overhanging loggia to think. Perhaps now was not the time after all—not in broad daylight, not without an invitation, not while Signoretti had other visitors, not so soon after his father’s death. The image of Giovanni’s purpled face rose in Iacopo’s memory like a nightmare. He stood a few moments more, until the terrible image faded enough so he could see the street before him again. Not now, but soon. Once I have the Brotherhood’s support behind me I shall return and seal Accorsi’s fate. Signoretti will not refuse me when he knows what we can offer.
*
Clara returned triumphant with permission from Umiltà to accompany me to Sicily. I requested a meeting with Lugani to get his approval and I was directed to bring my maidservant to his office for inspection. Clara complied willingly, but I didn’t like the way he looked at her—a cross between examining livestock for good breeding and choosing a girl from a harem. Clara kept her eyes on the ground during the inspection process, even when Lugani walked in a tight circle around her, looking her up and down. At the end of the examination he nodded to me, and waved us out of the room.
The next day, Clara said she’d meet me in the Ospedale kitchens to start packing for the trip. Any misguided visions I’d harbored of sumptuous cruise ship banquets dissipated immediately.
“I have to bring my own food?”
Clara was industriously organizing supplies from the Ospedale pantry in neat piles on the table. “Lugani’s assistants assured me that I will be allowed access to the ship’s galley. How is it that you know so little about travel, despite your pilgrimage and your advanced age?”
I thought Clara might be joking about my “advanced age,” but her face looked no less earnest than usual.
“I’m not that old,” I said, grumpily, “and in any case, travel from Lucca to Siena doesn’t require a boat.” I’d maintained the fiction of my origins and widowhood with everyone but Gabriele. “What makes you an expert? I thought you’d never left Siena.”
“I have informed myself of the details from excellent sources,” Clara said, haughtily. I suppressed a smile, knowing she’d want to be taken seriously. Across the centuries adolescents seem to share that tendency to excessive gravity and self-importance. She proudly relieved me of my ignorance while helping me pack an impossibly heavy chest of supplies.
“Does it need to be kept in this? I can’t even drag the thing.”
“We must guard against rats,” Clara said ominously, “or worse.” I tried not to think of what could be worse than rats. Together we packed dried fruits and nuts, salted meats, onions, and heads of garlic in their papery skins.
“I hope there will be enough to drink on board.” I was half joking, but Clara didn’t smile.
“So do I,” she said. Her head was bent as she worked, her face hidden by the wings of the coif that covered her pale hair. I swallowed, my mouth feeling suddenly dry. The last long trip I’d taken had been the flight to twenty-first-century Siena, and the greatest hardship I’d endured on that trip had been a nine-dollar wilted airport Caesar salad.
Clara added a jug of wine and two metal cups with curved handles. I tried to imagine how long it would last us if there were nothing else to drink.
When she spoke, it surprised me. “How old are you, Signora, if you do not mind my asking?” My response shocked her. “Three and thirty years? And no children yet? What a terrible tragedy to be widowed and elderly with no family of your own. How will you find a new husband so far from home, with no father to provide a dowry?” A memory swept through me: holding little Sebastian in my arms, his indefinably delicious scent, and the pricking I’d felt in my breasts when I’d entered Donata’s head, months ago. “I have heard of women bearing babes into their fourth decade,” she continued. “It may not be too late for you.”