“Tell us what you know, young Iacopo, and we will see how you might be useful to further our plan,” Acciaioli said, unfolding his long legs and leaning forward. “You are not your father, but perhaps you have enough of him in you to accomplish something of worth.”
Iacopo wrestled with competing impulses: the desire to prove himself worthy of the Brotherhood’s trust, and rage at the fact that they had relegated him to this position of service, rather than recognizing the leadership he ought to have inherited. Caution, perhaps better called subservience, won out.
“You will find me dedicated to the cause, as my father was, and capable.”
Acciaioli’s narrow lips twitched doubtfully. “Your capacity will have to be demonstrated.”
Iacopo sat as tall as he could in his father’s chair. “My father told me of the gentlemen in Siena who might support our cause against i Noveschi. I alone know the matter of his latest meetings, those which he arranged in the few days before his arrest and death. I joined him at the house of one of our conspirators in Siena, who now trusts me as he did my father, to further our shared cause.” The fact of the meeting with Signoretti was true—though the trust, in truth, had not yet been proven. But it would come. Iacopo saw Acciaioli nod, a hard-won, if subtle, sign of his approval.
“I see. Do others of the Brotherhood see as well?” The eight concurred. “Then let us turn to the plans we have for Siena, our self-important little neighbor. There are many commune now in Siena’s grasp whose loyalty—and taxes—might be ours. The arable land that Siena holds could feed the citizens of Firenze—that grain could fill the mouths of our children with bread, and those grapes our goblets of wine. Since Montaperti the Sienese have paraded their victory, even now, when those who fought have turned to dust. Now it is time to put Siena in her place.” There was a rumble of aquiescence from around the table. Acciaoli took a deep breath and resumed. “There are, as the young Medici says, men in Siena whose dissatisfaction might make them easy to incite to rise against their own government. Brienne’s plans went astray, but with all we have rebuilt, the next attempt against Siena’s Nine should proceed more smoothly.” Nine, Iacopo thought—our nine pitted against theirs.
Albizzi nodded. “Perhaps, then, we should begin by hearing what the young Medici has to say.”
Iacopo told the Brotherhood of the plans his father had made, of Signoretti, and other men of noble families in Siena who might be used to overthrow the Nine, and thereby unwittingly deliver their own commune into Florentine waiting hands. As he spoke, he searched the faces regarding him from around the long table—some speculative, some withholding judgment, some opaque. It was not a ringing victory, but at least they all listened until he was done.
The men were rising to leave when Iacopo lifted his hand again to speak. “One more thing, good Sers.”
The scraping of chairs stopped as the men turned to face him again.
“I have found the informer who brought my father to the hangman’s noose.”
Ridolfi di Borgo raised one eyebrow. He held an influential position in the Arte di Calimala, the cloth-finisher’s guild. “Have you, Iacopo? Well then, do tell us what you have done with him.”
“Done with him?”
“Now that he has been found.”
He is mocking me now. “I know his name, and his identity.”
“And his whereabouts?”
“I am not certain.”
“How inconvenient. And what will you do when you find him again? Strangle the offender with your own hands and get yourself strung up by the same hangman who took your father’s life?”
“I have a trustworthy man who is willing, for a reasonable fee, to bring this informer to justice.”
“And do you know his whereabouts, this trustworthy man?”
Iacopo’s vision swam, distorted by a spray of bright lights and an arc of geometric lines. Soon, he knew, the nausea and headache would follow. “He resides in Siena.”
Ser Ridolfi grunted. “Indeed. Why don’t you start by telling us the informer’s name, and how you managed to lose him? Siena is not such a great city that a man can hide in it for . . . what has it been now? Six months? A full winter of disappearance.”
Iacopo winced, recalling the failure of the sabotaged scaffolding, and then the months lost before he discovered the painter had left Siena on commission. He had spent the hard winter in Firenze struggling to take the reins of his father’s business, sifting through papers he could hardly understand, meeting with bankers who realized that the son was a poor substitute for the father. But as the winter’s hold began to break, a letter had arrived from Baldi, who had at last managed to discover where Accorsi was headed when he’d left Siena the previous fall. “His name is Gabriele Accorsi, a painter of no particular renown, one Siena would not be likely to mourn, or defend.”
Ridolfi made a guttural sound.
“My man discovered Accorsi’s departure from Siena just before the leaves began to turn. He was headed to Pisa,” Iacopo added.
“And is he still in Pisa?” Ridolfi scowled. “That would be a manageable distance.”
Iacopo’s head was throbbing; even the wavering candlelight pained his eyes. “I believe he followed a commission to Messina.”
Ser Ridolfi laughed unpleasantly. “Messina. I see. So are you proposing that we pursue this third-rate painter across land and sea in an attempt to bring him to justice? And for what crime?”
Iacopo flinched. “With his last words my father commended me to our confraternity’s good grace and support. My man in Siena has a plan to denounce Accorsi, and whatever crime he is accused of, I shall find witnesses, my father’s allies, who will testify against him.”
“A denunciation for an invented crime, and calling false witnesses to trial? Iacopo, this is revenge, not justice, and with a criminal bent. Give it the name it deserves.” That was Albizzi now, his face grave.
“Revenge and justice are here intertwined,” Iacopo insisted.
Ser Ridolfi leaned back in his chair. “Your head is too small, Iacopo, for the grand thoughts within it.”
“I have prayed fervently these past months for a manner in which to serve my father’s dying wishes. I appeal to you all to join me in my prayers.”
Albizzi spoke, his voice soft but forceful. His wisdom and clear judgment lent him unofficial authority within the group. “Prayers we can promise. We value your filial piety, Iacopo, and your words are eloquent. However . . .”