My Gabriele-inspired gallantry to the archivist paid off; the phone rang just as I was walking into the house. Emilio said he’d found another Medici document from the period, and perhaps I’d want to take a look? I hadn’t even taken off my coat, so I turned around and walked back out the door.
The crypt felt colder today—maybe my imagination, since it was probably climate controlled to within a nano-degree. Emilio welcomed me with new warmth; we were drinking buddies now. He went to fetch the document, encased in the usual archival swaddling. It was a ledger, and as I extracted it carefully my ears hummed. Emilio’s voice came to me muffled, as if from a distance.
“I thought I might look through Siena’s records for any other mention of fourteenth-century Medicis. As I’m sure you know, the family did not rise to prominence until the sixteenth century and there is relatively little from this earlier period. I went through the transcribed proceedings of the Biccherna, Siena’s financial governing body. It’s mostly ledgers, the sort of thing one might not look at . . . unless one had a particular interest.” With the emphasis on his last words he smiled a conspiratorial smile. “This ledger is interesting because it’s not Sienese at all; I think it was misfiled—it is not from the Biccherna. The accounting is more typically Florentine, as are the names. And there are a few mentions of the Medicis.”
I opened to the first page and read:
Monies owed to Giovanni de’ Medici for safe transport of luxury goods on behalf of a client with interests in Avignon—70 fiori in gold—
And the date was right—1347. I slowly went through the entries on the next few pages, struggling to read the faded lines. Then I found a familiar name—Signoretti. A lot of money went to Signoretti—first in 1347, but more in 1348 and 1349. And not only Signoretti—I recognized other names of noble Sienese families listed in this Medici ledger, with big numbers next to them—now that I understood medieval currency I knew how big they were. I looked up at Emilio, who was smiling strangely at me.
“I hope the mention of your late brother won’t upset you, Dottoressa, but it seems Signor Trovato was quite interested in the same book you have in your hand. I found his name in the call records.”
It was upsetting, but exhilarating too. I was on the right track. And my hands were touching a book Ben had probably held just before he died. “Thank you for letting me know,” I said. “I’m proud to be following in his footsteps.” It sounded trite, but I meant it.
“Why don’t I leave you alone with it for a while,” Emilio said gently, and moved away between the shelves. I looked back down at the little book. “Ben,” I whispered, “help me out here. What am I supposed to be seeing?” I don’t really believe in communicating with the dead, but there was something eerie about the way the book fell open to a new page. The handwriting here looked driven by some extreme emotion or pressing need. On the page were more payments, this time in fiorini d’oro—gold florins—to a man with only one name: Angelo. The payments went on for many dates, exorbitantly high amounts, but the reason for the payments wasn’t noted. Then, on the next page, a list started, and it didn’t look like a ledger anymore. It was a list of names, all in that pressured, tense handwriting. I read through the names, recognizing some, including Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, the famous Siena brothers who painted the Sala della Pace. Emilio came back as I was puzzling over the rest, and I showed him the list. He read through it silently.
“I would have to check to be certain,” he said, frowning. I held my breath. “Some of the names on this list include those lost to the 1348 to 1349 plague in Siena. Though it might be something else entirely that links them, of course.”
What on earth was a list of Siena’s most prominent dead citizens doing in a Medici ledger? I felt suddenly cold, thinking of some Florentine nobleman bent over the names, gloating.
“I need a lot more time to get through this book,” I said, hoarsely. Perhaps assuming I was overcome by sisterly emotion, which was only partially true, Emilio nodded kindly. He wrapped the ledger carefully for me, and I tucked it into my bag and apologized silently for yet again taking advantage of the archivist’s trust. I headed out of the library, my mind reeling.
* * *
I had a voice mail from the Duomo visitors’ center waiting for me when I got home. They had a book that matched my description, found in early July. I could come in tomorrow to retrieve it.
I sat down at my kitchen table, feeling shaky. I closed my eyes and imagined the scriptorium at the Ospedale, the feel of fresh parchment under my hand, the scent of Egidio’s paper-making rising in the steam from a kettle in the corner. I heard the sounds of morning prayer and the pealing of the Prime bells. Did Clara and Provenzano escape the Plague? Did Ysabella become a full-fledged healer? Had she even survived? The Black Death would have torn its way through Siena by now. By then. I opened my eyes again to the cream-colored walls of the little kitchen.
I remembered the ledger from the crypt and went to retrieve it from my bag. It was clearly the Medici family’s, with Giovanni’s name earlier, and Iacopo’s in some of the later entries. I scanned a page tallying shipping tariffs, and as I turned to the next set of entries two loose pieces of parchment fell from the book and drifted to the floor. They were letters—two different letters—and the handwriting on both pages matched the earlier ledger entries.
I am being held in a cell awaiting trial for the dispatch of that night watchman who presumed foolishly to block our way. If he had known that it is wiser to let a businessman go about his business undisturbed, he might still be alive today. . . .
I turned to the next page, my heart skittering.
I find that the unexpected Confinement and restriction of my Liberty has made me long for the company of my Family, those in whom love and loyalty for the commune runs as deep as the blood that links us. . . . I bid you to come with the Greatest Haste . . . to stand at my side so that I may have some Reminder of a life outside these walls. Keep this letter to yourself, my son, a silent knowledge between us.
I was holding letters Giovanni de’ Medici had sent to his son in the few weeks before his execution. His son, Iacopo, of uncertain birth. I put the ledger aside but not what I’d discovered hidden in it—that I was going to keep, at least for a while. I silently apologized to Emilio in my head.